Chapter 24
The Text
Eleanor had finished closing the Mercer file when her phone buzzed on the conference table.
She glanced down.
Reid:
She opened the message.
Heard Mercer came to see you.
She swallowed, unease tightening low in her stomach.
Eleanor:
News travels fast in Sylva.
Three dots appeared.
Reid:
Meet me for a drink? Catch My Draft.
Eleanor leaned back in her chair. The office had that end-of-day hush—Lucy and Frannie’s voices drifting from the reception area, the faint crackle of the small speaker on her bookshelf where a low, smoky jazz playlist hummed.
Lucy’s voice cut through the brass.
“They released another teaser episode—”
Frannie immediately cut her off.
“Lucy Patel, I swear—”
Eleanor tuned them out. The words teaser episode needled at the fragile calm she’d been trying to hold onto.
Eleanor:
She typed:
Give me twenty minutes.
Her phone buzzed again before she could set it down.
Reid:
Good.
A second message blinked up.
Reid:
And Harper…
She waited.
Her pulse kicked up more than the situation warranted.
Reid:
You’re buying the first round.
She laughed softly, and some of the tension eased out of her shoulders.
Eleanor:
Dream on, Calloway.
She set the phone beside the Mercer file and stared at the manila folder for a moment.
Reid Calloway, with his bad timing and better smile, had been quietly dismantling the walls she’d rebuilt in Sylva.
Last weekend at the Overlook was supposed to prove this thing between them wouldn’t work. Instead, it had only made it harder to pretend she cared less than she did. She’d told herself, over and over, that charming men were exactly the kind of mistake she couldn’t afford.
Now Mercer was in her lap, the podcasts were circling again, and she was about to meet the one man who could still make her forget to breathe.
She swallowed.
“Twenty minutes,” she muttered. “You can handle twenty minutes.”
Catch My Draft had that familiar early evening rhythm—locals settling in after work, the murmur of conversation blending with the clink of glasses and the muted guitar from the old speakers.
Reid was already there.
Two drinks sat on the bar in front of him, condensation beading on the glasses.
The sight of him hit her.
He was in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, dark hair slightly mussed. In the low bar light, he looked unfairly good—tired, a little rumpled, and somehow even more handsome for it.
She told herself the flutter was leftover tension from Mercer.
Liar.
From his stool, Reid caught the moment she walked in.
Charcoal slacks, a crisp white blouse, and a navy blazer she hadn’t bothered to take off, the subtle swing of her hair around her shoulders. And then there were her eyes—clear, cool blue even from across the room, sharp enough to cross-examine a man and soft enough to undo him.
Something in him eased at the sight of her.
She slid onto the stool beside him.
Before she could get her balance, he leaned in, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers and his cologne wrapped around her—warm spice and something clean underneath.
“Well, there you are,” he murmured. “Hey, Blue Eyes. Figured you’d be missing me so badly by now you’d sprint the whole way.”
His breath grazed her cheek. The words were ridiculous and he knew it; that was half the problem.
Heat prickled at the back of her neck. Eleanor’s spine went a notch straighter as she cast a quick glance around the bar to make sure no one was paying them particular attention. The nearest couple was arguing quietly over a menu. The bartender was busy pretending not to eavesdrop.
She turned back to Reid and found him watching her like he’d just confirmed a theory.
“You are unbelievable,” she said, voice drier than the bourbon in front of her.
He smiled, slow and infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“Accurate,” he agreed. “But you still came.”
“You said I was buying,” she shot back.
He nudged one of the glasses toward her, his knuckles brushing hers.
“I lied. Tragic, I know. You’ll have to find some other flaw to break up with me over.”
Her mouth betrayed her with the beginning of a smile.
“You’re assuming there’s something to break up,” she said.
“Oh, there is,” he said easily. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
She took a sip to avoid answering. The bourbon burned pleasantly down her throat.
“That’s concerning,” she managed, “coming from a district attorney.”
A wry little smile touched his features as he studied her with that steady, infuriating focus—the one that made her feel both seen and dangerously close to exposed.
“Relax,” he said lightly. “It’s the only thing I lie about—bar tabs.”
“So you claim.”
Her lips curved.
“Chivalry via expense account. How very modern of you.”
The corner of his smile deepened into something real.
“Or maybe,” he said, “I like having an excuse to see that look on your face when the bourbon hits.”
She went still for half a heartbeat, acutely aware of his eyes tracking the way her mouth tightened and then softened around another sip.
“So,” he said.
She exhaled softly. “So.”
“You took the Mercer case.”
“Yes.”
He leaned an elbow on the bar, turning slightly toward her.
“I thought you wanted the podcasters out of your life. Not jump straight back into the middle of them.”
She turned toward him, the bar light catching the planes of his face.
“Sometimes the only way to deal with vultures,” she murmured, “is to stop running from them.”
Reid watched her carefully.
“You’re sure about this?”
Her stomach tightened.
Images flashed—microphones shoved in her face years ago, headlines dissecting her like she was a puzzle instead of a person.
She lifted her chin.
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly.
“Then I’m on your side.”
The words landed softly between them.
The certainty in his voice eased a knot she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.
“Just like that?” she asked.
“Just like that,” he said. “I’m not in the business of doubting you, Harper. Especially when those icy blue eyes of yours are that sure.”
