Page 81 of The Reaper
“Yes,” I said, too fast. Then, softer: “Yes.”
He nodded like he’d been waiting for that. “We’ll print it and put it somewhere you choose. Not where he chose.”
The distinction mattered more than I expected. I leaned back in my chair, tension loosening in increments. “You’re good at this,” I said.
“At pictures?” His brow lifted.
“At asking questions that don’t pry.” I tipped my head, studying him. “Most men want the headline and the sequel. You ask for the weather.”
He smiled, small and real. “Headlines get people killed.”
I filed that away in the drawer where I kept the parts of him I was still learning: Montana winters, too many brothers, a mother he didn’t talk about unless the room was very quiet. I didn’t push. I didn’t need to.
The room went soft around the edges. The hum of the walk-in, the distant clatter of Finn swearing at the slicer out front, even the heat crawling across the window glass—it all faded under the calm of it.
“I’m going to make coffee,” I said, because if I didn’t move I might do something dangerous, like cry. “Do you want some?”
“I want to do it,” he countered, pushing to his feet. “Tell me where everything is, and sit for ninety seconds without fixing a single thing.”
I snorted. “That’s not in my skill set.”
“I’ll time you,” he said, deadpan, and something like laughter broke loose in my chest.
I told him where the grinder lived, the beans I liked for mornings like this—brighter, citrusy, a little forgiving—and watched him move around my office like he’d been here a hundred times: efficient, careful, noticing. He set the kettle, measured, ground. When the water bloomed through the grounds, the smell lifted—clean and sharp—and I felt something inside me unclench one more notch.
“You know,” I said, as he poured, “my mom’s rule was you never took a picture of food without a person in it. She said otherwise it just looked like a crime scene.”
He glanced over his shoulder, amused. “She was not wrong.”
“I keep breaking her rule,” I admitted. “All my pictures are plates.”
“Then we’ll make a new one.” He brought me a mug and set it in my hands like it was medicine. “You put people in the room. That counts.”
I sipped. The coffee was perfect, which was infuriating and charming at the same time. “Dean’s right,” I said quietly. “I hate that he’s right, but we should go out after service. For an hour. Two.”
Caleb leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, a line of tension still running through him that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the photograph on my desk. “We will. Somewhere loud and boring, where the worst thing that happens is someone sings off-key.”
“Absolutely not karaoke,” I said, horrified.
“See? Boundaries.” His grin edged wicked. Then it softened. “Thank you for letting me in here,” he added, nodding toward the picture, and I knew he didn’t mean the office.
I turned the photo one more time so my parents faced the room. The message was still on the back, heavy as a thumbprint, but it felt a fraction less powerful when I could see their faces.
“They used to tap twice and one,” I said, my voice steady now. I lifted my knuckles to the desk—tap, tap, pause, tap—and met his eyes. “I’m here. Keep going.”
Caleb’s answer was quiet, sure. He matched the rhythm with two fingertips on the doorframe. “Always.”
25
CALEB
Istood outside Promenade, the evening air cool against my skin, the faint buzz of Charleston’s nightlife—clinking glasses, distant laughter—mixing with the soft rustle of palm fronds along the Battery. The memory of Meghan’s devilish grin in the shower, her quip about the notes, lingered like a spark, but the weight of that last note—slipped under her office door with a photo of her parents—kept my senses razor-sharp.
I’d promised her a night out, a chance to breathe away from the restaurant’s shadows, and I wanted it to be something unforgettable, something to impress her, to show her I was more than just the guy chasing threats. Time was tight—Dean was covering the restaurant, but I wasn’t taking chances. I pulled my phone and dialed Ryker, the call connecting on the first ring.
“Caleb,” he said, voice steady, alert.
“I need a favor,” I said, keeping it low. “First, more eyes on Promenade—discreet, no one notices. Second, I’m taking Meghan out tonight. Something big, memorable, out of her world. Can you make it happen fast?”
