Chapter 30
Eleanor’s Drive
Eleanor merged onto the main road into Sylva, travel mug in the cup holder, hair still faintly smelling like Reid’s coffee and his citrus aftershave mix.
She tried not to think about that last part.
Her phone buzzed over the car speakers.
APRIL.
Of course.
She hit the steering-wheel button.
“Hey.”
April didn’t bother with hello.
“Oh, no ma’am,” she said. “You do not get a casual hey. You haven’t even told me about your first date, and Deck told me you weren’t home all weekend, soooooo… okay. Spill the tea.”
Eleanor winced, even as a reluctant smile tugged at her mouth.
“Deck needs a hobby,” she said.
“He has one,” April shot back. “It’s called you. Now stop dodging. Start at the beginning. Overlook. Italian place. Porch. Alley. Wherever we are in the saga of DA Dreamboat.”
“Please don’t call him that,” Eleanor said.
“What, you prefer Mr. Handsome Public Servant? Mr. Prosecutorial Smolder?”
“Absolutely not,” Eleanor said. “And you’re being dramatic. It’s not a saga.”
“You spent an entire weekend not at home,” April said sweetly. “That’s at least a novella.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened slightly on the wheel.
“It was… good,” she said carefully. “Dinner was nice. The restaurant had this back patio over a creek, and—”
“Oh my God, of course he took you to the secret romantic creek patio,” April groaned. “Deck said the Jag was gone half the night, too. You’ve been holding out on me.”
“He needs to mind his own business,” Eleanor muttered.
“His own business is that you’re his favorite human and you scare him when you’re happy,” April said. “Focus, please. Did you kiss the DA again?”
Eleanor swallowed.
“Yes,” she said. “We kissed.”
“‘We kissed,’” April repeated flatly. “That is not tea. That is room-temperature tap water. Try again. Was it good? Bad? Fireworks? Mildly pleasant?”
Eleanor hesitated.
The memory of Reid’s hands on her, his voice in her ear, the way everything else had fallen away for a few hours—color crept up her neck.
“It was… not terrible,” she said.
April snorted.
“On a scale from one to ‘I blacked out for three minutes,’ where are we landing?”
“April.”
“Oh, we are absolutely at blackout,” April decided. “You have your I-did-something-deliciously-irresponsible voice on.”
Eleanor exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
“Let’s just say,” she murmured, “I didn’t go over there to behave.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then April let out a low, delighted whistle.
“Well, well, Harper,” she said. “Look at you, making headlines in your own life.”
“Please do not say headlines,” Eleanor said. “We had plenty of those already.”
April’s tone softened.
“How are you, really?”
Eleanor watched the town ease into view ahead—the familiar brick buildings, the mountains rising behind them.
“I’m…” She searched for the word. “Complicated.”
“He treated you right?” April asked.
“Yes,” Eleanor said, and that at least was simple. “He did.”
“Good,” April said. “He screws that up, I know people who can make his pretty car disappear.”
Eleanor huffed a laugh.
“Leave the Jag out of this.”
“No promises.”
The sign for downtown parking loomed up ahead.
“Listen,” Eleanor said, signaling. “I’m almost at the Cotton Exchange. If I keep talking, Declan will be waiting in the lobby with a notepad.”
“He already is,” April said. “Text me later. I want details. Tasteful details. Maybe slightly less tasteful if you’re in the mood.”
“Goodbye, April.”
“Goodbye, Nell,” April sing-songed. “Enjoy your walk of ‘totally normal Monday, no one look at me.’”
Eleanor ended the call, shaking her head, but the smile lingered as she turned into the lot.
The Cotton Exchange
She parked in her usual spot behind the old brick Cotton Exchange building, the three-story structure rising above her, tall windows and faded painted sign from another century.
The morning air was cool against her skin as she stepped out of the car and slung her bag over her shoulder.
Downtown Sylva was waking up—delivery trucks on the side streets, someone hosing off a sidewalk, the smell of coffee drifting from the shop on the corner.
Eleanor climbed the narrow interior staircase to the third floor, the wooden treads muffling the sound of her heels against the runner.
The glass door at the end of the landing bore simple black lettering:
Harper she braced herself against the desk.
“Sure,” she said. “What’s going on?”
Whatever it was, she already had the sinking feeling it was about to yank her right back into the center of the storm.
And Deck was definitely not going to like the side she’d chosen.