I came to Charleston for music, not men.
This city is just another stop on my way to something bigger. A few months of playing, then I’m gone. No attachments. No complications.
Then I see him.
Atlas Dane. Silent. Watchful. Built like a warrior, dressed like a king. He doesn’t belong at an event like this, hulking in a tuxedo while I play for people who sip champagne and pretend they understand Bach.
But he’s not pretending.
He watches my hands like he already knows what they can do. He speaks in low, measured words that make my breath catch. And when I trip—because I always do—he’s there. Unmoving. Unshakable. Unavoidable.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I can’t afford to get involved. That I’ll be gone before he can sink his claws into me.
But men like Atlas don’t let go.
And now I don’t know if I want him to.
