Chapter 9
HALLIE MAE
I blinked at him.
“Dinner?”
The word came out slower than I meant it to, like my brain hadn’t caught up with my mouth yet. I wasn’t sure what I expected him to say after everything—after fixing the damage, feeding the women, standing there with a look that made my knees unsteady—but it wasn’t that.
He tilted his head, eyes playful beneath the weight of everything we weren’t saying. “Unless you’re gonna tell me you’ve already got a hot date tonight.”
I crossed my arms, trying not to smile. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
“Not sure. Just hopeful.”
I shook my head, more to myself than him. “I don’t know, Noah … There’s still a lot to do here. We’ve got organizing, inventory, checking in on the moms?—”
He stepped closer, his voice lowering like it did when he wanted to get past my defenses. “You’ve done plenty. More than anyone could’ve asked. You’ve earned one evening where you don’t have to think about gunshots or blood or anything but the taste of something good.”
I looked down at my bare feet, then back up at him, brow raised. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
He smiled—just enough to make my heart skip. “There’s a place on Shem Creek called The Painted Crab. Best seafood in the county. View’s not bad either.”
“I don’t need fancy.”
“It’s not fancy.” His eyes dragged over me slowly, not in a disrespectful way—more like he was memorizing me. “But I’ll still spoil you.”
The words hit low in my stomach, warm and dangerous. I wasn’t used to being pursued like this. Not by someone who knew exactly what he wanted—and made it clear that it was me.
“I’m not saying yes,” I said, even though I already kind of had.
He grinned. “You didn’t say no, either.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t even have time to get ready.”
“You’ve got time,” he said smoothly. “I’ll run home, clean up, change into something respectable. You do the same. And I’ll pick you up from your place. Say six?”
I hesitated, my heart thumping like it had a mind of its own. “You know where I live?”
“I’ll get the address,” he said. “Unless you’re about to back out.”
“I didn’t say that.”
He took a step back, all confidence and that subtle charm that felt like it had been forged in fire. “Then it’s settled. You text me your address, and I’ll be there by six sharp. Doesn’t matter where you live. I’d drive to the other side of the state for you.”
My mouth went dry. “You don’t have to?— ”
“I want to,” he cut in, firm. “Let me do this, Hallie Mae. Let me take you out. Feed you something that doesn’t come wrapped in foil. Make you laugh, maybe even forget about last night for five minutes.”
The part of me that still flinched at how easily he’d touched me—kissed me—wanted to say no.
But the part of me that hadn’t stopped thinking about him since that kiss?
She said yes before I even opened my mouth.
I nodded, slow. “Okay. But just dinner.”
His grin deepened. “Just dinner. For now.”
He started to turn, then paused, pulling his phone from his back pocket and holding it out. “Give me your number, unless you want me knocking on every door in Mount Pleasant till I find the right one.”
I narrowed my eyes, but the corner of my mouth tugged up anyway. “You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”
“Without hesitation.”
I took the phone, ignoring the heat in my cheeks, and typed my number in, handing it back.
He grinned, tapped a few times, then held it out again. “Now you’ve got mine, too. Text me later—unless you want me hunting you down.”
I glanced at the screen—his number already saved—then gave him a look. “Don’t abuse it.”
“No promises,” he said, smirking. “I answer on the first ring—unless I’m bleeding.”
I arched a brow. “Comforting.”
He gave me one last look, eyes raking over me with a heat that almost knocked me sideways, then turned toward the truck.
“Text me your address,” he called over his shoulder. “And wear something that makes it hard for me to behave. ”
I shook my head, heart racing. “You’re impossible.”
He didn’t turn back. Just tossed a grin over his shoulder and said, “You’ll like that about me.”
I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile that I knew better than to let loose.
Lord help me. What was I getting myself into?
By the time the clock struck six, I’d changed outfits three times.
The first dress was too plain. The second too tight.
The third—the one I finally settled on—was a soft slate-blue sundress with buttons down the front and a skirt that swayed just enough when I walked.
It hit just below the knee, modest enough not to scandalize my mama but light enough to feel like summer.
I’d braided my hair again, looser this time, and let a few strands fall free around my face.
I wasn’t wearing much makeup—just a touch of mascara and the faintest peach blush. My lips were bare, except for a little rose balm, and my heart was hammering harder than it should’ve been for something as simple as dinner.
