Page 1 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

C harleston air was not meant for women like me.

It clung to my skin—thick, wet, and reeking of things I didn’t care to understand. Sweat trickled down the back of my silk blouse, making the fabric stick in all the wrong places. This was Fendi, not Columbia Sportswear. My sandals were Italian. My patience? Nonexistent.

Which was ironic, I guess. Considering I was born here.

Charleston was home, technically. Daddy’s estate sat just past the marsh, all wraparound porches and generational wealth, and I’d spent my childhood riding ponies, taking French, and learning which fork to use at charity luncheons.

But somewhere along the way—maybe during my third spring break in Monaco—I’d decided I was more Palm Beach than palmettos.

I still came back. For events. For appearances. For Momma and Daddy.

But every time I stepped outside, the humidity reminded me why I left.

“Where is he?” I hissed into the phone, glaring at the tarmac through oversized Céline sunglasses. “Do you see a black Escalade with diplomatic plates?”

My driver, Foster, had one job: pick me up at the hangar. Not Charleston International like the peasants. I’d flown in on a Gulfstream—private, of course. Daddy’s jet, not mine. I was technically between aircraft at the moment.

Which was honestly fine. I had other things going on.

My agent was hounding me about the resortwear collab I’d soft-launched on Instagram, and the brand I was supposed to be “ambassadoring” for in St. Barts wanted a content refresh.

Not that they’d actually given me any creative direction—just vibes and a twelve-page deck on "elevated coastal escapism. " Whatever.

People didn’t follow me because I followed rules. They followed me because I was me. Sloane Carrington. I was a lifestyle. A mood. Carefully calibrated effortless elegance.

Yes, I was a trust fund baby. No, I didn’t apologize for it.

Not when I’d spent the last three years turning champagne brunches and yacht selfies into a brand deal pipeline. Was it as hard as med school or whatever? Obviously not. But it took work to look this carefree. People had no idea how exhausting curated spontaneity could be.

I pressed the phone harder to my ear. “Foster, if you’re lost again, I swear?—”

“Miss Carrington,” came his voice, far too calm for the chaos he’d apparently created. “I’m in the vehicle. I had to circle. They changed the security checkpoint location without notice.”

“That’s not my problem,” I snapped. “You were supposed to be waiting. I don’t do curbside confusion. I do exits. Carpet. Coordination.”

A pause. “Understood. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m in the black SUV. Look for the red tag on the mirror.”

“I shouldn’t have to look for anything,” I muttered.

Another pause. Then, with maddening patience: “Yes, ma’am.”

I pulled the phone away and exhaled hard through my nose, already dreading the smug apology I’d get when he finally arrived.

Daddy was always lecturing me about how “employees are the lifeblood of a well-run empire.” Treat them with respect, Sloane. Learn their names. Remember their kids’ birthdays.

And I tried, I really did. But there was only so much grace to go around when people kept making mistakes.

My father built his fortune the old-fashioned way: inherited capital, offshore holdings, and a killer instinct for high-stakes real estate.

Charleston, Palm Beach, the Caymans—if it was coastal and tax-sheltered, he owned a piece of it.

He made deals over bourbon and backgammon and expected everyone beneath him to run like clockwork.

I’d grown up watching him fire executives with a nod, charm governors at dinner, and tell me—gently but firmly—that the Carrington name came with expectations.

So yes, I was spoiled. But I was also effective.

Usually.

A throaty chuckle made my spine stiffen.

I turned slowly.

There, crouched under the nose of a silver single-prop plane, was a man. A man. Worn cargo pants, a dark gray t-shirt, grease-stained hands. The sleeves were shoved up his forearms, and muscles I had no business noticing flexed with every movement.

He had no right looking that good doing manual labor.

“What’s funny?” I snapped.

The man looked up at me from under the plane’s open engine cover, one eyebrow raised like he’d been born with an attitude problem.

“You, yelling at your driver like he just crashed Air Force One.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stood. Tall. Broad. Tanned skin and tousled brown hair with sun-lightened tips that screamed I don’t care and still look like this .

And that face—sharp jawline, scruff, eyes so deep and brown they looked almost liquid, like melted chocolate with something unreadable beneath the surface.

He wiped his hands on a rag and gave me the slowest once-over I’d ever been subjected to.

And I had been subjected to many.

“You looked like you were going to start throwing shoes,” he said. “Figured I’d brace for impact.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You work here?”

A pause. “Something like that.”

Of course, he worked here. Or maybe he was just one of those airport guys who liked to hang around places they didn’t belong, pretending they were someone important.

He looked like the type—probably rotated between fixing things and breaking them, depending on his mood.

Maybe a mechanic. Or one of those off-the-books maintenance guys who bartered parts and labor for beer and favors.

Definitely the kind of man who called his truck a she and thought an oil change was an act of intimacy.

He probably lived in some one-bedroom box outside North Charleston with a dog named Buck and a wall full of NASCAR memorabilia.

The way he was dressed, the grease on his hands, the smirk—it all screamed working-class swagger with a side of misplaced confidence.

“Well, then.” I adjusted my sunglasses and pointed toward the gated section of the runway behind me. “Go find someone in charge. I’m not standing out here in this humidity waiting for a driver who apparently doesn’t know the difference between a hangar and a Hilton Garden Inn.”

He just looked at me.

What was it about Charleston men and their inability to follow instructions?

“Did I stutter?”

“No,” he said, tossing the rag onto a toolbox. “But your tone gets me all hot and bothered. You always talk to strangers like they owe you a yacht?”

I bristled. “Only when they’re wasting my time.”

