Chapter 21
CALEB
I sat at the polished table in Promenade’s dining room, the low hum of conversation and the clink of wine glasses filling the air, but my nerves were strung tight as a tripwire.
The evening had started with a spark—Dean and Trish’s arrival, Meghan’s quick introduction, the weight of their eyes sizing me up like I was a target on a range.
Dean, broad-shouldered in his navy blazer, had a handshake like a vice, his gaze sharp, probing, like he could smell the secrets I carried.
Trish, elegant with silver hair catching the candlelight, offered a warm smile, but I felt the undercurrent—family sizing up the stranger who’d walked into their niece’s life.
Meghan sat beside Dean, her posture relaxed but her eyes flicking between us, like she was watching a duel unfold. The setup felt like an ambush, and for the first time since I’d landed in Charleston, I wondered if I’d made a mistake, if this scrutiny—family, notes, shadows—was worth the trouble.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice casual but loaded.
“So, Caleb, where you from? What do you do that brings you to a place like Charleston?”
His eyes didn’t waver, like he was peeling back layers, looking for cracks.
I kept my tone even, sipping the Pinot Trish had poured. “Montana, originally. Raised on a ranch. Now I do consulting—security, logistics, that kind of thing. Charleston’s a stopover, but it’s growing on me.”
I glanced at Meghan, her expression unreadable, but I knew she was listening, weighing every word. I didn’t lie—never did—but I danced around the edges, keeping the Danes, Dominion Hall, and my past locked tight.
Dean’s brow lifted, his fork pausing over the salad course. “Security, huh? Sounds intense. What kind of clients need that kind of work?”
The question was a jab, testing how much I’d give. I felt Meghan’s gaze, steady and sharp, like she was waiting to see if I’d slip.
“High-profile ones,” I said, keeping it vague. “Folks who need discretion, protection. Keeps me moving.”
I forced a smile, but the air felt heavy, Dean’s scrutiny a weight I hadn’t expected. Was this what it’d be like, tying myself to her world? Every dinner, every family moment, a cross-examination?
I wondered if I’d misjudged, if she was worth this kind of heat.
Trish cut in, her hand resting on mine, light but deliberate, her eyes shooting Dean a look that could’ve stopped a tank.
“Dean, enough. We’re here for Meggie’s masterpiece, not to grill her guest.”
Her voice was warm, but firm, a diplomat shutting down a fight before it started.
I felt a shift, a warmth spreading in my chest. Trish had my back, and just like that, she earned a place in my good graces.
Dean exhaled, his shoulders easing, and he raised his glass with a half-smile. “Fair enough. Let’s eat.”
The tension broke, like a cloud passing, and I caught Meghan’s eyes, a flicker of relief in them.
The meal rolled on, and the next course landed in front of me—chicken, but not the kind I grew up eating.
The skin was crisp and golden, the meat so tender it came apart under my fork, sitting in a creamy mushroom sauce that smelled rich and earthy.
Vegetables I couldn’t name offhand were plated alongside, bright and clean.
It wasn’t just good—it was the kind of food that made you shut up and pay attention.
I’d had a lot of meals in my life, most of them forgettable, but this one … this one was something else. Dean seemed to think so, too, his earlier questions dying off as he started talking about Savannah and how the light there looked different than Charleston’s.
Trish chimed in, her laugh bright as she teased Dean about his tendency to over-salt everything.
Meghan relaxed, her smile softening, and I felt myself ease, the earlier scrutiny fading under the warmth of the table.
Finn kept the wine flowing, never hovering too long, his grin quick as he refilled glasses, the perfect wingman for the night.
We laughed, traded stories, the clink of cutlery and glasses weaving a rhythm that felt almost normal.
Meghan talked about her test menu, the way she’d agonized over the lavender-honey panna cotta, and Dean nodded, impressed, his pride clear.
Trish asked about my travels, keeping it light, and I gave her enough—vague tales of dusty roads and long flights—without spilling the shadows.
Meghan’s foot brushed mine under the table, a subtle touch that sent a spark up my leg, her eyes catching mine with a heat that promised more later. For a moment, it was peachy, the kind of night that could make you forget the notes, the threats, the weight of Dominion Hall’s secrets.
Then dessert arrived—panna cotta, creamy and delicate, flecked with lavender, a gold leaf shimmering on top. I reached for my spoon, ready to dig in, but my eyes flicked to the hostess stand out of habit, a reflex from years of scanning for threats.
And there it was, plain as day—a folded note, cream-colored, sitting like it owned the place.
My gut clenched, but I tried not to freeze, not to react, keeping my hand steady as I gripped the spoon. Meghan’s eyes followed mine, sharp as ever, and I saw the recognition hit her, her face paling, the warmth draining.
She rose with a grace that belied the tension, excusing herself with a murmured “be right back,” and walked to the hostess stand, snatching the note before striding to her office with purpose, her shoulders set like she was heading into battle.
Dean and Trish didn’t notice, caught up in a story about Dean burning a batch of cornbread at a Savannah cookout, their laughter filling the space. I forced a chuckle, pushing my chair back.
“Excuse me. Time to find the little boy’s room,” I said, keeping it casual, and followed Meghan, my pulse kicking hard.
How the hell had someone gotten past our web of security? The cameras, the locks, the live feed on my phone—nothing had tripped, no alerts, no signs. I needed to see that note, find out what it said, and figure out who this bastard was, slipping through cracks I thought I’d sealed.
I moved through the dining room, the soft glow of candles flickering, the air thick with the scent of vanilla and wine. Meghan’s office door was ajar, and I pushed it open, finding her standing at her desk, the note unfolded in her hand, her face a mix of fury and fear.
“Another one,” she said, voice low, handing it to me without meeting my eyes.
I read it, the words cold and sharp: Your table’s ready. No RSVP needed.
Same handwriting, same paper, same smug precision.
My jaw tightened, anger flaring hot. Someone had walked in, during service, past Ryker’s cameras, past my watch.
“This ends now,” I said, voice rough, already pulling my phone to check the feed. Nothing. No motion, no shadows, just the quiet hum of a restaurant at rest. How?
Meghan’s eyes met mine, her strength still there but edged with something new—fear. I’d find this bastard, tear them apart, and keep her safe.
But the question burned: who was playing, and how had they gotten so close?