Page 65 of The Reaper
“This thing you’re chasing,” he murmured against my lips, “it’s more than a star.”
I nodded, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “It’s about proving that I can make something beautiful. That I can take my parents’ dream and …” I trailed off, swallowing hard. “Do it better. Do it justice. They tried. But I want Promenade to be the place people talk about in Paris or Tokyo or New York. I want to give this city something it’s never had.”
He framed my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones like he was memorizing me. “Then we make sure you get there.”
The “we” sank into me, heavier than the kiss had.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not with him. Not with anyone.
When Caleb had first walked into my restaurant, I’d pegged him as exactly the kind of man you don’t let get too close—dangerous in a way you can’t quite define until you’re in toodeep. I’d told myself I just wanted the distraction, the heat, something physical to bleed off the stress that clung to me after a fourteen-hour day on my feet. I’d never been the woman pining for flowers or grand declarations. I’d never even had a serious boyfriend, not in the way other people seemed to collect them. There had been flings, yes—short, bright burns that always fizzled before they got messy. I liked the control of ending things before anyone could leave me first.
But Caleb wasn’t playing by my rules. Somewhere between the note on my hostess stand, his relentless watchfulness, and the way he kissed me like he already knew what I tasted like in my darkest moments, he’d slipped past the guardrails I’d spent years building. He wasn’t just in my bed—he was in my head, in the part of me that was wired to survive by keeping my distance.
And now, standing in my cramped office with his hands still warm on my waist, I realized he wasn’t asking for a night or a weekend. He was sayingwe. And I didn’t hate the sound of it.
I searched his eyes. “You know my Uncle Dean and Aunt Trish are coming for dinner tonight.”
“I want to meet them.”
I huffed a small laugh. “Are we … ready for that? Meeting each other’s family?”
His smile was quick and certain. “I’m ready for anything that gets me closer to you.”
I felt my cheeks heat, but not from the kiss. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone like me.”
“Good,” he said, his mouth brushing mine again. “I like dangerous.”
We stayed like that a moment longer, the world narrowed to the warm press of his body and the sound of his breath mixing with mine. Then Finn’s voice carried down the hall, calling for me, and we broke apart—just enough for him to lean his forehead against mine.
“Dinner,” he said, like a promise.
“Dinner,” I echoed, though my pulse was still skipping ahead to what might happen after.
“I’ll head back to the hotel, get cleaned up—be presentable. And don’t worry,” he added, his voice dipping lower, “there are eyes on this place now. Cameras at every angle. I’ll be helping monitor the feeds, even when you can’t see me.”
19
CALEB
Islipped out of Meghan’s office, the door clicking shut behind me, her taste still lingering on my lips, a spark that refused to fade. Outside, Promenade’s facade stood quiet, its white columns catching the glow, but the note we’d found last night kept my senses on edge.
I positioned myself across the street again, under the overhang of a shuttered antique shop, the cool brick grounding me as I scanned the restaurant. The live feed on my phone, set up by Ryker’s team at dawn, showed every angle, crisp and steady, no motion alerts yet.
But it didn’t kill the question burning in my gut:who the fuck was leaving those notes? Someone with access, someone who knew her rhythm, and that made my blood hum with a protective energy I couldn’t shake.
I lingered for nearly an hour, checking and rechecking, ensuring no eyes but Dominion Hall’s were watching. The street moved slowly—a vendor’s cart rattling over cobblestones, a cyclist in bright spandex, a gull swooping low with a sharp cry—but no one lingered, no one moved wrong. The feed stayed quiet, cameras catching the day’s calm, but the notes gnawed at me.
Someone had slipped them twice, leaving their mark without a trace. A stalker? A rival playing dirty? Or something tied to her past, the restaurant fire that stole her parents’ dream?
Her vulnerability last night, sharing that loss in the quiet, had hit me like a slug to the chest. I didn’t take it lightly.
The city’s sounds built—a delivery truck’s engine growling, the faint clatter of a street cleaner’s broom—but my focus stayed on Promenade. The live feed gave me confidence the gaps were plugged for now, but I needed answers, not just eyes.
Finally, satisfied the street was clear, I headed to The Palmetto Rose, my strides quick.
The hotel lobby was buzzing with guests. I took the stairs two at a time, keycard sliding, door shutting with a thud.
Room service first. I ordered, then stripped, hitting the shower, water scalding my back, steam clouding the air.
