Page 42 of Midnight at the Magnolia

“This can’t be it,” I say, frustration creeping into my voice. The air is thick with dust, but underneath it I catch the faint trace of her perfume—something floral and dangerous. Like her.

But Celeste is already moving, her fingers running along the edges of a large armoire. I watch, mesmerized, as those delicate hands that pour coffee and serve plates work with expert precision. The wood is rough and splintered under her touch, but she doesn’t hesitate. With a soft click that seems unnaturally loud in the quiet shack, the back panel swings open, revealing a hidden room.

I stare at her, stunned. The questions pile up in my mind like evidence I should be logging. How did she know? Why isn’t she surprised? What else does she know that she isn’t telling me?

“How did you?—”

“I read a lot of mystery novels,” she says quickly, but there’s a tension in her voice that I’ve started recognizing. It’s the same tone she uses when she’s deflecting questions about her past. I’m learning all her tells, collecting them like precious gems, even as they warn me of deeper dangers.

The hidden room is a stark contrast to the decaying shack. State-of-the-art computers hum softly, their screens casting an eerie blue glow that plays across her features, making her look otherworldly. Dangerous. Beautiful. I shouldn’t be noticing how the light catches in her eyes at a time like this, but I can’t help myself.

“Ethan,” she breathes, my name soft and urgent on her lips. The way she says it makes my pulse quicken. “Look at this.”

She’s examining one of the computer screens, which shows a complex web of connections between various names and organizations. At the center is a name that makes my blood run cold: Senator William Hawthorne. But even as I process this bombshell, I’m distracted by how natural she looks navigating the sophisticated system. Like she’s done this before.

“Shit,” I curse, my mind reeling. “It’s not just local corruption. This goes all the way to Washington.”

Celeste nods, her face pale in the screen’s glow. The blue light casts shadows under her cheekbones, making her look haunted. Hunted. “We need to get this information out of here.”

I reach for my phone to call for backup, but her hand on my arm stops me. Her skin is cool against mine, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. The touch lingers longer than necessary, and I find myself acutely aware of her proximity. The floral scent of her shampoo mingles with swamp water and fear-sweat, creating an intoxicating mixture that makes my head spin.

“Listen,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear. The intimacy of the moment makes my heart stutter, even as my training screams at me to focus.

That’s when I hear it—the low rumble of approaching boats, a sound that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. Outside, the last vestiges of daylight have faded, plunging the bayou into darkness. I watch how Celeste’s body tenses, the way her hand instinctively moves to her hip again. Like muscle memory. Like a soldier’s reflex.

“We’re compromised. Evac protocol, now,” I say, drawing my gun. The familiar weight of it is comforting in my hand, but not as comforting as Celeste’s presence at my side. When did that happen? When did I start trusting her more than my own training?

But it’s too late for self-reflection.

The door to the shack bursts open with a splintering crack, and three armed men rush in. The sudden influx of night air carries the scent of sweat and gunpowder, and beneath it all, the lingering trace of Celeste’s perfume. Even in this chaos, she fills my senses.

“FBI! Drop your weapons!” I shout, but they open fire instead. The deafening sound of gunshots fills the small space, leaving my ears ringing. Muzzle flashes light up the room in strobe-like bursts, casting bizarre, dancing shadows on the walls.

What happens next burns itself into my memory with terrifying clarity.

Celeste moves with a speed and precision that steals my breath. Her body flows like water, each movement fluid and purposeful. She strikes like a viper, fast and deadly, her fist connecting with one man’s jaw with a sickening crunch. There’s nothing of the waitress in her now—this is someone else entirely. Someone dangerous. Someone trained.

I should be alarmed. I should be questioning everything.

Instead, I’m entranced. Aroused.

I manage to take down another, the recoil of my gun jolting through my arm. The acrid smell of cordite fills the air, mingling with the metallic scent of blood. But the third has me in his sights, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Suddenly, Celeste is there, tackling me to the ground. The rough floorboards scrape against my skin as a bullet whizzes overhead, so close I can feel the displacement of air. Her body covers mine, protective and fierce, and for a split second, I forget we’re in danger. All I can focus on is the press of her against me, the racing of her heart echoing my own.

We roll, and I come up firing, taking out the last assailant. For a moment, we lay there, breathless, Celeste’s body still pressed against mine. The scent of her hair, a mix of river water and something distinctly floral, fills my senses. Our eyes meet in the darkness, and I see a mixture of fear, exhilaration, and something else—something that makes my heart race even faster.

“Tell me you’re not hit,” I say, my voice hoarse with fear and something deeper, darker.

She shakes her head, slowly getting to her feet. Her hand brushes against mine as she stands, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “We need to go. There will be more coming.”

I want to grab her, to demand answers about those combat moves, about how she’d known exactly what to do in a firefight. But more than that, I want to pull her back into my arms, to feel that deadly grace pressed against me again. The intensity of the desire terrifies me.

What kind of agent am I becoming, when solving the mystery matters less than keeping the mystery close?

We grab what evidence we can and make a run for it. I let her lead, telling myself it’s because she knows the bayou better.But the truth is, I can’t take my eyes off her. The way she moves through the darkness like she owns it, each step sure despite the treacherous ground. The night air is thick with moisture, carrying the sounds of distant pursuit, but all I can focus on is the shadow of her ahead of me.

As we reach the airboat, the sound of gunfire erupts behind us. Celeste leaps into the driver’s seat with lethal grace, starting the engine before I’ve even fully climbed aboard. The sudden roar is deafening, drowning out everything except the thunder of my pulse in my ears.

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