Page 43 of Midnight at the Magnolia

“Hang on!” she yells, and there’s an edge of excitement in her voice that matches the adrenaline singing in my veins.

We tear through the bayou, bullets splashing into the water around us. Celeste handles the boat like a professional racer, taking turns so sharp I think we’ll capsize. The wind whips at our faces, carrying the scents of the swamp—mud, vegetation, decay—and beneath it all, that haunting floral scent that’s become synonymous with danger in my mind.

As we race through the waterways, I can’t help but marvel at her skill. Every moment reveals another layer of this woman who’s completely dismantled my carefully constructed worldview. The confident set of her shoulders, the precise movements of her hands on the controls, the way she anticipates each curve of the bayou—none of it fits with the waitress from the Magnolia Diner.

The moon rises, casting her in silver light, and my breath catches. Even now, soaked with swamp water and grimy with evidence of our fight, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The most dangerous too, a voice whispers in the back of my mind.

Finally, we emerge onto the open water of Lake Pontchartrain. The lights of New Orleans twinkle in the distancelike a promise—or a warning. As we speed towards the city, I have to ask, even though I know she’ll lie.

“Where did you learn to do all that?” I force the words out, hating how they break the spell between us.

She keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon, the city lights reflecting in her determined gaze. “You pick up a few things, growing up in Louisiana. Not all of them legal, not all of them pretty.”

Another deflection. Another mystery. Another reason I should be investigating her instead of falling for her.

As we cross the vast expanse of the lake, the first hints of dawn begin to color the eastern sky. I become acutely aware of Celeste’s proximity, of the way her hair whips in the wind, of the determined set of her jaw. The same jaw I’ve caught myself staring at across the diner counter, imagining how it would feel under my fingers, against my lips.

In that moment, the truth hits me like a physical blow: I’m not just falling for her—I’m drowning in her. Every instinct honed over years of FBI work is screaming that there’s more to Celeste than meets the eye. That she’s dangerous. That she’s probably involved in my case somehow.

And God help me, I don’t fucking care.

As we finally dock at a small, out-of-the-way marina, the sky has lightened to a pale gray. Celeste turns to me, fatigue evident in the slump of her shoulders and the shadows under her eyes. In the pale light of dawn, I can see the conflict in her gaze, the way she bites her lower lip in indecision.

“Ethan,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the creaking of the dock and the calls of awakening seabirds, “what happened tonight... it changes things.”

I nod, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin is soft under my fingertips, still damp with sweat andriver water. I want to trace every inch of her face, memorize it with my hands the way I’ve memorized it with my eyes. “I know.”

For a moment, I think she might tell me everything. I can see the words forming on her lips, can almost taste the truth in the air between us. But then she pulls away, her walls slamming back into place. The loss of her warmth is like a physical ache.

“Your team needs to see this yesterday,” she says, her voice steady once more. Professional. Distant.

As we make our way back to the city, the sun finally cresting the horizon, I realize I’ve crossed a line tonight. Not just professionally, but personally. I’ve seen a side of Celeste that both thrills and terrifies me, and instead of running, I want more.

Celeste turns back to me, her teeth bruising her bottom lip. “Drive me home?”

I can’t tell her no. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to tell this woman no. I nod once, knowing I’m sealing my fate. Because I’d follow this woman into hell itself if she asked. I’d throw away my badge, my career, everything I’ve built, just to unravel the mystery of her.

And God help me, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

14

CELESTE

NOLA NOW

Viper’s victim count reaches twelve. Pattern suggests killer has intimate knowledge of New Orleans’ power structure. Police warn public to stay vigilant.

The soft glowof candles flickers across Ethan’s face as he uncorks the wine, casting dancing shadows that accentuate his chiseled features. Outside, the last rays of sunset paint the sky in vibrant oranges and purples, like the deadly nightshade blooms Grandma used to point out in her garden—beautiful, dangerous, impossible to resist.

I watch him from beneath lowered lashes, cataloging details with the same precision Grandma taught me to use when identifying herbs: the confident way he handles the wine bottle, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates, the way his fingers grip the neck just a bit too tightly. Every observation gets filed away in my growing collection of Ethan-moments, precious and poisonous in equal measure.

“To partnerships,” Ethan says, raising his glass with a smile that makes my stomach flip. His voice is low and warm, like honey poured over gravel. The kind of voice that could make a woman forget all her carefully laid plans.

I clink my glass against his, forcing a relaxed smile even as Grandma’s words echo in my head:“The sweetest poison’s the one they drink willingly, child.”

The cool, smooth surface of the wine glass is a stark contrast to my clammy palms.

“To partnerships,” I echo, “and to unraveling mysteries, cher.” The local endearment slips out before I can stop it, a small piece of my true self breaking through the carefully constructed facade. Like kudzu breaking through concrete, nature always finds a way to reveal itself.

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