Just dinner, I reminded myself. He’d said it plain.
But that didn’t stop me from checking the window every time a car passed. Or from pacing once I sent him the address to my apartment—just a small walk-up in an older part of Mount Pleasant.
When his truck finally pulled up, it was like the air shifted.
I peeked through the blinds, pulse racing—and then promptly stepped back, hand flattening against my chest.
Lord, have mercy.
He’d changed, just like he promised. Black slacks, a charcoal button-down rolled at the sleeves, a watch that looked expensive and worn the way things do when they’ve seen a lot of life. His hair was still damp at the edges, like he’d showered fast. The sight of him made my knees want to give out.
I opened the door before he could knock.
Noah paused on the doorstep, eyes taking me in from head to toe—and not quickly either. His mouth curved into that slow, infuriating grin.
“You clean up nice,” he said, voice low and smooth.
“So do you.”
“You look like temptation.”
I flushed instantly. “It’s just a dress.”
“It’s a problem,” he said, like it was a promise.
I grabbed my bag off the entryway hook and stepped out, locking the door behind me before he could get any ideas about lingering. I didn’t invite him in—not because I was scared of him, but because I was scared of what I might say if I did. What I might want.
“It’s just dinner,” I reminded him, voice steady even though my heart wasn’t.
He offered his arm like a gentleman, but there was nothing polite about the way his gaze lingered on the curve of my hip as I walked past him.
“I’ll behave,” he said, opening the passenger door of his truck. “For now.”
The ride to Shem Creek was short, but it felt longer with the way he kept glancing over at me at stoplights, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel. Like he wasn’t in a hurry, like he could take the scenic route and still make me forget my own name.
The Painted Crab sat right along the water—whitewashed and weathered, with string lights looping across the dock and the smell of salt and spice in the air. We were seated on the patio, the sun slipping lower in the sky, turning the water to gold .
He ordered for both of us, and I didn’t even argue.
Grilled shrimp. Blackened snapper. Buttered hushpuppies, collards laced with vinegar and heat. Sweet tea for me, neat bourbon for him. When the waitress walked away, he leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“Have I told you yet,” he said, “that you’re dangerous?”
I blinked. “Me?”
“You sit across from me looking like the reason men go to war? Yeah. You.”
I tried to smile, but the way he said it made something flutter behind my ribs. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I might start to believe you.”
He reached for his glass, eyes darkening just enough to send heat up my neck. “That’s the idea.”
I looked away, focusing too hard on the flicker of candlelight on the table.
The restaurant was packed, but it felt like we were in our own little bubble—warm light, clinking silverware, the sound of laughter carried over the hum of conversation.
He hadn’t touched me once since I climbed in the truck, but I still felt it—that heat, that pull.
Like I was orbiting a man with gravity I didn’t understand.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice quieter now. “So, tell me something.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”
He smiled, just a little. “Fine. Tell me how a woman like you—pretty, strong, clearly not afraid of fire—still believes in church pews and Sunday dresses. You don’t exactly strike me as naive.”
“I’m not,” I said, sharper than I meant to. Then softened. “But I was raised in it. The church, I mean. My daddy’s a pastor. Baptist. First Baptist of Estill.”
He whistled low. “So you actually are a preacher's daughter. I guessed as much.”
“I am,” I muttered, sipping my water to buy time. “We had devotionals every morning, youth group every week, purity rings at thirteen.”
His brow ticked up. “You still wear it?”
I laughed, but it didn’t quite land. “No. It broke somewhere around college. But I kept the promise. Mostly.”
His gaze didn’t flinch. “Still saving yourself?”
I stiffened. “That’s a personal question.”
“It is,” he said without apology. “But you don’t strike me as someone who’s afraid of truth.”
I didn’t answer right away. Just twisted the napkin in my lap. “It’s not that I’m scared,” I said slowly. “I just … I wanted it to mean something. To be safe. With someone who saw me.”
“I see you,” he said.
The words were soft. Serious. Not a line—at least, not one meant to be smooth. And they knocked the air out of me a little.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he added. “I’m not trying to steal something sacred. I just want to know what I’m up against.”
“You’re not up against anything,” I said quietly. “I don’t date. Not really. Not since college. It’s complicated with my family, with the church … with expectations.”