Chapter 27
Eleanor’s House
Eleanor’s house, usually her refuge, felt suddenly too big. Too quiet. Too full of other people’s voices.
She dropped her keys on the entry table and stood in the stillness for half a beat. Then the night caught up to her all at once. The porch kiss. The creekside patio. Reid’s mouth on hers under the streetlamp. And then—headlights, microphones, strangers deciding how the evening ended.
Her chest tightened. It should have been their decision. Hers and Reid’s. Not a podcaster’s. Not a camera crew’s. Not the internet’s.
She paced the living room, bare feet silent against the rug, the gaslights on the porch casting a soft glow against the windows.
Anger burned deep, hot, and tight. She stopped pacing.
This was not how she wanted to leave things—with a shattered date, a half-finished kiss, and a van full of strangers dictating the last word.
“No,” she said into the empty room.
Before her nerves could catch up, she snatched up her keys again and headed for the door. She slid into her car.
What are you doing? whispered the cautious part of her that had learned, painfully, to be careful with charming men and public scrutiny.
Her shoulders squared, a slow resolve settling in. Deciding for myself, another part answered.
The route wound away from her rambling neighborhood into a neater grid on the opposite side of Sylva.
Here, mature trees arched overhead, creating a dark tunnel of leaves.
She eased off the gas, scanning the mailboxes.
Numbers only. No names. Discreet—of course. DAs didn’t advertise where they slept.
She spotted it: a sharp brick-and-siding home with clean lines and a circular drive. The vanity plate on the car—VERDICT—glinted under the porch light.
She parked under the dense shadow of an oak and stepped out. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs as she reached the door. She didn’t give herself time to retreat. She knocked.
Reid didn’t open the door; he yanked it back, looking like a man who had been pacing his own cage.
But the District Attorney hadn’t come to the door.
The man in the doorway was taller somehow without the armor of his three-piece suits and courtroom veneer.
Six foot two, broad-shouldered, half-dressed, with his white shirt hanging open and untucked like he’d torn it apart with his own hands.
His hair was a wreck—finger-combed and wild—and his eyes were dark with something she had never seen in a courtroom.
Not anger. Not control. A starved intensity.
Her gaze tracked lower, helpless and heat-struck, following the trail of dark hair that narrowed as it disappeared into the waistband of his slacks.
“Harper,” he rasped, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones. “You’re either lost… or you’re making the most dangerous decision of your life.”
“I’m not lost,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “And I’m furious.”
One corner of his mouth kicked up, slow and knowing. He reached out, his hand wrapping around her nape, his thumb grazing the sensitive flesh behind her ear as he hauled her inside. He slammed the door shut, the solid thud of the deadbolt echoing through the hallway like a gavel striking wood.
He didn’t just cage her; he crowded her, his chest a searing wall that forced the air from her lungs.
He tasted like expensive bourbon and a man who had reached his breaking point.
The hand at her nape was firm, his fingers knotting in her hair with a possessive strength that shattered whatever was left of his professional restraint the second the bolt clicked home.
“On the record?” he whispered, his face inches from hers. “I’ve been thinking about doing this since the second you walked into that courthouse two and a half years ago. If those vultures think they get to see the end of this story, they’re dead wrong. This part? This is for us.”
The words hit her like a crack in something she had spent two and a half years holding together.
A dozen professional warnings flashed in the back of her mind—conflict of interest, career suicide, the inevitable fallout of a DA and defense attorney crossing the line.
She knew all of it, and in that moment, she didn’t care.
But the logic didn't stand a chance against the way her body was already reaching for him.
She had thought it too. In every courtroom glance.
Every argument that ran a second too long.
Every moment she had looked at him and then looked away.
The anger that had driven her across town fused with a sudden, sharp craving.
Eleanor reached up, her fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his skull, pulling him down.
When their mouths met, it wasn’t a question—it was a collision.
It tasted like a rebellion against every camera lens and every headline.
Reid groaned low in his throat as he crowded her against the door.
