They talked a while longer—about Mercer, about the chaos the podcasts were stirring around town, about the quiet absurdity of internet sleuths suddenly deciding they knew everything about Jackson County.
Twice her hand brushed his on the bar when they both reached for their drinks. The first time, she pulled back quickly. The second time, his fingers turned enough to catch the side of her hand, a spark running up her arm.
Eventually, Reid glanced at the clock.
“You drive tonight?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“Declan brought me in this morning. My car’s being serviced.”
Reid slid off the stool.
“Then I’ll take you home.”
The porch light cast a circle across the steps when Reid pulled up to the curb. The mountains were a dark silhouette against the deepening sky, and the huge oaks along the street had finally leafed out, making the whole stretch look softer, almost secret.
They climbed out of the Jag, doors shutting with a soft, expensive thud. As Eleanor rounded the nose of the vintage convertible to meet him on the sidewalk, the porch light caught the gleam of the plate.
VERDICT.
A laugh slipped out.
Reid glanced over. “What?”
She pointed at the plate.
“Of course, that’s your tag.”
Amusement flickered across his face.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Ego trip,” she countered.
“Accurate verdicts only,” he said. “I figured it was on brand.”
Inside, through the front window, the faint strains of jazz drifted out—she’d forgotten to turn off the playlist before she left.
“Thanks for the ride,” Eleanor said.
“No problem.”
Neither of them moved immediately.
The air between them hummed with the same tension that had been there since the bar—and, if she was honest, long before.
Finally, Reid fell into step beside her, and they headed toward the porch, her heels clicking softly on the walkway.
The mountain air had cooled, carrying the faint scent of pine.
Jazz drifted through the open window.
Eleanor unlocked the door but paused before stepping inside.
Reid leaned lightly against the railing.
“You still sure about Mercer?” he asked.
