Page 26 of The Reaper
“There is.”
“And what’s that?”
“Men who think dinner is foreplay to a good review.”
He stepped closer. “And you? What do you think dinner is?”
I held my ground. “Control.”
“Not connection?”
I shook my head. “That’s the illusion. I make you feel seen. Heard. Nourished. But it’s all choreographed.”
He looked at me for a long beat. “And now?”
“Now what?”
“Are we still in your choreography?”
I swallowed hard.
He was too close.
Not physically—there was still a respectable distance between us—but something about his energy pushed right into mine. Demanding. Curious. A little rough around the edges.
I felt it in my chest. Low in my stomach. Heat curled behind my ribs.
I didn’t know if he was the man who’d left that note. Or the one who’d stood in the shadows near the bench last night. But he had the same energy. Same weight. Same pull.
And maybe that was enough.
“You want to come in for a drink?” I asked.
His eyes darkened just slightly. “You sure?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m notnotsure.”
He didn’t smile. Just stepped forward until we were inches apart. “If I come in, I’m not going to be polite.”
“I hate polite.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth. “I’m not going to be gentle either.”
My pulse stuttered. “Do I look like I need gentle?”
“No,” he said.
The air between us snapped tight.
I exhaled, chest rising with the effort. “Last chance to walk away.”
He reached for the door, slow and deliberate.
“Too late.”
And just like that, I was the one who followed him inside.
The dining room had emptied. The candles had burned lower. The last few guests had paid and trickled out, drunk on food and ambiance. I motioned for him to follow me back inside, past the front door and down the corridor lined with vintage sketches of Charleston’s harborfront, toward the narrow wine cabinet tucked discreetly beneath the staircase.