His hands found the silk of her dress, his palms sliding up her thighs, bunching the fabric until he found uncovered skin.
The friction was electric. He found the zipper at her back and eased it down—the soft, jagged hiss of the metal the only sound in the quiet house.
As the dress slipped, pooling like a shadow at her feet, the sudden cool air of the hallway hit her, making her shiver.
Reid didn’t just look; he physically backed up half a step, breaking the contact so he could take her in.
The gentleman from the bistro was gone, replaced by a man who was looking at her as if she were a jury verdict he’d been waiting two years to read.
The amber lamplight caught the slow, arrogant sweep of his gaze as it moved from her eyes to the curve of her shoulder, then lower.
He looked at her like a man who had waited too long.
Heat climbed into Eleanor’s cheeks and down her neck. It wasn’t modesty. It was the way he was looking at her—slow, intent, like he’d waited too long and finally meant to take his time.
Reid’s jaw locked, the muscle in his cheek jumping as he visually claimed every inch of her. He tracked the frantic, visible thrum of her pulse against the hollow of her throat—a desperate heartbeat that was a confession of her own.
“Last chance to turn around, Counselor,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers. “One word and I play the gentleman. I’ll make you tea and find you a spare room. I’ll put on my halo and we can drink coffee until the sun comes up.”
Eleanor caught his lower lip between her teeth, a soft, daring smile breaking through the tension. Her hands skimmed along his sides, then up, pushing the shirt from his shoulders in turn, her palms gliding over warm, solid muscle.
“Your halo’s crooked, Reid,” she whispered against his lips. “And I didn’t drive across town for tea.”
Her nails dragged enough against his chest to make his muscles lock under her touch. Reid made a sound—half-growl, half-surrender—and suddenly the “gentleman” was gone.
He kissed her again, his mouth sliding from her lips to the sensitive curve of her throat, his warmth radiating against her.
His hands slid down her back, pulling her flush against him until she could feel every hard line of him through his slacks.
He wasn’t learning her body; he was touching her like he already knew exactly where she would break apart for him.
His fingers digging into her hips to lift her, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist.
“Eleanor,” he said, his voice devoid of its polish. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
She didn’t flinch. She leaned into him, her fingers curling into the back of his neck, drawing him closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left between them. All the fear and caution flashed through her mind in one quick, bright burst—and then vanished.
Not this time. This was her decision.
She felt the world tilt as he swept her up, her arms looping around his neck on instinct.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
And for the first time in a very long time, she believed someone meant it.
He carried her down the short hall toward the softer dark of his bedroom. The rest of the world—the podcasters, the cameras, the ghosts of her past—fell away as two years of wanting finally, recklessly unraveled into the night.
Sunday Morning
Light slanted through the blinds when Eleanor padded quietly into the kitchen, bare legs peeking from beneath the hem of Reid’s shirt.
She paused on the cool tile, waiting for the old, familiar thrum of regret to rise up and choke the air.
It didn’t. All she felt was a lingering ache and the echo of his hands on her body.
She smiled to herself as she surveyed his impressive espresso setup. Last night’s chaos felt a little farther away here, with nothing but the hiss of steam and the smell of coffee for company. She was swirling the foam when a low whistle sounded behind her.
“Well, well,” Reid drawled from the doorway. “If it isn’t opposing counsel making herself at home.”
He stood there with his arms folded loosely, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. His hair was tousled from sleep, his chest bare, and the look in his eyes—openly pleased to find her still there—made her pulse jump.
She turned, mug in hand, arching a brow right back. “Good morning, Mr. District Attorney. I didn’t realize your coffee bar was open to the defense.”
He sauntered into the kitchen, his gaze drifting slowly down the length of her legs. “For you, counselor, I might even waive the cover charge.”
She handed him a latte, barely suppressing a smile. “Careful, or I’ll subpoena your secret coffee bean supplier.”
