Page 31 of The Sniper

“Text me your address,” he called over his shoulder. “And wear something that makes it hard for me to behave.”

I shook my head, heart racing. “You’re impossible.”

He didn’t turn back. Just tossed a grin over his shoulder and said, “You’ll like that about me.”

I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile that I knew better than to let loose.

Lord help me. What was I getting myself into?

By the time the clock struck six, I’d changed outfits three times.

The first dress was too plain. The second too tight. The third—the one I finally settled on—was a soft slate-blue sundress with buttons down the front and a skirt that swayed just enough when I walked. It hit just below the knee, modest enough not to scandalize my mama but light enough to feel like summer. I’d braided my hair again, looser this time, and let a few strands fall free around my face.

I wasn’t wearing much makeup—just a touch of mascara and the faintest peach blush. My lips were bare, except for a little rose balm, and my heart was hammering harder than it should’ve been for something as simple as dinner.

Just dinner, I reminded myself. He’d said it plain.

But that didn’t stop me from checking the window every time a car passed. Or from pacing once I sent him the address to my apartment—just a small walk-up in an older part of Mount Pleasant.

When his truck finally pulled up, it was like the air shifted.

I peeked through the blinds, pulse racing—and then promptly stepped back, hand flattening against my chest.

Lord, have mercy.

He’d changed, just like he promised. Black slacks, a charcoal button-down rolled at the sleeves, a watch that looked expensive and worn the way things do whenthey’ve seen a lot of life. His hair was still damp at the edges, like he’d showered fast. The sight of him made my knees want to give out.

I opened the door before he could knock.

Noah paused on the doorstep, eyes taking me in from head to toe—and not quickly either. His mouth curved into that slow, infuriating grin.

“You clean up nice,” he said, voice low and smooth.

“So do you.”

“You look like temptation.”

I flushed instantly. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a problem,” he said, like it was a promise.

I grabbed my bag off the entryway hook and stepped out, locking the door behind me before he could get any ideas about lingering. I didn’t invite him in—not because I was scared of him, but because I was scared of what I might say if I did. What I might want.

“It’s just dinner,” I reminded him, voice steady even though my heart wasn’t.

He offered his arm like a gentleman, but there was nothing polite about the way his gaze lingered on the curve of my hip as I walked past him.

“I’ll behave,” he said, opening the passenger door of his truck. “For now.”

The ride to Shem Creek was short, but it felt longer with the way he kept glancing over at me at stoplights, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel. Like he wasn’t in a hurry, like he could take the scenic route and still make me forget my own name.

The Painted Crab sat right along the water—whitewashed and weathered, with string lights looping across the dock and the smell of salt and spice in the air. We were seated on the patio, the sun slipping lower in the sky, turning the water to gold.

He ordered for both of us, and I didn’t even argue.

Grilled shrimp. Blackened snapper. Buttered hushpuppies, collards laced with vinegar and heat. Sweet tea for me, neat bourbon for him. When the waitress walked away, he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Have I told you yet,” he said, “that you’re dangerous?”

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