Chapter 33
Eleanor’s Office — Late Afternoon
The Cotton Exchange building had quieted for the evening. Most of the offices on the third floor had already gone dark, and the last streaks of mountain sunset stretched through Eleanor Harper’s tall windows.
Eleanor leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples.
Reopening the Caroline Simms case had already set the entire town humming. By lunchtime, she’d fielded three calls from reporters, two from curious clients, and one very enthusiastic voicemail from April that began with, “Okay, I just heard something, and you need to call me immediately.”
And threaded through depositions, email drafts, and a lunch she barely remembered eating was the constant, distracting replay of last weekend.
Reid’s mouth on her skin. His hands in her hair. The feel of his body pressed against hers in the dark.
She’d shoved the memories aside a dozen times just to get anything done. They kept slipping back in anyway.
She still hadn’t called April back.
Her phone buzzed on the desk.
Deck.
Eleanor answered immediately.
“Tell me you didn’t punch a podcaster.”
Deck’s voice came through the line, warm and amused.
“Ah now, lass. Ye wound me. I’ve been on my best behavior.”
“Should I be concerned about the fact that you felt the need to clarify that?”
“Possibly.”
Eleanor smiled despite herself.
“What’s going on?”
There was a small pause on the other end of the line.
“Well now,” Deck said, “I’m heading down t’ Charleston for a few days.”
Eleanor sat up a little straighter.
“Charleston?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“Just checking on something that’s been ticklin’ the back of my brain.”
Eleanor narrowed her eyes even though he couldn’t see it.
“You’re chasing something.”
“Lass.”
“That’s not a denial.”
Deck chuckled.
“Try not t’ burn the town down while I’m gone.”
“I make no promises.”
“Atta girl.”
The line clicked dead.
Eleanor stared at the phone for a moment.
Then she laughed softly and set it back on the desk.
Deck going to Charleston meant two things:
First, whatever had gotten his attention was serious enough that he was willing to drive all the way back there to chase it.
Second…
She looked toward the quiet office door.
With Deck out of town, she might actually get one evening without being interrogated about her personal life by a retired detective who still looked at her like she was fifteen and had missed curfew.
Which, considering her current personal life involved the District Attorney and a very memorable couple of days, was a small mercy.
Her phone was already in her hand before she could talk herself out of it.
She opened her messages.
Scrolled down.
Reid.
His name alone was enough to send a slow, traitorous warmth curling through her. She could still feel his breath at her ear, the rough scrape of his jaw against her collarbone, the way he’d said her name like it was the only word he knew.
She’d spent all day pretending it hadn’t happened.
Now she was about to invite him over for dinner.
She stared at the blank text box for a long moment.
Then she typed:
Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?
She eyed the words, grimaced, and deleted it.
Typed again.
I’m making dinner tonight. You’re welcome to join me.
She frowned.
That sounded like she was inviting him to a zoning committee meeting.
She sighed and typed one more time.
Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?
Her pulse kicked up, low and insistent. The last time she’d seen him, dinner had been an afterthought. They hadn’t made it that far.
Somewhere between Mercer’s file and Burke’s phone call, she probably should have decided this was a terrible idea. She didn’t.
Before she could change her mind, she hit send.
Then she immediately set the phone face down on the desk like it might detonate.
Three little dots appeared almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
Then came back.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
Reid was clearly enjoying himself.
Finally, the message came through.
Wait.
Another appeared beneath it.
Are you asking me out on a date?
Her composure wobbled, a fraction. As if they hadn’t already obliterated the line past dating and gone straight to waking up tangled in her sheets.
She rolled her eyes and typed back.
No.
A second message followed immediately.
I’m feeding you.
The dots appeared again.
That sounds suspiciously like a date.
Eleanor shook her head, smiling despite herself. The man had seen her naked; he didn’t get to be coy.
You can starve if you’d prefer.
The reply came back almost immediately.
Seven o’clock work for you?
She hesitated for half a second, a flicker of nerves chasing through the steady thrum of anticipation.
Then typed:
Seven is fine.
She set the phone face down, but the office’s silence only made the memories louder.
A sudden, involuntary shiver traced the length of her spine—not from the chill of the air conditioning, but from the phantom sensation of Reid’s hands sliding up her ribs.
It was a phantom memory, deep and stubborn, a vivid replay of the way he’d pulled her against him until there wasn't a breath
left between them. It was distracting. It was unprofessional. And it was entirely beyond her control.
A moment passed.
Then another message came through.
Looking forward to it, Counselor.
Her stomach did an undignified little flip. She could still hear that voice, low and rough against her ear two nights ago, promising things that had made her forget how to think.
Before she could answer, one more popped up beneath it.
P.S. — Should I expect your Irish bloodhound to be there too?
Eleanor laughed softly out loud this time.
She typed back:
Deck is out of town.
The reply was instant.
Well, now I’m definitely coming.
She shook her head and set the phone down again.
Last weekend had been…unexpected. Intense. The kind of thing she should’ve regretted and couldn’t, no matter how many times she’d told herself to be sensible.
And now, instead of pushing him away, she was opening the door wider.
“Well,” she murmured to the empty office. “That’s not alarming at all.”
She glanced toward the small stack of unopened mail on the corner of her desk and added, “And I probably should’ve gone grocery shopping first.”
She reached for her bag, but her hand paused over the manila folder sitting dead center on her desk.
Mercer.
The name seemed to pulse beneath the dimming light.
Inside was a man accused of saying over my dead body or hers.
And then there was the text from Sunday.
I know what he did.
Eleanor looked toward the dark hallway beyond her office door.
For the first time, Deck being out of town felt less like freedom and more like vulnerability.
She was a defense attorney. She was used to standing in the line of fire.
But lately, the fire felt personal.
It felt like it was moving closer.
She slid the Mercer file into the bottom drawer and turned the key. The metallic click echoed in the hollow office, a small, futile sound against the weight of the secrets inside. She was locking it away, but she knew better—the truth didn't stay in drawers.
Then she picked up her purse.
Reid would be at her house in less than two hours.
The thought sent a warm, dangerous shiver through her.
Outside, the last of the light had gone from the mountains.
But as she walked to her car, her heels sounded too loud in the empty lot. She looked toward the streetlamp—the one where the man in the canvas coat had stood just yesterday.
The town was small. The secrets were old. And Lila Grant was already editing the next chapter.