Chapter 8
Reid
The green Jaguar idled low as he pulled away from the back lot.
Top down. Cool air cutting the heat still lingering in his blood.
He shouldn’t have done that.
The podcast crew was still circling town, hungry for another piece of them. And every phone in Sylva had probably lit up with that picture by now.
And he’d kissed her anyway.
Not because of the cameras. Because she’d accused him of being a showman—and he’d wanted her to understand the difference between a performance and a pulse.
God, it had been hot.
It wasn't just the kiss; it was the way she’d met him halfway, her fingers bunching his shirt, her body a live wire against his. He’d handled plenty of high-stakes cases, but nothing had ever made his head swim like the feel of Eleanor Harper finally letting go.
He turned onto Main, the courthouse looming above him like a white ghost.
He could still feel her hands in his shirt. Still see her mouth parted when he pulled back.
There’s some attention for you.
He ran a hand over his face, his skin still stinging slightly from the friction of her lips. He’d meant to provoke her, to prove he wasn’t just a suit on a screen—but he’d ended up proving something to himself instead.
At the next red light, his phone lit up in the console.
Unknown number.
He stared at it, a traitorous part of him hoping it was a What the hell was that? text from Eleanor.
It wasn't.
It was the buzzards.
The podcast account had posted again.
“Sources confirm Harper previously involved with Charleston ADA during acquittal case. Pattern?”
He winced. That word again.
He replayed her face when Charleston was mentioned on the steps.
One flicker.
Gone in a heartbeat.
But he’d seen it.
And Deck had stiffened, too.
There was something there.
He shifted into gear, the Jag’s engine growling.
He had access to more databases than anyone in this town, but if he went digging into her past behind her back, he’d be doing exactly what she accused him of. Playing the game instead of the man.
He turned into his driveway.
Small house.
Nothing flashy.
He killed the engine, the ticking of cooling metal the only sound.
Like a countdown.
He didn’t get out.
The memory hit again.
Her back against the brick.
The way she hadn’t pulled away.
When he’d asked—
About us?
—he hadn’t hesitated.
He’d told himself he said the word “us” to steady her, a tactical move to lower her pulse.
But sitting here in the quiet, the word felt less like a tactic and more like a confession.
He was worried she’d retreat.
That she’d decide the fallout wasn't worth the heat.
The phone buzzed again.
Luke.
He answered.
“Yeah.”
“You two just broke the internet in Jackson County,” Luke said dryly.
Reid leaned back in the seat, looking up at the stars.
“Give it a week,” he said. “It’s just a news cycle, Luke. The internet is a fire that needs new wood every twelve hours. Tomorrow someone will get a speeding ticket or a local councilman will say something stupid, and they'll move on to the next shiny object.”
Luke chuckled. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah,” Reid said, though he was mostly trying to convince himself. “The internet is built on short memories.”
“Tell that to the fifty people who just tagged me in the photo,” Luke said. “You don’t do things by halves, do you, Calloway?”
Reid looked away, the scent of cedar and soap—and her—still ghosting his senses.
“Apparently not,” he said.
“Well,” Luke said dryly, “enjoy the five minutes of peace you’ve got left. The rest of the county’s about to find out what you were doing in that stairwell.”
“Goodnight, Luke.”
“Good luck, man.”
He sat there a moment longer before finally stepping out of the car.
Tomorrow, the podcast would spin it.
Tomorrow, Judge Harlan would probably arch an eyebrow.
He could handle the press. He could handle the news cycle.
But tonight—
He’d kissed her.
And she’d kissed him back.
That wasn’t a cycle.
That was real.