Chapter 15
Eleanor — Getting Ready
Eleanor stood in front of her closet, as if it were a jury.
This was absurd.
It was dinner.
Not a deposition.
Not a motion hearing.
Not an ambush.
Dinner.
And she was absolutely going to end it.
She pulled out a navy sheath dress.
Professional. Clean. Safe.
“That’s tragic.”
April’s voice floated from the doorway.
Eleanor didn’t turn. “It’s appropriate.”
“For court,” April replied, stepping fully into the room with a glass of wine. “Not for dinner with the best-looking man in Sylva.”
“We are not ranking attorneys.”
“You’ve seen him.”
Eleanor shot her a look.
April rolled her eyes and marched straight to the closet.
“For two years,” April continued, flipping through hangers, “I have listened to you say you don’t have time to date. You don’t have bandwidth. You’re building your practice. You’re establishing your reputation.”
“I was.”
“And now you have.”
Eleanor hesitated.
That part was true.
Her name carried weight in Sylva now.
Judges respected her.
Clients trusted her.
She had built something solid.
And now—
The wolves were circling again.
April turned, emerald silk in her hand.
Low back. Clean lines. Elegant without trying.
“Put it on.”
“I am not wearing that.”
“You are.”
Eleanor exhaled slowly.
“I’m not doing this for romance, April.”
“Oh, I know,” April said sweetly. “You’re doing it to end things.”
Eleanor paused.
“I am.”
April’s brow lifted. “You’re going to break up with a man you haven’t dated yet?”
“It’s responsible.”
“It’s cowardly.”
Eleanor narrowed her eyes.
April didn’t flinch.
“You’ve worked too hard to let this turn into Charleston 2.0. I get it,” April said more gently. “But maybe don’t preemptively torch something that hasn’t burned you.”
Eleanor looked away.
Charleston.
The ADA.
The way he had stepped back when the headlines turned sharp.
The social circles choosing him.
Her being painted ambitious, ruthless, manipulative.
He had higher aspirations.
She had understood that.
Understanding hadn’t made it hurt less.
“This is different,” she said quietly.
April folded her arms. “How?”
“He’s the District Attorney.”
April blinked. “And?”
“And this ends badly.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“I’m not doing another relationship under a spotlight,” she added, softer. “Not again.”
April studied her for a long moment.
“You’re scared.”
“I’m practical.”
April handed her the emerald dress.
“Try it on, Practical.”
Eleanor disappeared into the bathroom.
When Eleanor stepped out, the bathroom light caught the deep, liquid shimmer of the silk.
It didn’t fit like a suit; it draped. It felt dangerously thin against her skin, a reminder that tonight there was no wool or structured lining to hide behind.
This wasn’t a dress for a compromise. It was a dress for a confession.
April went silent.
Emerald silk skimmed her shoulders and fell clean to the floor. Sophisticated. Understated.
Undeniably feminine.
“Well,” April said slowly. “That’s illegal.”
“Stop.”
“You are not wearing navy.”
Before Eleanor could argue further, a knock sounded on the bedroom door.
Deck leaned in.
He took in the chaos first.
Shoes. Dresses. Wine.
Then he saw her.
And went still.
A low whistle slipped out before he could stop it.
“Don’t,” Eleanor warned.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You whistled.”
“Habit.”
He stepped farther into the room, studying her without circling.
Not appraising.
Protective.
Proud.
“Turn.”
“I am not turning.”
“Turn, lass.”
She rolled her eyes and turned once.
Deck nodded.
“Ah.”
April beamed like she’d won something.
Deck’s gaze softened slightly.
“You look… happy,” he said carefully.
“I look dressed.”
“You look happy.”
She didn’t answer that.
He shifted his weight.
“Man’s polished,” he muttered.
“So?”
“Aye. And polish chips. When the storm hits, lass, you find out if what’s underneath is iron or just more paint.”
April snorted.
Deck ignored her.
“He forgets who he’s dealing with,” Deck continued calmly, “I’ll remind him.”
“Deck.”
“What? I like him fine.”
He did. Deep down, Reid had backbone.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t still break something.
Eleanor crossed her arms lightly.
“I’m going to tell him we can’t do this.”
April groaned.
Deck’s brow lifted.
“For everyone?” he asked.
“For everyone,” she said.
Deck studied her face.
“You telling him tonight?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once.
“Good.”
April blinked. “Good?”
“If that’s what you need to say to feel in control,” Deck replied evenly.
Eleanor frowned. “Excuse me?”
He met her eyes.
“You ain’t ending this tonight.”
Her spine snapped a little straighter.
“I am.”
Deck’s mouth curved faintly.
“Sure.”
Her phone buzzed.
Headlights swept across the ceiling.
April gasped. “Showtime.”
Eleanor’s heart kicked.
“Text me everything,” April whispered as Eleanor passed.
“I absolutely will not.”
“You absolutely will.”
She grabbed her clutch.
She would go.
She would be honest.
She would explain Charleston—the ADA, the headlines, the way ambition had twisted everything.
They would agree this was dinner. Nothing more.
Deck stepped aside as she moved past him.
As she reached the doorway, he muttered quietly,
“About time you remembered you’re not carved from stone.”
She paused.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Crusty. Always.
But his eyes were proud.
And for a second—
Eleanor allowed herself to feel something dangerously close to anticipation.
Reid — Early Evening
Reid buttoned his cuff and reached for the navy jacket.
He checked himself in the mirror, but he wasn’t looking at the suit.
