Chapter 8
NOAH
I’d called them in from a crew I knew, guys who’d patched up Dominion properties back when I gave a shit about the family business. They spilled out, grunting hellos, already sizing up the busted windows and that sorry-ass gate like it was personal.
Hallie Mae stepped out onto the porch, arms crossed tight, blonde braid swinging as she shook her head. “They can’t be here,” she said, voice sharp but shaky. “We don’t have money for this.”
I laughed—low, easy, leaning against the railing like I owned the place. “Put it on my tab.”
Her blue eyes narrowed, flicking over me like she was trying to figure out if I was serious or just screwing with her.
I straightened up, wiped the smirk off my face, and met her gaze square.
“I mean it. But I’m not doing anything without your say-so.
Don’t want to spook the women and kids. You good with this? ”
She hesitated, lips parting like she wanted to argue, but then her shoulders softened—just a fraction. “Okay,” she said, quiet. “If you’re sure.”
I saw it then—curiosity sparking in those eyes, bright and searching, like she was peeling me back layer by layer.
“Why?” she asked, softer now. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s the right thing,” I said, simple as that. “And if it’s right, it’s the only thing.”
Her mouth twitched, damn near a smile, and something in my chest kicked—hard. She didn’t say anything else, just nodded once and disappeared inside to round up the house guests, tell them to stay put while the crew got to work.
I turned to the old-timers, already unloading ladders and toolboxes, and clapped my hands once, sharp.
“Listen up,” I said. “Need this done fast. Windows, gate, whatever’s broken in there—top to bottom. Double pay if you’re out by sundown.”
They didn’t need the nudge—guys like that lived for a job—but I saw the glint in their eyes at the cash.
“Yes, sir,” one of them muttered, a graybeard with a limp and a tape measure already in hand.
They scattered like ants, measuring frames, yanking the gate off its hinges, hammering like the world depended on it.
I caught Hallie Mae watching from the kitchen window, arms still crossed, that wariness clinging to her like a second skin.
But there was something else too—impressed, maybe, her head tilting as the crew moved with a rhythm she hadn’t expected.
She stepped out after a while, barefoot again, skirt brushing her calves, and sidled up next to me on the porch.
“The money,” she said, voice low. “Where’s it coming from?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, brushing it off, hands shoved in my pockets.
She frowned, then blurted, “Are you rich?”
I laughed—loud, head tipping back, the sound bouncing off the sagging roof. “Yeah, kind of.”
Her cheeks went pink, and she looked away, like she hadn’t meant to ask. I let it fade, didn’t push, just watched the crew for a minute—nails sinking into wood, the gate creaking back into shape. Then I turned to her. “What’s everyone eating for lunch?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “Hard to cook with all this racket. And the kitchen’s a mess anyway.”
“I’ll handle it,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Hearty Charleston fare. I know people.”
Her brows shot up, but she didn’t argue.
I dialed Fabian, an old buddy who ran a joint downtown—Lowcountry grub, the kind that stuck to your ribs.
“Hey, man,” I said when he picked up. “Need three of everything on the menu. Yeah, everything—shrimp and grits, fried chicken, collards, the works. Deliver to the address I’m texting. Fast.”
I hung up, caught her staring, those blue eyes wide as saucers while she listened. She didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, bare toes curling against the porch boards. Then she asked again, softer this time, “Why are you doing this?”
I grinned, couldn’t help it. “That’s what heroes do, right?”
Her face stayed flat, no smile, and I dropped the cocky shit quick. Stepped closer, voice leveling out.
“I owe you,” I said. “For what you did at the station. And I want to help.”
Inside, I couldn’t believe I’d said it—admitted it out loud, like some sap spilling his guts.
But it was true. More than that, I didn’t want to leave her.
What the hell was it about her? A teacher.
A volunteer bleeding heart. A woman who’d plant herself between a gun and her people without blinking.
She fascinated me, and I didn’t have a damn clue why.
She didn’t respond—just looked at me, those eyes cutting through the bullshit I usually hid behind. Then she nodded, slow, like she’d decided something, and turned back inside.
I stayed put, watching the crew, the sun climbing higher, sweat beading on my neck. Didn’t care about the heat, the noise, the ache in my knuckles from last night’s fight. Just kept stealing glances at the window, waiting for her to pop up again.
The food showed up an hour later—Fabian’s crew hauling in trays stacked high, steam curling off foil pans like a Lowcountry fog. Shrimp and grits thick with andouille, fried chicken crispy and golden, collards simmered in bacon fat, cornbread slabs dripping butter. Enough to feed a small army.
