Page 32 of Midnight at the Magnolia

Our gazes lock, and in that moment, something shifts. The anger, the suspicion, the fear—it all melts away, replaced by a heat so intense it steals the breath from my lungs. I notice how her pupils dilate, the way her lips part slightly. Details that used to be evidence now feel like torture.

“Ethan,” she whispers, my name on her lips a prayer and a curse. I’ve started collecting the ways she says it—soft and teasing over morning coffee, sharp with warning when I push too far, and now, rough with something that makes my blood burn. “You don’t want to know the truth. Trust me on this.”

But I can’t stop now. I’m in too deep, drowning in the mystery that is Celeste. Every detail feels crucial—the slight tremor in her voice, the way her accent thickens with emotion, how her fingers twist in her apron. “I need to know,” I breathe, my voice rough with emotion. “Whatever it is, I need to fucking know.”

It’s an obsession at this point. One I can’t control. Hell, one I don’t want to control. She’s become a drug I can’t quit, a puzzle I need to solve more than I need my next breath.

Her eyes flash, a mix of longing and regret that cuts me to the core. I’ve started categorizing her looks too—this one’s new, dangerous in a way that makes my heart race. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbones. The contrast of soft skin against sharp bone fascinates me, just another detail to add to my growing collection of Celeste-related obsessions. “Then show me. Show me what I’m getting myself into.”

For a heartbeat, the world stands still. Then Celeste surges forward, her lips crashing into mine with a desperation thatmatches my own. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, a battle for dominance that neither of us is willing to lose. I taste coffee and secrets on her tongue, and I want more, need more. I’ve memorized this too—how she kisses like she’s trying to steal the breath from my lungs, the small sound she makes when I bite her lower lip.

My hands tangle in her hair as I back her against the counter, lifting her onto it without breaking the kiss. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, erasing any space between us. The way she moves—fluid, precise, too practiced—should set off warning bells. Instead, it just adds to my fascination. Every detail about her is a contradiction I want to solve.

Even as desire clouds my mind, a part of me remains alert, searching for answers. My hands roam her body, seeking not just pleasure, but truth.

Some detective you are, Blake, fondling evidence.

But I can’t help cataloging every discovery.

A scar beneath her ribs, too precise to be an accident. The exact texture of it burns into my memory.

A callus on her trigger finger that no waitress should have. I trace it, adding it to my mental file of Celeste’s mysteries.

The way she controls her breathing, measured and even, like someone trained to maintain composure.

Celeste must sense my divided attention because she pulls back, her chest heaving. Her eyes are dark with desire, but there’s something else there too—a calculation, a wariness that I’ve started finding painfully attractive. Even her suspicion of me has become intoxicating.

“Is this what you want, Ethan?” she asks, her voice husky. I’ve never heard this tone from her before, and it joins my collection of Celeste-observations, filed away with all the others. “Or are you still looking for something else?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with implications. I want to lose myself in her, to forget about the case, the suspicions, everything. But I can’t. Some things you can’t walk away from, no matter how much you want to. Not when the truth is so tantalizingly close. Not when every new detail about her feels like another piece of a puzzle I’m desperate to complete.

“I want you,” I admit, the words raw and honest. My hands frame her face, thumbs tracing her cheekbones, adding the exact angle of her jaw to my mental catalog of her features. “But I also want the truth. I need it, Celeste. More than I’ve needed anything in my life.”

She closes her eyes, pain flashing across her face. I find myself memorizing this expression too—how her brows draw together, the slight tremor in her lower lip. When she opens them again, there’s a resolve there that both terrifies and excites me.

“The truth,” she says softly, tracing my jaw with her finger, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, “is a dangerous thing, Ethan. Are you sure you can handle it?”

I swallow hard, knowing that my answer will change everything. Each detail of this moment burns into my memory—the hum of the fluorescent lights, the lingering scent of coffee and jasmine, the exact shade of green her eyes turn when she’s about to reveal a secret. No going back after this, Blake.

“Yes.”

As Celeste steps closer, the heat radiating from her body makes my skin prickle. Each detail burns into my memory—the exact shade of her flushed skin, how her pupils dilate in the dim light, the way her breath catches when I move toward her. My heart hammers against my ribs, torn between the urge to interrogate her and the desperate need to taste her skin.

Our gazes lock, and something electric passes between us. The questions, the suspicions, the professional distance—it allburns away in the heat of her proximity. I’ve started cataloging the different shades of green in her eyes, the way they darken with emotion. Another detail for my growing collection of Celeste-observations.

“Ethan,” she breathes my name, and I file away this new tone—husky, wanting, dangerous. Her hands find my chest, and even through my shirt, her touch brands me. “We shouldn’t...”

But neither of us moves away. Instead, I find myself drawn closer, like a moth to a flame that will probably destroy me. At this point, I welcome the burn.

At least the diner is empty at this hour.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Celeste gasps as I trail kisses down the column of her throat, tasting the salt on her skin. I find myself cataloging every detail—the exact pitch of her gasp, how her pulse jumps beneath my lips, the way her accent thickens with desire. Even these intimate moments become evidence I can’t help but collect.

“No, we shouldn’t,” I agree, even as I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her legs. The fabric of her uniform rustles softly, a counterpoint to our ragged breathing. My investigator’s mind won’t shut off—noting how she automatically positions herself with clear sightlines to both exits, the practiced efficiency of her movements. Things a waitress shouldn’t know, details I’m becoming addicted to noticing.

My lips slam back on hers. Hard. Relentless. Unyielding.

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