He was looking at the man beneath it—the sharp, dangerous edge he usually kept buried under the "Golden Boy" persona.
Even in the dim light of his bedroom, the white cotton of his shirt stretched across shoulders that were more wire and corded muscle than a politician had any right to possess.
He was lean, built for endurance rather than just show, with a centered, predatory grace that usually made witnesses crumble before he ever opened his mouth.
He ran a hand over the dark stubble at his jaw. He should have shaved, but there was a restless energy in his blood tonight that didn't feel like "clean-cut." It felt like a fight.
The knock came as he adjusted his watch.
“It’s open.”
Luke Hale stepped inside, keys still in his hand. He stopped mid-stride.
Brows lifted.
“Well now.”
Reid didn’t turn. “Don’t.”
Luke walked farther in, taking in the jacket, the polished shoes, the fact that Reid absolutely did not look like he was headed anywhere casual.
“You got court at eight tonight?” Luke asked mildly.
“No.”
“Fundraiser?”
“No.”
Luke leaned against the wall.
“Hot date?”
“It’s dinner.”
“With…?”
Reid picked up his keys but didn’t answer.
Luke’s grin spread slowly.
“Oh.”
“Don’t,” Reid repeated.
“That picture made the rounds pretty fast,” Luke said casually. “Sky Bar. Y’all looked close.”
“It was a photo.”
“Mmm.”
Luke studied him.
“You know half the county thinks you’ve been secretly dating for months.”
“They think a lot of things.”
“True.”
A beat.
“She’s easy to look at,” Luke added.
Reid’s eyes lifted sharply.
“Careful.”
Luke smirked. “I’m not wrong.”
Reid didn’t smile.
Luke watched him for a long second.
“You sure you want to walk into that right now?” he asked more evenly.
“Podcast’s been circling the courthouse all day.
And Reid… reelection’s six months out. Gentry’s looking for any reason to hang a ‘soft on crime’ label on you.
Walking into a restaurant with the defense attorney who just dismantled a State witness?
” He shook his head. “That’s a campaign ad waiting to happen. ”
Reid paused, his hand on the door handle.
He knew the math. In a town this size, his career lived and died on perception—and right now, perception was a liability.
“Yeah,” Reid said, his voice dropping. “I’m sure.”
Luke sobered slightly. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “she’s not someone who does anything halfway.”
Reid’s mouth shifted slightly.
“I know.”
Luke headed out.
“And if this implodes, I warned you.”
“Go home, Hale.”
The door shut.
Reid stood alone for a moment.
This wasn’t strategy.
It wasn’t optics.
It wasn’t rebellion.
It was her.
He grabbed his keys.
And left.
Eleanor’s House — Arrival
The Jaguar rolled up the drive, headlights sweeping across white brick and black shutters.
Reid cut the engine.
The mountain air carried that early-evening chill—enough to sharpen awareness.
He stepped out, adjusted his jacket once.
He took the porch steps two at a time and knocked once.
The door opened.
And every line he’d planned on the drive over disappeared.
Emerald silk.
Bare shoulders.
Hair down—softer than court, less armor.
He went still.
For a full beat.
“Eleanor.”
Not Ellie.
Eleanor.
His gaze dropped once—
to the emerald silk,
the line of her shoulder—
then returned to her eyes.
Her pulse skipped.
Behind her, a deeper voice.
“Well now.”
Deck O’Rourke stepped into view.
Retirement hadn’t softened him. It had sharpened him.
Silver at his temples. Weather in his eyes. The posture of a man who’d spent thirty years reading danger before it spoke.
Reid met his gaze.
Deck didn’t speak right away. He’d spent thirty years letting men break under the weight of their own silence. Calloway didn’t fidget. Didn’t look away. He stood on the porch like he’d been invited, not like he was trespassing.
“You clean up respectable,” Deck said at last.
“I try,” Reid answered.
Deck stepped forward enough to own the doorway.
“She’s not a headline.”
Reid didn’t look away.
“No,” he said evenly. “I know.”
Deck studied him another beat.
“Aye,” he said softly. “See that ye remember it.”
A pause.
Then the Irish deepened.
“And if ye forget… I’ll be remindin’ ye.”
Reid nodded once. “You won’t have to.”
Deck held him there a second longer.
Then stepped aside.
“Go on then.”
As Eleanor passed, he murmured low enough only she heard:
“Mind yourself, lass.”
She glanced at him.
At the bottom of the steps, as Reid opened the car door for her, Deck called down the drive—
“Call if ye need me.”
As the Jaguar pulled away, Eleanor glanced once in the rearview mirror—half expecting to see a phone lifted in the dark, someone watching from the curb.
No one was there.
Eleanor felt the smooth slide of the silk against her legs. She had a speech prepared. She had reasons, logic. But as Reid shifted gears, his hand brushing inches from her knee, the “practical” arguments in her head started to sound like a language she no longer spoke.
Deck stayed on the porch until the taillights disappeared.
Then he muttered to himself,
“Ah, Larry would’ve skinned me alive if I let ye walk blind into this.”
Larry.
Her father. Lawrence Harper, Attorney at Law, Charleston, SC.
Deck huffed softly.
“I’ve seen Lawrence Harper dismantle better men than Calloway for less,” he muttered. “If this lad breaks her heart, Sylva won’t be far enough away to hide him.”
A breeze moved through the trees along the ridge.
Deck’s gaze drifted toward the dark line of forest beyond the road.
Too still.
He stood there another moment.
Then he headed inside.
Later, he’d stop by Sullivan’s Brew.