Page 24 of The Reaper
We weren’t done.
7
MEGHAN
Icaught sight of him through the beveled glass pane beside the front door.
He’d paused just beyond the stairs, half in shadow, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks like he wasn’t quite ready to leave. The gas lantern flickered above him, throwing golden light across his profile—sharp jaw, sun-worn skin, broad shoulders under a shirt that didn’t try too hard.
Something about the way he stood—like he was scanning perimeters, cataloging exits—told me everything I needed to know.
Military. Had to be.
Not just the posture, but the presence. Stillness, without passivity. Like he could disappear or detonate at will.
I knew military. You couldn’t grow up on James Island without absorbing it through your skin. I’d spent my childhood watching planes slice across the sky from Joint Base Charleston, overhearing neighbors talk about deployments and reassignments like they were weather patterns. My first job was bussing tables at a seafood shack in West Ashley that filled withsailors on Friday nights, their laughter too loud and their tips too small.
I’d never dated one—not seriously—but I’d seen enough to recognize the signs. The way he stood. The way he scanned. The way he didn’t fidget or fill the silence. He didn’t need to.
I hesitated behind the glass, heart thudding once, twice. Then I slipped off my apron, unpinned my hair, and opened the door.
The night air was warm, late-summer heavy. A hint of rosemary still lingered from the herb garden out front, mingling with the sweetness of crepe myrtle and the low brine off the harbor.
He turned when he heard me.
Didn’t speak. Just looked.
“I forgot to ask,” I said, voice casual, betraying nothing. “Did you enjoy everything?”
A slow smile tugged at his mouth. “That’s why you followed me out here?”
I tilted my head. “Would it bruise your ego if I said yes?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But I don’t believe you.”
He smelled like clean sweat and something darker—earth, maybe. Or ash. Not cologne. Not manufactured. Real.
Up close, he looked even more dangerous. Not in a flashy, nightclub-bouncer kind of way. But in the quiet confidence that said he didn’t bluff.
“I’ve had a lot of guests,” I said, studying his face. “None of them made me forget how to speak.”
His smile deepened just a notch. “That why you’re out here now? Trying to remember how?”
I laughed, too fast. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
I leaned one hip against the column beside the door and crossed my arms, letting the silence stretch.
His shirt was still crisp, but the collar had loosened just slightly in the heat. There was a scar near his jaw—small, pale, like something sharp had kissed him there a long time ago and he’d never bothered to hide it.
He didn’t look like money. Not Charleston old wealth. Not even new tech flash.
He looked … unpolished. Practical. Like the kind of man who could break down a rifle, fix an engine, and build a fire with his bare hands.
Exactly the kind of man I didn’t date.
Exactly the kind of man I fantasized about when I was too wound up to sleep.
