Page 16 of The Shield
“Not a cop,” I said. “Just bossy.”
He took that in—the way men who don’t waste words take things in—and tipped his chin toward my bag. “Now?”
“Trying to warn people.” I adjusted the strap, because my hands needed a job that wasn’t climbing him. “Rain’s supposed to start later today. We’ll get a few days of it, if the models are right. King tides on top. Streets will flood. I’m working on making sure it’s cars and not people.”
“Are you in charge of everything?” he asked, deadpan. “Beaches and rain?”
God, help me, I laughed. It felt like a release valve hissing. “Only the parts that don’t listen,” I said. “I’m a planner. Urban and coastal. My partner and I run a firm a few blocks from here.”
His eyes did that steady inventory again, lingering on my face like he was memorizing, not judging. “Uh hm.”
“We do flood mapping, risk plans, drainage, policy recommendations. Sometimes dunes. Sometimes buyouts. Sometimes telling very wealthy people that their house is a bad idea.”
“Sounds like you’re popular,” he said, straight-faced.
“With the people who can’t afford to lose,” I said. “Less with the ones who think the ocean’s a pet.”
He grunted—agreement or approval, I couldn’t tell. Close up, he radiated a kind of quiet that wasn’t emptiness—it was contained force, the way a dam holds a river back. He didn’t crowd me, but he took up space. The air registered him like weather.
“Ethan,” he said then, as if he’d remembered manners were a thing you could use.
It landed like a weight where it mattered. I held out my hand. “Natalie,” I said.
His palm closed around mine and the jolt of it felt indecent for Sunday on a sidewalk. Warm. Firm. No squeeze to prove anything. Just contact, and the kind of strength that announces itself by not needing to announce itself. My pulse did a stupid skip.
He didn’t let go right away, and I didn’t ask him to. It wasn’t a handshake anymore. It was a press, held a heartbeat past polite. The kind that made my body remember it hadn’t been touched right.
A shout cut across the sidewalk. “Natalie! You angel!”
I turned. Mrs. Fancher from the candle shop on North Market hustled toward us in her orthopedic sandals, apron smeared with wax like she’d wrestled a honeycomb. She grabbed my forearms and kissed the air by my cheek, then thumped my bicep like I was a prize pig at the fair. “Your email was a godsend. I told my son-in-law to move the Subaru, and we cleared the grate. If we don’t flood tomorrow, I’ll light a hundred tea lights in your honor.”
“Save your wicks,” I said, laughing. “Just text me a picture so I can guilt your neighbors.”
She beamed, then glanced at Ethan, taking in the height, the shoulders, the quiet like it was a living thing. “Well, hello there.” Her eyes came back to me with the speed of gossip. “Is this?—?”
“Someone who doesn’t know better than to walk into me on the sidewalk,” I said, and felt heat lick my throat when Ethan’s mouth did that not-smile again.
Mrs. Fancher clucked delightedly. “You tell your granddaddy I saw him on East Bay yesterday holding court like he still ownsthe place. Handsome devil.” She wagged a finger. “And tell him he should be proud of you.”
“I’ll pass it along,” I said, softening despite myself.
She squeezed my wrist. “Don’t work too hard, hun.” To Ethan, conspiratorially: “She will if you let her.” Then she swept away in a waft of beeswax and lavender, already calling to someone down the block.
Ethan watched her go, then returned to me. “Granddaddy?” he asked, neutral, curious.
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s … Butch Kennedy. Mayor Butch Kennedy. He used to be the mayor. People still treat him like he is.”
“New here,” he said. “I don’t know the names yet.”
“Then you’re pure,” I said, smiling. “Don’t let Charleston ruin you with its stories too fast.”
He didn’t push. It made me want to give him everything he didn’t ask for.
We fell into step without deciding to, heading south where the oaks opened into a slice of sun. The market sheds buzzed behind us as a carriage clattered somewhere close. I pointed with my chin at a curb that always lied. “That pond right there? Looks three inches, hides a storm drain burp. People stall out all the time.”
“How deep?” he asked.
“Depends on the tide. Today? You’d ruin your shoes. Monday night?” I squinted at the mental map, felt the math click. “Don’t test it.”