Hallie Mae came out, eyes popping at the spread, and I grabbed a couple trays, nodding at her to follow.
“Room by room,” I said. “Let’s go.”
She didn’t hesitate—picked up a tray, balanced it like she’d done this a hundred times, and led the way.
We hit the first room, a cramped little space with a mom and two kids curled up on a cot.
The woman’s eyes went wide when we set the food down, and the kids—a boy and a girl, maybe six and eight—scrambled up, grinning like it was Christmas.
“Thank you,” the mom whispered, voice shaky, and I nodded, didn’t say anything, just kept moving.
Room after room, same story—women lighting up, kids diving in, shy smiles and quiet thank-yous hitting me like punches I didn’t expect.
Didn’t know why it got under my skin—maybe the way their faces softened, like they hadn’t seen kindness in too long.
Hallie Mae moved smoothly beside me, handing out plates, murmuring soft words I couldn’t hear.
She was good at this—better than good—and I couldn’t stop watching her.
When we finished, the trays empty and the halls smelling like grease and spice, we ended up back in the kitchen.
She leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on a rag, and I caught that wariness in her eyes again—same as some of the women we’d fed.
Like I was a storm they weren’t sure would pass or break.
“They’re scared of me,” I said, jerking my head toward the rooms. “Some of them. You, too, a little.”
She didn’t deny it—just looked at me, steady. “They’ve all been hurt,” she said. “Every one of them. By men.”
I nodded, slow, letting that sink in. “Any bastard who hits a woman should be shot.”
Her breath hitched, and she looked down at the floor, braid slipping over her shoulder. Then, so quiet I almost missed it, she whispered, “You might be right.”
I froze, caught off guard. Didn’t expect that—not from her, not with that preacher’s-daughter vibe she carried like a shield.
But there it was, a crack in the armor, and it lit something in me I didn’t know was there.
Respect, sure, but more—something hungry, something that wanted to pull her closer and see how deep that crack went.
“Careful,” I said, voice low, stepping in until I could smell that lavender on her again. “That’s a dangerous thing to say around a guy like me.”
She looked up, blue eyes locking on mine, and didn’t back away. “Maybe I meant it.”
I laughed—soft, rough, couldn’t help it. “You’re something else, Hallie Mae.”
She didn’t smile, but her lips parted, just a little, like she was tasting the words. “So are you, Noah Dane.”
The air went thick, heavy with that push-pull I couldn’t shake.
I wanted to kiss her again—right there, with the fan clanking and the crew hammering outside—but I didn’t.
Not yet. She’d bolt, or I’d push too hard, and I wasn’t ready to lose whatever this was.
Not when it felt like the first real thing I’d touched in years.
The crew kept at it—windows sealed, gate bolted, living room patched up like nothing had ever happened.
I stayed on the porch, but my eyes kept drifting to her.
She moved through the house, checking on people, that quiet strength of hers pulling me in like a tide I didn’t fight.
What was it? The way she cared? The way she didn’t flinch—not really, not even from me?
I’d killed for less than what she’d stood up to, and here she was, barefoot and steady, like the world couldn’t shake her.
I didn’t get it. Didn’t get her. A kindergarten teacher, for fuck’s sake—construction paper crosses and Bible verses, like she’d said. But she wasn’t soft, not where it counted. She’d faced down a gun, vouched for a killer, and now she was letting me stick around, even when she knew what I was.
The old-timers wrapped up by late afternoon, tools clattering back into the truck, sweat staining their shirts. I handed over the cash—double, like I’d promised—and they tipped their caps, muttering thanks before rumbling away.
Hallie Mae stepped onto the porch as they left, arms crossed again, watching me like I was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.
“Done?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Good as new.”
She nodded, slow, then looked out at the courtyard. The bloodstain was still there—nobody’d touched it, and I hadn’t pushed. Wasn’t my call.
“Thanks,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “For all of it.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said, shrugging. “Owed you.”
She shook her head, just a little. “You didn’t.”
“Yeah, I did.” I stepped closer, voice dropping. “And I’m not done.”
Her eyes flicked up, wide and bright, and I saw it again—that curiosity, that spark. She didn’t say anything, just stood there, and I let the silence hang. Didn’t care if it stretched forever. Didn’t care about the heat, the ache in my bones, the ghosts that usually dogged me.
All I cared about was her—standing there, real as hell, pulling me in like a shot I couldn’t miss. And for once, I wasn’t cocky about it. Just hooked.
Before I could grab the words from slipping out of my mouth, I said, “Have plans for dinner?”