Page 44 of Midnight at the Magnolia

As we settle into our meal, the sky outside gradually darkens, the city lights beginning to twinkle like stars caught in Spanish moss. The wine is bold and full-bodied, its velvety texture coating my tongue. Through his open window, the night air carries the mingled scents of magnolias and mystery that make New Orleans what it is—a city where secrets bloom like night jasmine, dangerous and beautiful.

I savor each bite of the perfectly cooked pasta, letting the flavors ground me in the moment as my mind races with possibilities and fears. Across the table, Ethan watches me with the same intensity he gives his case files. Each glance feels like evidence being collected, each shared smile like a confession being drawn out. I recognize the look because it mirrors my own—the hunter becoming the hunted, both of us circling closer to truths we might not survive.

“So, Agent Blake,” I say, forcing a playful lilt into my voice. “Is the food living up to your Chicago standards?”

Ethan chuckles, his eyes meeting mine. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down my spine. “I have to admit, Celeste, this beats deep-dish pizza any day.”

“High praise indeed,” I smirk, taking a sip of wine to hide the tremor in my hands. “Though I’m not sure the Windy City would approve of such blasphemy.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” he replies with a wink that sets my heart racing.

The muffled sounds of a saxophone solo drift up from the street below, a haunting melody that seems to echo the ache in my chest. I catch Ethan studying me again, his eyes tracking my movements with a detective’s precision. I wonder what details he’s collecting, what evidence he’s building in that brilliant mind of his. Part of me hopes he never puts the pieces together. A larger part, the part that terrifies me most, hopes he does.

“The food is amazing,” I say, watching him savor another bite of the jambalaya. The candlelight flickers across his face, softening his usually sharp features. I’m acutely aware of the weight of my secrets, pressing down on me like wet moss after a storm.

Grandma’s voice whispers in my memory:“Love’s like belladonna, child—beautiful and deadly in equal measure. The sweetest poisons are the ones we choose to take.”

“Celeste,” he begins, his voice low. “About what happened out there...”

My heart rate quickens, the sound of blood rushing in my ears almost drowning out the distant jazz. I lean forward, letting my hand brush against his on the table. The touch sends sparks dancing across my skin.

“What happens in the bayou stays in the bayou?” I suggest, my tone flirtatious but with an undercurrent of desperation.

He catches my hand, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin. The gentle pressure is both comforting and terrifying. “Is that what you want?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.

I bite my lip, playing the part of the coy waitress while my mind races. “I want...” I pause, letting the tension build. “I want to try the tiramisu you made for dessert before I answer that question.”

Ethan laughs, the sound rich and warm like summer rain on cypress leaves. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Deveraux.” The way he says my false name sends a shiver down my spine—another item in his evidence file of my reactions, I’m sure.

As I stand to clear the plates, I let my hand trail across his shoulders. The solid warmth of his body under my fingertips sends a rush of heat through me.

Grandma’s voice whispers in my memory:“Touch is the most dangerous herb of all, child. One brush of skin against skin can brew stronger medicine than any root or leaf.”

“You have no idea, Agent Blake,” I murmur, my breath hot against his ear. Like the night-blooming jasmine that winds through New Orleans’ wrought iron, we’re both reaching for something we probably shouldn’t touch.

I move towards the kitchen, feeling Ethan’s eyes on me like a physical caress. His gaze has the weight of evidence being collected, each movement I make another exhibit in his mental case file. The weight of my secrets presses down, mingling with the very real attraction I feel. Keep him close, keep him safe, I remind myself. But as I glance back at Ethan, his gaze full of warmth and barely contained desire, I wonder who is really protecting whom.

The clink of plates in the sink provides a counterpoint to the jazz still drifting up from the street below. New Orleans at night seeps in through the windows—all mystery and possibility, where even the air tastes like secrets waiting to be shared.

As Ethan refills our wine glasses, the bottle now half empty, I decide to broach the subject that has been weighing on my mind. “So,” I say, keeping my tone light as I twirl pasta around my fork, “any breakthroughs in the case? Or is it still more twisted than a Mardi Gras parade route?”

Ethan’s eyes light up, the green in them becoming more pronounced in the dim light. Like poison ivy gleaming after rain - beautiful, dangerous, impossible not to touch. I brace myself, gripping my fork tighter, reminding myself of Grandma’s warning:“A careful gardener knows when to prune and when to let things grow wild.”

“Actually, yes,” he says, leaning forward with that intense focus that makes my heart race. “The lab finally got back to me with some interesting results.”

I mirror his movement, closing the distance between us like vines reaching for sunlight. The scent of his cologne—a heady mix of sandalwood and citrus—envelops me, making it hard to concentrate. My free hand toys with the napkin in my lap, a nervous habit I can’t quite control. Grandma would scold me for such an obvious tell, but even her best student can’t maintain perfect control when the stakes are this high.

“Interesting, huh?” My voice remains steady, a skill honed through years of practice. Like measuring deadly nightshade—one tremor could spell disaster. “What kind of evidence are we talking about?”

Ethan’s eyes never leave my face as he speaks, and I wonder what evidence he’s gathering now, what micro-expressions I’m revealing despite my best efforts. I’ve started cataloging his tells too—the slight tightening around his eyes when he’s onto something, the way his fingers drum against the table when he’s building to a revelation.”They found trace evidence at one of the crime scenes that doesn’t match any of the victims or knownsuspects. But here’s the kicker—it does partially match DNA found at several other scenes.”

My blood runs cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. I know exactly what he’s talking about—a strand of hair I’d carelessly left behind during one of my... interventions. I can almost feel the weight of that mistake pressing down on me, threatening to crush me under its weight.

“Fascinating,” I manage, my mind racing. The bite of pasta in my mouth suddenly tastes like ash. “So you think it’s the killer?” I force myself to take another bite, to appear casual, even as my stomach churns.

Ethan nods, his expression grim. The candlelight casts deep shadows under his eyes, emphasizing the toll the case is taking on him. “It has to be. And what’s more, the profile suggests it’s someone with access to the investigation. Maybe even someone in law enforcement.”

I feel a moment of relief—at least he isn’t suspecting me directly. But I know I need to act fast to divert his attention. The ticking of a nearby clock seems to grow louder, a countdown to my inevitable exposure.

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