Page 21 of The Reaper
“Right. Curious. The way a hawk is curious about a rabbit.”
I crossed my arms. “You’re being an ass.”
He laughed. “I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being cynical.”
“I’m being the friend who remembers the last time you did this. And the time before that. And—let me check—yep, the time before that.”
“Okay, fine. I get excited.”
“You get invested,” he said, more gently now. “You assign meaning to things before you know if they mean anything.”
I stayed quiet for a beat. Because he wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.
“I just … I need something,” I admitted finally. “Something new. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s already been lived a thousand times. And if that guy, that note—if it’s nothing, fine. But what if it’s not?”
Finn tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. “Then you’ll know soon enough. Just don’t rewrite your whole future based on a guy who might’ve just been checking out your legs.”
I snorted. “Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“You have no romance in your soul.”
“I have plenty. I just reserve it for people who sign their notes and use actual words.”
I shot him a look. “That’s rich coming from the guy who once flirted with our linen vendor using emoji-only texts.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it. Those laundry bags didn’t fold themselves.”
Despite myself, I smiled. Just a little.
Because yeah—I got carried away sometimes. I built castles on fog. But there was something about possibility that felt better than certainty. Something about not knowing that left room to dream.
And wasn’t that the same reason I chased the star?
It wasn’t just about the plate. It was never just about the plate. It was about chasing something just out of reach. About believing—really believing—that excellence could be recognized, even if the system said it couldn’t. That maybe, just maybe, if I honed every edge and sharpened every detail, someone would notice. Someone who mattered.
The Michelin Guide didn’t operate in Charleston. That was a fact. But I still checked my email like an inspector might’ve found a back door into the city. Still polished every last damn garnish like it might tip the scales. Still felt a buzz in my chest whenever a reservation came through with a New York or Paris zip code.
It was delusional, probably.
But if I was going to be obsessive about something—if I was going to lose sleep and make lists and chase ghosts—then let it be this. Let it be something worthy.
So, what if I projected too much meaning onto strangers and secrets and scribbled notes? I’d rather dream too big than shrink to fit the version of reality someone else handed me.
The castle might be fog.
But it was mine.
6
CALEB
I’d turned down Ryker’s offer to crash at Dominion Hall without a second thought. The place felt too heavy, too loaded, like staying there would’ve meant signing on to whatever game he was playing before I even knew the rules.
“Appreciate it,” I’d said, voice flat as I shouldered my pack at the door. “But I’m good on my own.”
