Chapter 23
CALEB
I leaned back in my chair at Promenade’s dining room, the clink of glasses and murmur of departing guests a soft hum under the candlelight.
Meghan had slipped into host mode, just like her mother, Finn had said, and she was a goddamn master.
She stood at the door, smiling, hugging every guest goodbye, her laugh bright but her eyes sharp, scanning for threats no one else saw.
She was scared—I knew it, felt it in the way her hand had trembled when she’d shown me the third note—but no one would guess, not with her commanding the room like a general in a chef’s coat.
I watched everyone and everything, my gaze flicking from servers to straggling diners, searching for a flinch, a glance, anything to betray the bastard leaving those notes.
The plan I’d laid out for Dean, Trish, and Finn—mapping flow, changing rhythms, setting traps—was bullshit, and I’d known it when I said it.
Noise to keep them busy, to give them purpose, when all I needed was to find the bad guy and end him.
Years in the field had taught me: when you’ve got someone to protect, sometimes you give others tasks to chew on, let them feel useful, while you do the real work.
And the real work here? Find the threat. Stop it. Maybe kill it, though I wasn’t sure it was a *him*. Meghan kept saying “he,” but was it?
Dominion Hall’s background checks on her staff had come back clean—Elias’s report, emailed hours ago, showed nothing but a couple of misdemeanors, a DUI from a line cook, a shoplifting charge from a server years back.
But my gut screamed staff. Someone with access, someone who moved like they belonged, slipping those cream-colored notes onto the hostess stand like it was nothing. I needed to know who, and why.
The dining room was thinning, the last guests trickling out, Meghan’s smile holding strong as she waved off a couple, her voice warm but her posture taut.
I scanned the staff—Finn, directing bussers with a quick nod; Alba, the hostess, clearing menus; Michael, the server, balancing trays; Carly, refilling water pitchers.
No one flinched, no one’s eyes lingered too long on Meghan or me, no tells of guilt in their movements.
They were smooth, practiced, a well-oiled machine under her command.
But one of them was a crack, I was sure of it.
Someone who knew the rhythm—busy service, distracted close—had slipped in, placed that note during dessert, and vanished.
How?
The cameras hadn’t caught a thing, no alerts on my phone’s live feed, just the quiet hum of a restaurant winding down.
Service ended, the dining room emptying, the air thick with the scent of melted wax and lingering wine. I helped clean up at Finn’s direction, stacking plates, wiping tables, my eyes never stopping—watching Alba’s quick hands, Michael’s easy stride, Carly’s focused efficiency.
Nothing.
Finn caught my glance, his smirk faint but knowing. “You’re worse than a hawk,” he muttered, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “She’s safe with us, you know.”
I nodded, but didn’t buy it. Safe wasn’t enough. Not until I found the source.
Dean and Trish rose, ready to leave, Dean calling it “taking the first shift” as they stepped out for a walk along the Battery. I knew it was a waste of time—two civilians strolling wouldn’t catch a professional—but I let them go, nodding as Trish squeezed my arm, her smile warm.
“Keep her close,” she whispered, and I felt the weight of her trust.
They left, their laughter fading into the night, and the staff followed soon after, Finn locking the back door with a quick “see you tomorrow.”
Meghan collapsed into a chair, the dining room empty now, her shoulders slumping, the mask finally slipping. Her face was pale, exhaustion and stress carving lines around her eyes.
“You okay?” I asked, crouching beside her, my hand on her knee.
She exhaled, a shaky sound. “Just … tired. Scared. Trying not to be.”
I nodded, my chest tightening at her honesty. “Let’s get you home. Take a shower. Get to bed. You need it.”
She looked at me, eyes searching, then nodded, rising without complaint. We locked up, her hands steady on the bolts, and headed upstairs to her loft, the stairs creaking under our weight.
The space was warm, lived-in, with the faint scent of herbs and polished wood, her world in every detail—cookbooks stacked on a shelf, a single wine glass on the counter.
