Page 38 of The Reaper
Then he tilted his head. “I wonder if we’re related.”
“You don’t know?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Grew up on a ranch in Montana. Only family I knew were my brothers and our parents. I never thought much about extended family. Or whatever.”
“Then maybe it’s true,” I said, goosebumps rising along my arms. “You’re one of them.”
He didn’t speak. Just stood there, visibly piecing it together. The quiet kind of shock, not theatrical—but deep. Personal.
I gave a soft laugh, trying to lighten the sudden gravity between us. “Guess that means you really don’t bluff.”
His gaze was steady. “I told you I don’t lie.”
And somehow, I believed him even more now.
“Well, you know where to find me now,” he said again, quieter this time, glancing over his shoulder. “I hope you’ll do it.”
The door creaked as it opened, letting in the salt-sweet scent of the harbor.
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
Gone—but not erased.
Not even close.
The door clicked softly behind him.
And still—I stood there. Silent. Breath shallow.
The space he’d occupied seemed too large now. Too loud with absence.
I glanced at the floor where we’d laid, then at the wine glasses still half-full, and finally at the clock again.
I ran a hand through my hair.
Already late.
Already behind.
And still ... his touch lingered.
Not only on my skin.
In my thoughts.
Because for the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t just thinking about menus or critics or produce deliveries.
I was thinking about what it might feel like to be held without having to hold everything else together.
And it scared the hell out of me.
10
CALEB
Istepped out of Promenade into the heavy Charleston night, the door closing behind me with a soft click that felt like a secret locking itself away. The air wrapped around me, humid and thick, laced with salt from the harbor.
