Page 27 of The Reaper
“Red or white?” I asked, pulling open the heavy wooden door. The cool air inside breathed over my skin. “Or do you only drink things that taste like smoke and regret?”
He chuckled behind me. “Red. But I trust you.”
I chose a bottle of Brunello I’d been saving for no one in particular—just waiting for a night like this to come along. I grabbed two glasses and turned around, only to find him watching me with an expression that wasn’t entirely polite.
“You always look at women like that?” I asked, heat blooming in my cheeks.
“Only when they’re trouble.”
I led him to the corner of the dining room where the banquette curled into a semi-circle—my favorite spot. Private. Intimate. Framed by dark-paneled walls and the flicker of a lone candle left burning near the old service bell.
He sat across from me, stretching his arm along the back of the booth, elbow angled wide like he was already claiming space that wasn’t his.
I poured the wine slowly, deliberately, and slid his glass across the table. Our fingers brushed.
He didn’t pull away.
I took a sip before asking, “What brought you here tonight?”
He swirled his wine before drinking. “I was passing through. Figured the food was worth a detour.”
“And is it?”
His eyes held mine. “Depends on the company.”
I leaned back, my pulse flickering like the candle flame beside us. “You always this smooth?”
He smiled, slow and easy. “Only when I mean it.”
God, he was dangerous.
But it wasn’t just the way he looked at me—it was the way he didn’t flinch. The way he sat there, relaxed and confident, like he could wait all night. Like nothing in the world was pressing butthis moment and this wine and the way my mouth parted just slightly before I reached for another sip.
“You didn’t say much at dinner,” I said.
“I don’t usually need to.”
“But you were watching everything.”
His nod was almost imperceptible. “I like to understand the room before I speak.”
“Is that a Montana thing?”
He chuckled. “No. That’s a battlefield thing.”
It wasn’t said with bravado. Just a simple statement of fact.
“You served?” I asked, quieter now.
He nodded, slowly.
“Why?”
He hesitated for the first time since we’d met. “That’s an interesting question.”
His answers were vague as hell, but I didn’t press. I didn’t need details to know what kind of man he was.
The kind who made decisions quickly and lived with the consequences.
