Page 54 of The Reaper
Promenade’s door swung open just before eleven, and Meghan stepped out, her dark hair damp from a shower, catching the lantern light like polished obsidian. She’d put herself together just enough—black linen pants, a loose white tank, no makeup, but deliberate, like she cared without obsessing.
That balance hit me low, a spark of want igniting in my gut, my heart kicking up a notch. She was stunning, not polished or prim, but raw, forged in the heat of her own ambition, her presence commanding even in the quiet night.
I straightened, stepping away from the oak, careful not to crowd her space, my steps soft on the cobblestones.
“Hey,” I said, voice low, a smile tugging my lips.
“Hey,” she replied, her eyes meeting mine, sharp but warm, a faint smile softening her mouth. “You’re early. Military thing?”
“Always.” I nodded at the restaurant, its windows dark now. “How was service?”
She sighed, crossing her arms, a crease forming between her brows. “Good, but not perfect. The lamb saddle was a touch over on table four, and the sommelier paired the wrong Pinot with the cheese course. Should’ve caught it before it went out.” Her voice carried an edge, like every misstep was a personal challenge, a battle she’d fight again tomorrow.
I grinned, shaking my head. “Sounds like you’re running a lab in there, not a kitchen. I wouldn’t know a bad pairing if it punched me.”
She gave me a look—not snooty, but clear, like I was a rookie in her world.
“It’s precision, Caleb. Food’s a language. You’d get it if you spoke it.”
That confidence didn’t push me away—it pulled me in. Most women I’d known dimmed their spark to fit, but Meghan? She was stacked with substance, driven by goals that burned brighterthan the lanterns around us. It made my blood hum, want coiling tight in my chest.
I raised the bakery bag, its paper crinkling. “Brought something. Didn’t know if you might be hungry, being around food all night.”
Her eyes lit up, snatching the bag from me, holding it to the lantern to read the logo.
“Lowcountry Bakes? One of my favorites.”
She didn’t ask, just reached in, pulling out a pastry—part apple strudel, part crusty turnover, golden and flaked, the scent of cinnamon and fruit hitting the air. She took a huge bite, not some dainty nibble, crumbs catching at the corner of her mouth as she moaned soft, unashamed.
“God, this is good. Their strudel’s half the reason I’m still in Charleston.”
That sound, her hunger, sent a jolt through me. I reached in, grabbing a chocolate croissant, the pastry flaking under my fingers, rich and warm.
“Thought we’d go for a walk,” I said.
She swallowed, licking sugar from her lip, and gave me a look—half amused, half skeptical.
“A walk? At this hour? I mean, I do it sometimes, but I’m not sure it’s safe.”
I laughed, low and easy, the sound cutting through the night. “As long as you’re with me, you’re safe.”
Her eyes flicked over me, amused but impressed, like she saw the truth in it. “Big talk for a guy with a pastry bag.”
“Try me,” I said, stepping closer, letting her feel the weight of my presence—steady, unyielding, but not crowding. She didn’t back down, just tilted her head, that spark in her eyes pulling me in like a tide.
We started walking, her shoulder brushing mine as we moved down South Battery, the harbor glinting to our left,moonlight rippling on the water like silver veins. She talked about her day, her voice alive, spilling details that painted Promenade as her lifeblood.
“The line was off tonight,” she said, digging another pastry from the bag—a cinnamon roll, tearing into it with that same unashamed hunger. “One of my cooks rushed the duck confit, didn’t let it rest long enough. Had to re-plate three orders. And the critic from thePost & Courierwas in, probably saw the whole thing.” She sighed, but her eyes gleamed, like the fight fueled her. “It’s never just food. It’s a story. Every plate has to say something.”
I nodded, chewing the croissant, its chocolate core rich and warm, the buttery flake melting on my tongue. Her passion was a blaze, and I got it—her restaurant was her mission, like ops were mine, a purpose that burned through doubt.
“Sounds like you’re running a war room in there,” I said, grinning, the city’s quiet wrapping us.
She laughed, sharp and real, the sound slicing through the night. “Close enough. You ever run something like that? Something you can’t let go of?”
I thought of missions, the weight of lives on my calls, but kept it light.
“Every op’s a story. Some end better than others.”