Heat flickered low in her stomach at the way he said it.
“That’s good to know.”
They talked a while longer—about Mercer, about the chaos the podcasts were stirring around town, about the quiet absurdity of internet sleuths suddenly deciding they knew everything about Jackson County.
Twice her hand brushed his on the bar when they both reached for their drinks. The first time, she pulled back quickly. The second time, his fingers turned enough to catch the side of her hand, a spark running up her arm.
Eventually, Reid glanced at the clock.
“You drive tonight?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“Declan brought me in this morning. My car’s being serviced.”
Reid slid off the stool.
“Then I’ll take you home.”
The porch light cast a circle across the steps when Reid pulled up to the curb. The mountains were a dark silhouette against the deepening sky, and the huge oaks along the street had finally leafed out, making the whole stretch look softer, almost secret.
They climbed out of the Jag, doors shutting with a soft, expensive thud. As Eleanor rounded the nose of the vintage convertible to meet him on the sidewalk, the porch light caught the gleam of the plate.
VERDICT.
A laugh slipped out.
Reid glanced over. “What?”
She pointed at the plate.
“Of course, that’s your tag.”
Amusement flickered across his face.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Ego trip,” she countered.
“Accurate verdicts only,” he said. “I figured it was on brand.”
Inside, through the front window, the faint strains of jazz drifted out—she’d forgotten to turn off the playlist before she left.
“Thanks for the ride,” Eleanor said.
“No problem.”
Neither of them moved immediately.
The air between them hummed with the same tension that had been there since the bar—and, if she was honest, long before.
Finally, Reid fell into step beside her, and they headed toward the porch, her heels clicking softly on the walkway.
The mountain air had cooled, carrying the faint scent of pine.
Jazz drifted through the open window.
Eleanor unlocked the door but paused before stepping inside.
Reid leaned lightly against the railing.
“You still sure about Mercer?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And the podcast circus?”
She shrugged slightly.
“I survived worse.”
Reid studied her face in the porch light.
“I know,” he said quietly.
His gaze caught for a moment on the stubborn tilt of her chin, then climbed back to her eyes—ice-blue and tired and still, somehow, throwing sparks.
Silence stretched between them—jazz drifting from inside, crickets singing from the dark yard, her heart knocking against her ribs.
Then Eleanor said softly,
“Do you want a drink?”
A beat.
Reid let his attention wander to the street, where shadows pooled beneath the parked cars.
“I probably shouldn’t.”
“Responsible answer.”
He smiled, but the energy between them didn’t ease.
It sharpened.
Then his hand reached gently for hers.
“Eleanor.”
Something in her went weightless at the way he said her name.
He stepped closer.
Slowly.
Giving her time to step away.
She didn’t.
Her fingers caught lightly in his loosened tie, still warm from his skin.
His hand settled at her waist.
And then he kissed her.
The kiss narrowed the world to the press of his lips on hers and the faint wail of a saxophone drifting through the open window.
He tasted like bourbon and something distinctly him—dangerous in all the ways she knew better than to trust and wanted anyway.
Her back brushed the door as the kiss deepened slightly. His fingers flexed at her waist, drawing her that fraction closer that made it impossible to pretend she wasn’t kissing him back.
When they finally pulled apart, Eleanor steadied herself against the door, surprised by how shaky she felt.
“Well,” she said softly. “That was… unexpected.”
Reid’s thumb brushed once against her hip before he let his hand fall away.
“Not really.”
She tilted her head. “No?”
“I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”
He hesitated, a crooked little smile tugging at his lips.
“Though, to be fair,” he added, “I’ve had the problem since you backed me up against that brick wall behind Catch My Draft.”
Her brows lifted.
“Me?” Her voice came out drier than she intended. “Now, Mr. District Attorney, I think we both know who had who against that wall.”
His smile sharpened.
“Details,” he said. “I remember your hands just fine.”
Heat prickled at the back of her neck. Eleanor laughed, the moment lingering a second too long.
“Whatever,” she said, trying for annoyance and missing by a mile.
Reid stepped back slightly, though the space between them still felt thin.
“So… dinner this weekend?”
She folded her arms, mock-offended, though the spark in her eyes gave her away.
“Dinner?”
“There’s a little Italian place off Mill Street most people miss.”
She studied him.
“Is that a date?”
“Yes.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Her heart thudded once.
He smiled, softer now.
“You can call it field research if that’s easier.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
“Then yes.”
Reid started down the steps.
Halfway to the Jag, he turned back.
“Saturday?”
“Saturday.”
He caught her eyes one more time, something heated and satisfied in his expression—as if he’d won a case he’d been trying for a long time.
She watched him drive away, the green convertible gliding down the dark street.
Eleanor stepped inside and closed the door softly.
And for the first time all day, the Mercer case wasn’t the thing on her mind.
It was the man who had kissed her on her front porch—and the storm she suspected was coming for both of them.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
Eleanor glanced toward it, pulse still uneven.
Unknown number.
A single new message.
She didn’t move right away.
Then she crossed the room and picked it up.
The screen lit beneath her thumb.
Same number. Same thread.
One new message.
You’re defending a murderer.
I know what he did.
Everything inside her went still.
She looked at the message, then at the heavy oak door she’d closed. She’d locked it, but for the first time in Sylva, she didn’t believe the wood was thick enough.