Now Mercer was in her lap, the podcasts were circling again, and she was about to meet the one man who could still make her forget to breathe.
She swallowed.
“Twenty minutes,” she muttered. “You can handle twenty minutes.”
Catch My Draft had that familiar early evening rhythm—locals settling in after work, the murmur of conversation blending with the clink of glasses and the muted guitar from the old speakers.
Reid was already there.
Two drinks sat on the bar in front of him, condensation beading on the glasses.
The sight of him hit her.
He was in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, dark hair slightly mussed. In the low bar light, he looked unfairly good—tired, a little rumpled, and somehow even more handsome for it.
She told herself the flutter was leftover tension from Mercer.
Liar.
From his stool, Reid caught the moment she walked in.
Charcoal slacks, a crisp white blouse, and a navy blazer she hadn’t bothered to take off, the subtle swing of her hair around her shoulders. And then there were her eyes—clear, cool blue even from across the room, sharp enough to cross-examine a man and soft enough to undo him.
Something in him eased at the sight of her.
She slid onto the stool beside him.
Before she could get her balance, he leaned in, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers and his cologne wrapped around her—warm spice and something clean underneath.
“Well, there you are,” he murmured. “Hey, Blue Eyes. Figured you’d be missing me so badly by now you’d sprint the whole way.”
His breath grazed her cheek. The words were ridiculous and he knew it; that was half the problem.
Heat prickled at the back of her neck. Eleanor’s spine went a notch straighter as she cast a quick glance around the bar to make sure no one was paying them particular attention. The nearest couple was arguing quietly over a menu. The bartender was busy pretending not to eavesdrop.
She turned back to Reid and found him watching her like he’d just confirmed a theory.
“You are unbelievable,” she said, voice drier than the bourbon in front of her.
He smiled, slow and infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“Accurate,” he agreed. “But you still came.”
“You said I was buying,” she shot back.
He nudged one of the glasses toward her, his knuckles brushing hers.
“I lied. Tragic, I know. You’ll have to find some other flaw to break up with me over.”
Her mouth betrayed her with the beginning of a smile.
“You’re assuming there’s something to break up,” she said.
“Oh, there is,” he said easily. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
She took a sip to avoid answering. The bourbon burned pleasantly down her throat.
“That’s concerning,” she managed, “coming from a district attorney.”