She walked to the bathroom, the door clicking shut, and I heard the shower hiss to life.
I sank onto the sofa, pulling my phone to check for updates from Elias.
He’d promised to tear into the staff’s lives—bank records, phone logs, social media, anything that might betray a motive.
Nothing yet, just a text: Still digging. Deep.
I was about to reply when the bathroom door opened, and Meghan stepped out, wrapped in a white towel, her skin flushed from the heat, hair damp and curling against her shoulders. My eyes flicked up, heart kicking.
“Something wrong?” I asked, setting the phone down.
She shook her head, her gaze locked on mine, bold and hungry. “There’s only one thing that can distract me from all of this,” she said, voice low, and dropped the towel, letting it pool at her feet.
Her body was a revelation—curves sharp and soft, breasts full, nipples hardening in the cool air, her skin glowing under the loft’s soft lights. My cock stirred, heat flooding me as I stood, drawn to her like a magnet.
She closed the distance, her hands on my chest, fingers deft as they unbuttoned my shirt, peeling it off, her eyes raking over me—chest, abs, the scars I didn’t hide.
“I want you, now,” she murmured, her hand trailing down, reaching into my pants, grabbing my cock, stroking once, twice, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt through me.
My breath caught, desire coiling tight as she took my hand, pulling me toward the bathroom, her hips swaying, a promise in every step.
The shower was still running, steam billowing, the air thick with heat and the scent of her lavender soap. She stepped in, water cascading over her, glistening on her skin, her hair slicked back, eyes blazing with a hunger that matched mine.
“Get in,” she said, voice commanding, and I stripped fast, clothes hitting the floor, my cock hard and ready as I joined her under the spray.
She was in charge, her hands on my shoulders, pushing me against the tiles, the cold a shock against my back as the hot water poured over us. Her mouth claimed mine, fierce and starving, tongue sliding against mine, teeth nipping my lip, drawing a groan from deep in my chest.
Her hands roamed, nails raking my chest, trailing down to grip my cock, stroking slow, then fast, her thumb circling the tip.
“Fuck, Meg,” I growled, my hands on her hips, pulling her closer, but she shook her head, a wicked smile curving her lips.
“My turn,” she said, dropping to her knees, water streaming over her back as she took me in her mouth, lips tight, tongue swirling, sucking deep until my head tipped back, both hands working in tandem, a moan ripping out.
She worked me with a rhythm that was all her—bold, unapologetic, driving me wild.
I tangled my fingers in her wet hair, thrusting shallow, letting her set the pace, her moans vibrating through me, pushing me to the edge.
She pulled back, eyes locked on mine, water dripping from her lashes, and stood, pressing her body against me, her breasts soft against my chest.
“Fuck me,” she whispered, turning to face the wall, hands braced, ass up, water streaming down her curves.
I didn’t hesitate, gripping her hips, sliding into her, her heat tight and perfect, drawing a gasp from both of us. I thrust deep, slow at first, then harder, her moans loud, echoing in the steam, her walls clenching as I pounded, my hands reaching around to cup her breasts, matching her rhythm.
“Harder,” she demanded, voice raw, and I gave it to her, slamming in, her body shaking.
Over and over she took the length of me and I savored every feel of her.
If there was ever a more perfect sensation, I’d never felt it.
Her hands gripped the tiles as she came, screaming my name, pulling me with her, my release white-hot, stars bursting behind my eyes as her pussy squeezed every last drop out of me.
She turned, still trembling, and pulled me under the spray, kissing me slow, her hands roaming, possessive.
We fucked again, her legs wrapped around me, my back against the wall, her riding me with a hunger that made me come alive, her moans a symphony, her body a fire I’d burn in forever.
When we finished, panting on the floor, me under her, water cooling, she looked down at me, a devilish grin on her lips.
“Maybe mystery notes aren’t such a bad thing, after all,” she said, voice low, teasing, her eyes gleaming with mischief and heat.