He let out a low whistle and walked toward me—slow, deliberate steps like he was deciding whether I was worth the trouble. I’d seen that look before. Usually right before someone got fired.

“Your time’s valuable,” he said, voice dipped in something Southern and unbothered. “Must be nice.”

“You have no idea.”

When he stopped in front of me, he was close. Too close. I caught the scent of motor oil, leather, and something warm underneath. Not cologne. Just him.

“I could drive you,” he said, thumb jerking toward a dusty black truck parked beside the hangar. “If your highness is okay slumming it.”

I laughed. “Are you serious?”

He smirked, gesturing to his truck. “She’s got personality.”

“She’s got rust.”

Of course, he called it she. Men like him always did.

Their trucks, their boats, their motorcycles—maybe even their damn toolboxes.

Like giving something a feminine pronoun made it lovable instead of outdated and barely functioning.

It was all so performative. Some weird, blue-collar attempt at romance, like if they treated a carburetor with enough reverence, it would thank them with horsepower and loyalty.

He probably had a list of shes longer than my closet inventory, and not one of them wore heels.

I’d met his type a thousand times. Charleston had plenty.

The kind of guy who thought using his hands made him interesting and calling a woman “darlin’” made him charming.

The kind who made fun of your latte order, then showed up to a first date in a camo hat and took you somewhere with sticky floors.

“I’ll take rust over entitlement any day,” he said with a smirk.

I should’ve walked away.

Instead, I tilted my head. “You enjoy insulting strangers?”

“You enjoy ordering people around?”

I met his eyes. “Only when they need it.”

He didn’t flinch. “You don’t scare me, princess.”

I didn’t know whether to slap him or hire him.

I settled for folding my arms. “What’s your name?”

He tilted his head, like he was trying to decide if I was serious or just playing some kind of game. The corners of his mouth curved again, not quite a smile. Amused. Pitying.

“You really want to know?” he asked.

I blinked. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

“I think you would have,” he said easily. “Some people ask questions just to feel in charge of the conversation. Not because they care about the answer.”

I stared at him. “Wow. That’s deep for someone who wipes grease on his pants.”

“Like I said,” he murmured, “some people don’t want the answer.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Another pause. Then: “Charlie.”

“Just Charlie?”

“Works for now.”

“Well, just Charlie , go back to your toolbox. I’ll wait for someone competent.”

He stepped back and nodded, mock-serious. “Yes, ma’am.”

I turned away, fuming. The nerve.

Who was this guy? Probably a glorified luggage handler who thought being handy with a wrench made him interesting. Probably told women he raced dirt bikes and lived in a trailer by choice.

My phone buzzed. Foster. Finally.

“Where are you?” I snapped.

“Miss Carrington, I deeply apologize. I had a … situation. The traffic?—”

“I don’t care. Just get here. Now.”

I hung up and turned—to find Charlie watching me from a few feet away, leaning against that sad excuse for a truck like he was posing for a blue-collar centerfold.

“You know,” he said, “if you’re this charming sober, I’d hate to see you at brunch once you get a few mimosas in you.”

“Do you always eavesdrop on people’s conversations?”

“Only when they’re yelling loud enough to drown out jet engines.”

I narrowed my eyes and turned away, pretending he didn’t exist.

But the universe apparently had other plans, because a second later, my phone buzzed again.

Foster.

I answered with a sigh so dramatic I could’ve won a daytime Emmy.

“What now?”

“Miss Carrington …” He sounded nervous. “There’s been an incident on the runway. Security’s rerouting traffic. I won’t be able to reach the hangar entrance for at least forty-five minutes. Possibly longer.”

I blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not. I’m stuck behind a fuel truck and some kind of … flamingo situation.”

“Flamingo?”

“Plastic. On the tarmac. Not sure. I’m working on it.”

“You mean to tell me,” I said, voice rising, “that I’m stranded at a hangar in the middle of the Charleston heat because of plastic birds?”

A beat of silence. Then, tentatively: “Would you like me to call for another vehicle?”

“No,” I hissed. “I would like you to develop basic logistical competence, Foster. That’s what I would like.”

I hung up before he could respond.

I stared at the blank screen.

Then I stared at the shimmering heat rising from the pavement.

Then I stared at my sandals—hand-stitched leather already darkening from sweat—and decided that yes, this was hell.

“You good?” Charlie’s voice came from behind me, lazy and irritatingly amused.

I spun around. “No, I’m not good. My driver is trapped behind some sort of … lawn ornament catastrophe and I’m melting.”

He gave me a slow, knowing smile. “Told you. The universe is funny like that.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t suppose you have an air-conditioned waiting area?”

He shrugged. “Not unless you count the front seat of my truck.”

I looked at the truck again. It was even uglier up close. Black, dented, and sun-faded, with a windshield that looked like it had been personally assaulted by a sandstorm.

“I’m not riding in that.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, already walking back toward it.

I stared at his back. Broad. Tan. Muscles moving like he hadn’t a care in the world. And honestly? He probably didn’t. Men like him rarely did.

I turned away, pulled out my phone, and checked the Uber app.

No cars available.

Of course.

My gaze flicked to the surrounding area. The hangar was quiet. No staff. No other passengers. Just me, a dead zone of private tarmac, and a man who looked like he changed his own oil and enjoyed it.

I could wait. I could melt. I could ruin my shoes.

Or—

“Wait!” I called out, louder than I meant to.

Charlie paused, hand already on the door handle, and turned back around slowly. Like he knew he’d won.

Dammit.

I lifted my chin. “You’re offering a ride?”