“Yes.”
“And the podcast circus?”
She shrugged slightly.
“I survived worse.”
Reid studied her face in the porch light.
“I know,” he said quietly.
His gaze caught for a moment on the stubborn tilt of her chin, then climbed back to her eyes—ice-blue and tired and still, somehow, throwing sparks.
Silence stretched between them—jazz drifting from inside, crickets singing from the dark yard, her heart knocking against her ribs.
Then Eleanor said softly,
“Do you want a drink?”
A beat.
Reid let his attention wander to the street, where shadows pooled beneath the parked cars.
“I probably shouldn’t.”
“Responsible answer.”
He smiled, but the energy between them didn’t ease.
It sharpened.
Then his hand reached gently for hers.
“Eleanor.”
Something in her went weightless at the way he said her name.
He stepped closer.
Slowly.
Giving her time to step away.
She didn’t.
Her fingers caught lightly in his loosened tie, still warm from his skin.
His hand settled at her waist.
And then he kissed her.
The kiss narrowed the world to the press of his lips on hers and the faint wail of a saxophone drifting through the open window.
He tasted like bourbon and something distinctly him—dangerous in all the ways she knew better than to trust and wanted anyway.
Her back brushed the door as the kiss deepened slightly. His fingers flexed at her waist, drawing her that fraction closer that made it impossible to pretend she wasn’t kissing him back.
When they finally pulled apart, Eleanor steadied herself against the door, surprised by how shaky she felt.
