Page 101 of The Reaper
I brushed a crumb of shortbread against my tongue and watched him watch me. The attention wasn’t heavy; it was heat, banked and sure. “What about you?” I asked. “You said staying here felt right. Are you sure you want … this?” I gestured lightly—Charleston, Dominion Hall, me.
He set his coffee down, leaned in, and kissed my knuckles. “I want exactly this,” he said against my skin. “This house. These brothers. You.”
He didn’t say love yet. He didn’t have to. It was in his voice, in the way he cupped the back of my head and pulled me toward him, slow enough to ask, firm enough to claim. His kiss was soft at first—morning, coffee, restraint—then deepened with that unmistakable Caleb heat, the kind that made my bones feel loose. My hand slid over his chest, and his breath hitched like I’d cut a live wire.
“You’re not helping me keep a clear head,” I murmured against his mouth.
“I don’t want you clear,” he said, half smile, half threat. “I want you mine.”
Heat flashed low in my belly. I kissed him again and let it linger, savoring, then forced myself back against the pillows before I climbed him and forgot how to spell my own name. “Work first,” I said, voice husky. “Then you can ruin me.”
His laugh rumbled. “Deal.”
He grabbed his phone and slid it my way. “Call Finn.”
“You want to listen?”
“I want to hear you hand him the future he’s earned,” he said, dead serious. “And I want to hear the relief in your voice when you set this weight down.”
I dialed. Finn picked up on the second ring with, “Tell me you’re calling to apologize for yelling about salmon.”
“Shut up and listen,” I said, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “I’m promoting you.”
Silence—then a cautious, “Which kind of promoting? The kind with a new title and the same pay? Or the kind where I cry and you make fun of me?”
“The kind where you get a choice,” I said. “Head chef at Promenade, full creative control within the vision we’ve built. Or—” I swallowed a lump “—be my right hand on the creative side and oversee the entire group as we expand. That includes revamping Alastair’s place and building Meggie’s on Folly Beach.”
Finn didn’t answer. I pictured him blinking hard at the prep table, Carly and Alba pretending not to listen and failing, Michael—my stomach twinged and righted—sweeping up salt he’d poured too fast.
Finally: “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” I said. “I’m stepping back. Not out. But I’m done letting this place eat me whole.”
A breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob collided. “You’re going to make me cry in front of the microplanes.”
“Take the day to think,” I said, softer. “We’ll talk tonight.”
“I don’t need the day,” he said, voice steadying. “I want the group. I want to be the wall you lean on while you make weird, brilliant food.”
I laughed, tears threatening, anyway. “Deal. We’ll structure it so the head chefs report to you and me. I’m going to travel, but you’ll have final say when I’m halfway up a mountain arguing with a cheesemaker who refuses to use a thermometer.”
“God, I love when you talk dirty,” he said. Then, gentler: “I’m proud of you, Meg.”
“Me, too,” I said, and ended the call before I cried on Dominion Hall’s white sheets.
Caleb took the phone, set it aside, and pressed a kiss to the corner of my eye like he could seal the emotion back in. “That ‘me too’ sounded good,” he said.
“It felt good,” I admitted. “Like breathing after a long time under.”
We drifted through logistics, the way you do when the big decisions are made and the details become a pleasure instead of a burden.
I’d work with Ryker on a meeting at the bank. Atlas would loop in their finance team to model the acquisitions and the new build. Marcus would lean on the necessary levers to make sure Alastair kept his word to vanish.
Dean and Trish would get the call later; I could already hear Trish’s delighted gasp and Dean’s gruff, “About time.”
“What about the staff?” Caleb asked.
“Carly steps up,” I said. “She’s quiet until she’s not, and when she’s not, she’s right. Alba keeps the front sharp. We’ll hire a head chef Finn respects. Michael …” I let the name sit, taste the copper, then decide. “Michael finishes the week. Then he’s done. Severance, a clean letter that only says what’s true. No more. No less.”
