Chapter 7 Reeves #2
"Dad's priorities were always... specific." Ridge taps his pen against the desk. "Speaking of the house, I wanted to check if Ms. Landry's been taking care of you."
"She's been fine." I shift in my seat. "Actually, I was wondering about that. Why is she still running an empty house nine months after Dad died?"
"It was in the will. She has lifetime residence and employment if she wants it. The house stays in the family as long as she's there."
I let out a low whistle. "Should've gotten into housekeeping if it meant scoring a mansion to myself with full access to everything."
Ridge's eyes narrow slightly. "She raised us, Reeves. All of us. She's been working for Mom and Dad for forty years. You'd throw her out after that?"
My neck instantly tightens. "That's not what I meant. I was just curious why the arrangement stayed in place when none of us live there."
"We all use it. Family dinners, meetings. It's still home base." Ridge leans forward. "But that's not why I asked you here. Enough about Ms. Landry."
"I figured."
"Dad's system of keeping all of us on payroll without clear responsibilities isn't sustainable anymore. We're growing too fast for that approach."
Here it comes.
"If you're staying on the books, you need a real role." Ridge slides a folder across the desk. "Head of security. Overseeing infrastructure, coordinating consultants, managing risk across all ports and shipping networks. Full authority, serious responsibility, salary to match."
I flip open the folder but don't look at the details. "I have orders to return next week."
"It's the only thing you've ever committed to." Ridge's smile softens the blow, but the truth lands anyway.
“So what’s the play here?” I ask.
Ridge leans back in his chair. “Finish your tour. Retire honorably. When you’re ready, step into the role. You run security for Stone Intermodal.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple.” His gaze stays steady on mine. “You’d run it your way. Build the team you want. The compensation will make it all worth it.”
“Money doesn’t motivate me, Ridge. Dad left plenty.”
“This isn’t about money.” He taps the folder once with his finger. “It’s about purpose. It’s about the family circling the wagons and stepping up when it matters.”
I close the folder and slide it back across the desk. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’m not asking for an answer today,” he says.
“But I do need to know if you have any intention of coming back. We can keep the current setup for now. Wells has the cyber side handled and the physical security team is solid. But if you’re not planning to return, that changes how we grow the department. ”
“You dropped this on me at the memorial,” I say. “How quickly are you wanting an answer? I don’t even know what my retirement options look like yet. Hell, I’ve got to be back on base in seven days or the Navy comes looking for me.”
Ridge exhales through his nose, the closest he comes to a laugh.
“I’m not putting you on a clock,” he says. “I’m asking you to tell me if you’re out. If you know you’re never coming back here, I need to plan around that.”
“Fair enough.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“I can give you that,” I say. “But it won’t be until after I get back.”
“I can live with that.”
The conversation drifts after that. Nothing important. Rhodes slacking off at Loyola. Cain stirring up more trouble than he’s worth now that he’s back in town.
For a few minutes it almost feels normal.
After Dad was killed, Ridge was wound so tight, I thought he might snap in half. Somehow, love managed to sand the edges off him. I wouldn’t have believed that was possible a year ago.
When the meeting finally breaks, we stand and shake hands like two men closing a deal.
But the pressure behind the offer stays with me. Ridge wants me here. Grounded. Contained.
I step into the elevator and ride down in silence.
By the time the doors open into the bright noise of the lobby, the familiar itch has already started under my skin.
Walking to my truck, I pull out my phone, wanting a diversion.
Gabe’s name sits near the top of my recent calls. I tap it and lift the phone to my ear.
It rings.
I unlock the door and slide behind the wheel, the leather hot through my shirt. I start the engine and let it idle.
It keeps ringing.
I rest my head back against the seat and watch a couple cross in front of the hood, arguing. I put the phone on speaker, and the tinny rings fill the cab.
It goes to voicemail.
I lower the phone and stare at the screen for a second before dropping it into the center console.
I start the car and don’t think about where I’m going when I put it in drive and pull into traffic.
The city falls away one block at a time.
My fingers tap against the steering wheel as the highway opens up and New Orleans shrinks in the rearview mirror. The pressure that built in my chest at Stone headquarters loosens with each mile marker.
I tell myself I’m just driving. Clearing my head. It’s the same excuse I used the last two times I came out here and drove past her house like a fucking stalker.
Traffic thins as I cross the state line. The sky burns with the last light of the day, streaks of orange and purple catching on the water between the trees.
I should have turned around twenty miles back. That was the plan when I left the city.
Instead, the road keeps pulling south, and I let it.
Curiosity, maybe. Old habit. A place that used to matter.
My grip shifts on the wheel.
I told her exactly who I was six years ago. There was no hiding it. No house, no family, no kid running around calling me Dad.
Nothing about that has changed.
So whatever was in that letter doesn’t have anything to do with me now.
That holds for a while.
Until I remember how long that envelope sat in the back of a drawer, waiting.
The thought slips in before I can stop it.
If it mattered enough for her to write it, why didn’t she say anything when I left?
The highway bends toward the coast, and the lights of Bay St. Louis begin to appear ahead. The town looks the same—quiet streets, front porches, people living ordinary lives behind thin walls and glowing windows.
It’s the kind of place where men like me were never meant to stay.
The residential streets narrow as I turn onto Magnolia Lane. My hands move automatically now, the turns familiar even though I’ve only been here a handful of times.
The seafoam cottage comes into view halfway down the block.
Both times before, I kept going. A slow pass. A turn at the corner. Back to the highway before anyone noticed.
I ease off the gas again, telling myself this will be the same. But this time, Charli stands in the driveway.
She leans into the back seat of her car, pulling a bag out. The porch light casts her in silhouette, but I'd know that profile anywhere. The curve of her neck. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear.
She straightens, arms full of what looks like grocery bags. Then she turns, and our eyes meet through my open window.
Fuck.