Chapter 1 - The Accidental Checklist at Palmetto Crown
Claire Bennett had just announced that she would rather die single than marry a controlling man when the most feared man on the South Carolina coast quietly took out his phone and opened the Notes app.
He did not type her name.
He typed a list:
Must be financially secure but not impressed with himself.
Must be handsome without treating mirrors like a religious experience.
Must carry Mom’s grocery bags without being asked.
Must be kind to people who cannot help him.
Must answer his mother’s calls.
Must understand that "no" is a complete sentence.
Dominic Russo stared at the six requirements for several seconds, frowned slightly, and added a seventh:
7. Absolutely cannot be mafia.
Then he locked the screen.
Beside him, his longtime security chief slowly lowered his iced espresso cup.
“You realize,” Ethan Cole said in a dry, deadpan murmur, “that the last one creates a fairly catastrophic compatibility issue.”
Dominic did not look away from the woman sitting three tables behind them on the breeze-kissed ocean terrace.
Claire wore a pale blue sundress, inexpensive braided sandals, and the relaxed expression of someone who had no idea half the executive staff at the Palmetto Crown Resort would stop breathing if Dominic Russo raised his voice. She was laughing with three close friends beneath a striped umbrella overlooking the Atlantic. The resort was packed for Memorial Day weekend, and acoustic music drifted up from the saltwater pool below. Glasses clinked against marble tables. Children ran barefoot across sun-warmed travertine. Nobody at Claire’s table seemed interested in keeping their conversation private.
Especially Claire.
“I’m dead serious,” she told her friends, tossing a stray honey-blonde curl over her shoulder. “If a man introduces himself by explaining his net worth or telling me how powerful his family is, I’m leaving before the bread basket arrives.”
One of her friends, Jenna, groaned dramatically. “Well, congratulations, Claire. You’ve just eliminated every single eligible bachelor in Manhattan.”
“Good thing I teach tenth-grade English in Philadelphia,” Claire countered smoothly.
“You’ve eliminated Philadelphia too.”
“Even better.”
Dominic’s mouth twitched.
Ethan caught the micro-expression instantly. “No.”
“I didn’t say a word,” Dominic replied, voice gravel-smooth.
“You made the face.”
“What face?”
“The face you made right before you acquired two rival shipping yards in Savannah and bankrupted a corrupt city councilman. The face that means my workload is about to double.”
Dominic leaned back into his woven wicker chair. At thirty-seven, he had mastered the terrifying art of complete stillness. His dark hair was cut razor-close at the sides, his charcoal linen shirt hid the intricate black ink sprawling across his broad chest, and the faint silver scar along his left jawline gave him the edge of a predator dressed in Savile Row tailoring. The Russo name had once been associated with illicit docks, protection rings, underground casinos, and men who vanished into thin air.
Dominic had inherited that empire at twenty-nine after his father’s sudden demise. Over eight relentless years, he had transformed ninety-five percent of the family fortune into luxury resorts, sustainable shipping conglomerates, high-rise real estate, and philanthropy.
Ninety-five percent.
That remaining five percent was why Ethan still carried a custom sidearm inside his tailored jacket, why men with old grudges still whispered in dark alleys, and why Dominic spent his life watching exits.
Yet here was a woman who didn't know his name, publicly declaring him disqualified from romance before he’d even introduced himself.
“Fine,” Jenna pressed across the table. “What about wealth? Don't tell me you want a broke poet.”
Claire sighed, leaning her chin on her hand. “I don’t need rich. I need stable. Stable enough that my public-school teacher salary doesn’t make him insecure. But if he talks about money constantly, he’s out. My ex turned every date into a shareholder meeting. I knew his quarterly bonus before I knew his favorite childhood memory.”
Dominic glanced sideways at Ethan. Ethan stared pointedly at the ocean, refusing eye contact.
“And handsome?” another friend chimed in.
Claire made an exaggerated grimace. “Handsome is dangerous.”
Dominic nearly choked on his dark roast.
“Why?” Jenna demanded.
“Because ridiculously handsome men usually know they’re handsome,” Claire stated plainly. “If he spends more time fixing his hair in the rearview mirror than he does looking at me, he can take himself on a date and save us both the headache.”
A quiet chuckle escaped Dominic’s chest.
Claire turned her head at the sound.
Their gazes collided across the terrace.
For a heartbeat, Dominic felt a sudden, unfamiliar sensation strike his ribs. It wasn't danger; it was an electric jolt of sheer fascination. Her eyes were warm hazel, glowing with intelligence, humor, and a lingering touch of guarded sorrow.
Dominic immediately lifted his cup to his lips to mask his reaction.
Ethan leaned in. “Did Dominic Russo just hide behind an espresso cup?”
“Silence,” Dominic muttered without moving his lips.
“You stood down five armed hitmen in Palermo without blinking,” Ethan whispered gleefully. “Now you’re intimidated by a literature teacher from Pennsylvania.”
At the other table, Claire gave Dominic an apologetic, polite smile for disturbing his peace, then turned back to her friends.
No recognition. No fear. No calculating appraisal of his designer clothes or his security detail. Just pure, unfiltered human warmth.
“This is where we check out and fly back to New York,” Ethan suggested softly.
“We’re staying through Monday,” Dominic said.
May you like
“Dominic, she’s a civilian. A pure, sweet civilian who hates everything you represent.”
“She doesn't hate me,” Dominic murmured, his eyes tracking the way the coastal sunlight caught the amber highlights in Claire's hair. “She just hasn't met me yet.”