Reid took a sip, watching her over the rim of the mug. “If that’s a threat, I’m not sure I want to negotiate.” He set his mug aside and closed the space between them. One hand came up, his thumb tracing lightly over her lower lip. “See? I knew you’d been thinking about me.”
“Arrogant,” she laughed.
“I’ll make it fair,” he said. “I’ve thought about you constantly.” His hands settled easily at her waist. “You know, in this jurisdiction, the penalty for looking that good in my shirt is pretty steep.”
“Oh really? And what’s the sentence?”
His grin deepened, eyes darkening as he pulled her closer. “I’m thinking… indefinite detention.”
She laughed softly, sliding her arms around his neck. “No parole?”
“Not a chance.”
Then he kissed her—not a polite morning kiss, but the deep, hungry claim of two people who knew the world was waiting outside with a knife.
She was acutely aware of how his shirt felt against her shoulders.
Without a single stitch of her own clothing beneath it, the sensation was overwhelming; the thick fabric brushed against her with a rough intimacy, teasing her every time she moved.
When he pulled her closer, his hands sliding under the hem to find the small of her back, the friction of his warm palms against her nakedness made her stomach flip.
There was no lace or silk to act as a barrier, nothing but the stark, electric contact of his touch.
He hooked his hands under her thighs and hoisted her upward.
The shockingly cool granite hit her, and Eleanor let out a sharp cry that was instantly swallowed by his mouth.
He stepped deep between her knees, crowding her back until she was forced to wrap her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back.
Reid pulled back just an inch. He didn’t kiss her again. Instead, his hands went to the first button of the shirt—his shirt—at her throat.
He unfastened the first plastic disc, his knuckles grazing the hollow of her neck. Then the second. He was slow, agonizingly deliberate, his eyes locked on hers as if he were daring her to look away.
“Two years,” he whispered, his voice a low, rough vibration as he popped the third button. “Seven hundred days of watching you walk into that courtroom and wondering exactly what you looked like under those suits.”
He reached the final button and flicked it free. With a slow, steady motion, he pushed the fabric open, brushing the substantial cotton off her shoulders until it hung uselessly at her elbows.
Eleanor’s pulse stumbled, ribcage straining, as she sat there, completely exposed to the morning light and his dark, predatory stare.
She knew better than this. She had built her life on being the most prepared, most disciplined person in the room, yet here she was—undone on a kitchen counter by the one man who could ruin her reputation with a single word.
She felt the reckless thrill of it—the deliberate choice to let go of the wheel and see just how fast they could crash.
Reid didn’t move. He just looked at her, his eyes traveling over every inch of her.
“God, Eleanor,” he growled, his voice rough and raw. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined. And I have a very vivid imagination.”
He leaned in, his hands sliding back to her waist to pull her flush against his bare chest, the friction of their embrace finally breaking the tension. He didn’t just kiss her; he claimed her, his tongue demanding entry as he anchored her to the stone.
Eleanor let out a broken moan, her fingers tangling in his hair, her entire body arching into him. She was lost in the feel of him—the roughness of his hands, the scent of espresso and skin.
“Reid,” she whispered, her voice fracturing as his head dipped.
He trailed his lips along the slope of her shoulder, his teeth grazing the sensitive curve where her neck met her shoulder.
He nipped at the skin there—a sharp, possessive catch that made her breath hitch.
Eleanor’s entire body tightened, her toes curling against his calves.
“I’ve got you,” he growled against her neck, the vibration of his voice humming through her entire body.
The phone on the counter skittered an inch across the granite. The buzz was a low, insistent vibration that refused to be ignored. The screen flared:
[INCOMING CALL] Sheriff Burke Scott
[INCOMING CALL] Unknown Number
“Don’t look,” Reid whispered against her, his chest working as he struggled for composure.
“I have to,” she said, though she didn’t move, her legs tightening around his waist for one last second of heat.
The mountain sun was high now, burning off the morning mist. The sanctuary was shrinking.
Because in Sylva, the truth didn’t just come out in court. Sometimes, it came for you while you were still wearing someone else’s shirt.