Page 22 of Best In Class (Savannah's Best #7)

Luna

D om takes the tiller, guiding us gently forward as the oars dip and rise in the still water.

The sun is throwing gold across the marsh.

The air smells like salt and summer.

Spanish moss hangs from the cypress trees like ribbons, swaying gently in the breeze.

Everything feels soft, suspended—like the world is holding its breath just for us.

It is the same as before but different.

First and foremost, this isn’t the Steele Estate.

And then, more vitally, we aren’t children.

If Dom had not cheated on me, would we be together now? Already married with a couple of kids?

The thought bursts out of nowhere and steals my breath away.

“Moonbeam, we’re here now ,” I hear him say through the remembered pain in my heart .

How does he always know what I’m thinking?

I don’t reply. Can’t. My throat is locked with emotions.

It’s too much. Being close to him. Being with him. Wanting him. Having him .

He says he loves me so fucking easily. He says it like it’s true.

I catch Dom watching me, his eyes doing that thing they do—like I’m the only thing he sees.

Maybe he does love me?

No, maybe about it, Luna, you know what you know.

He left me, though. He could do it again. Then it crushed me. Now , it’ll destroy me.

“You know, I was working on a project in Montreal a couple of years ago,” he starts without explanation.

I know he’s trying to change the air between us—trying to move me away from old ghosts and into the now.

I kick off my sandals and fold my legs beneath me on the bench. The wood is warm beneath my skin, the air cooler now as the sun leans low over the marsh.

He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. Just stares out at the water.

“It was a boutique hotel—eco-forward, private funding, big international push. I should’ve loved it.” He pauses, his voice dipping lower. “And I did. The design was clean. My team was sharp. But every time I presented a concept…I thought about you.”

That gets my attention.

I glance at him, and he meets my eyes .

“I wanted to reach out. Just to talk. Architect to architect.”

“Why?” I ask, more confused than anything. “We…never worked together.”

We never studied together. Never collaborated on a project. Just walked through old Savannah neighborhoods side by side, talking about buildings, materials, and dreams neither of us had figured out how to chase yet.

“I know,” he says. “And it always felt like a huge loss to not be able to do it. Like I missed out on something I didn’t even know I was allowed to want.

When I was designing that hotel, I kept wondering what you’d say about whether the corridor widths were too narrow, if the window placement caught enough light.

If I was picking pretty finishes that weren’t of much use. ”

I smile, startled by his words, comforted by the warmth that swells in my chest. “I’m not much for pretty finishes.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I know. Working with you now is like….” He trails off, searching.

“Like what?” I probe softly.

“Like I found the part of the equation that was always missing. Like I was writing in a language without half the alphabet, and didn’t realize it until you started speaking.”

I stare at him, speechless.

“Right after I won the Pritzker I knew I had to come home.”

My breath hitches. That was two years ago.

“I had to come back to you . ”

My heart is rejoicing while my brain is clamoring for clarity.

“It took a year to close down projects and…the firm.”

I lick my lips. “Why did you close it?”

“Because I wanted to come home to you.”

It’s not just what he’s saying that provokes my response—it’s how he’s saying it. Like every word is being pulled from a place he’s kept locked for years, and now, he’s letting me see just how much it cost him to keep it shut.

“Then…why have you been dating half the world?” I demand.

“Haven’t been with anyone since I decided to come back, Moonbeam. I told you that.”

I soften, despite myself.

Dom is not a liar.

“Why didn’t you call?” I ask, and it’s not accusing. Just…honest.

He begins to row. “In the beginning, it was pride. You told me I wasn’t a peer, an equal. I wanted to show you that I was.”

I close my eyes, remembering my harsh words.

“I’m sorry, Dom. I…didn’t mean it. I was just?—”

“Hurt and angry,” he finishes for me. He looks at me warmly, a smile spreading on his lips. “Took me a while to wrap my head around that. By then…I started the firm, and life just got busy .”

I pick at the fabric of my dress. “When I invested in Savannah Lace…I….” I pause to find the courage to s how him my heart as he’s shown me his. “I wished it were you and me…that the company was ours .”

The corners of his mouth go up, almost imperceptibly. “I know that feeling.”

I swallow.

“And when I came back, you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

I roll my eyes. “What did you expect?”

The boat drifts in a hush between cypress and sky.

“Exactly what I got. I thought I’d burned every bridge back to you. But now….” He looks over at me again. “Now I don’t care how many I have to rebuild. As long as they lead to you.”

The words strike at my walls, demolish them.

“I realized,” he continues, quieter now, “that all this time, I thought I left you behind for something bigger. For ambition. For opportunity. But the truth is, none of it mattered if I couldn’t share it with you. It was all just…scaffolding.”

The boat creaks gently as he rows.

He’s opening up— really opening up. And it feels like something fragile yet heavy placed right into my hands.

I want to hold it.

I want to run.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he assures me. “Just know it.”

I look down at my lap, where my fingers twist together like they’re trying to knit nerves out of fear.

“I’m still scared,” I admit.

“I know.”

“But I want you.” I lift my gaze. “That hasn’t changed.”

His expression softens—equal parts reverence and relief. “Then that’s enough…for now.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Moonbeam.” He maneuvers the boat, oars slicing clean through the water.

I watch him, the way his arms move with ease and control. How he still calls me that name, like it’s stitched into the muscle memory of his mouth.

“My love makes no demands,” he pauses just as the trees begin to thin, and the marsh opens into a small inlet sheltered by overgrown reeds and hanging moss. “It may, however, try and manipulate by using Mama’s fried chicken, though.”

And just like that, he lightens the air, breaks the tension that silence and years apart widened into something seemingly unbridgeable.

I laugh. “Miss Abigail’s fried chicken has a lot of power.”

“Tell me about it!”

Dom guides us into the quiet, lets the boat drift, then slips the oars back into the hull.

The silence that follows feels sacred. I watch as he reaches down and drops a small anchor into the water. It lands with a soft splash.

He’s brought me to a hidden cove off the marsh. It’s wrapped in willow and cypress, the branches bowed low.

The low sun filters through in long golden bars, turning the water into liquid glass.

A pair of white egrets lift from the reeds.

It’s beautiful. Private. A secret tucked inside the wilderness.

“It reminds me…of our spot,” I whisper.

He nods, eyes on mine. “Yes. Can’t go there, so I thought I’d bring it to us.”

I step out of the boat. “This is beautiful,” I say, and I mean it.

“So are you,” he replies, and he means it, too.

I look away, a smile tugging at my lips. “Charmer.”

He retrieves the backpack and picnic baskets.

We settle beneath a cypress tree, its branches trailing moss like lace curtains. I help him spread out the blanket while he inflates a pair of cushions so that we can lie around like sheikhs. His words.

“I doubt sheikhs have cushions with the REI logo on them,” I tease.

“Well, you know, I once did work on a project in Saudi Arabia.”

“Tell me.”

He flops dramatically onto one of the cushions and folds his hands behind his head while I get to work on unpacking our picnic.

“It was a hotel project in Riyadh. My client was a veritable sheikh.”

“Wow!” I pull out the bottle of champagne.

“Yeah! And he insisted on modern desert minimalism . ”

“What on earth does that mean?” I pull out champagne glasses and set them on top of the food picnic basket.

Dom sits up and takes the bottle from me, and starts to open it. “It means glass floors, gold fixtures, and a retractable falcon perch in the lobby.”

I give him a quizzical look. “A falcon perch?”

The cork comes out with a pop. “For his falcon.”

I laugh and hold a glass out as he pours golden bubbles into it. “He’s attached to Aladdin. That’s the name of the falcon.”

“Of course, it is.”

He sets the bottle back in the cooler, and I hand him a glass of champagne and take one for myself.

“Aladdin came to site meetings,” he pauses dramatically, “in a Gucci harness.”

I burst out laughing, nearly losing my drink. “You’re making this up.”

“I still have the email where the sheik CC’d his falcon’s handler. Subject line: For Aladdin’s approval .”

“Please tell me you printed that.”

“I framed it.”

I shake my head, grinning at him, enjoying him. “Did the sheikh pay well?”

“I bought my Fifth Avenue apartment right after,” he replies.

He holds his glass up.

“To wealthy sheikhs with golden falcons in Gucci harnesses,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Nah! Not our first toast. To you, Moonbeam, because no one looks as beautiful as you do when you laugh.”

Lord, but the man is laying it on thick and it’s working. Like, really working.

“Dom,” I breathe.

“Drink up, baby, we have a lot of ground to cover, cuisine-wise.”

He’s right! Miss Abigail went all out, and the picnic basket is a Southern love letter, written in food that can give you a coronary. Though my heart is in danger in more ways than just from the rich food.

Cold and crispy fried chicken wrapped in parchment.

Deviled eggs with a sprinkle of paprika and a whisper of cayenne, just the way I like them.

Mini biscuits stuffed with country ham and pimento cheese, stacked in a tin with a smiley face drawn in Sharpie.

Bowtie pasta salad with cherry tomatoes, basil, and a tangy vinaigrette that smells like summer.

A jar of sweet, pickled okra, and another of little bread-and-butter pickles that I eat like candy.

For dessert, there are two peach cobbler muffins, wrapped in wax paper and tied with twine like tiny, edible gifts. And then—the pièce de résistance —two chocolate chip cookies tucked into a thermal bag. They’re still soft, still warm.

The smell hits my memory centers—brown sugar and nostalgia.

And then the past rushes in, too: sun-drenched afternoons, stolen kisses, lazy laughter. Picnics with Dom. Being in love. Being happy.

I’m going to be happy now , I decide.

I’m going to live in the now …with Dom.

I’m going to drink the wine and eat the dessert.

And, so we do.

We eat. We talk. We laugh. God, we laugh!

Like we used to.

By the time the stars show up, I’ve moved to sit beside him.

It’s instinct, not decision.

My arm brushes his. My head rests against his shoulder. He’s warm, steady.

“I missed this,” I say softly.

“This?”

“Feeling like it’s just us again.”

He turns toward me, his voice a whisper. “It could be. If you wanted.”

I don’t reply. Instead, I reach down and lace my fingers with his. I don’t need to say anything, because this isn’t about promises, or plans, or second chances wrapped in guilt.

This is about now.

Me. Him. A picnic. A sky full of stars.