Reid glanced over. For a moment, he almost forgot the road ahead. All he could see was the elegant curve of her neck…the easy way she trusted him with the road, the speed, and the view.
“You look very experienced at this,” he said, forcing his eyes back to the road.
“This is mountain driving,” she replied, lips curving. “You learn quickly.”
He took the first curve a little faster than necessary, the Jaguar’s tires gripping the asphalt with a low, aggressive growl. Beside him, Eleanor swayed with the momentum, her hand flying out to steady herself. Her palm landed flat against his thigh—high up, where the muscle was corded and tense from the weight of his foot on the pedal.
Electricity bolted straight through him. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t even blink. He felt the searing heat of her hand through the fabric of his suit pants, a brand that made the cases and jury pools in his head vanish instantly.
Eleanor rested her arm along the door, tracing idle patterns in the air, watching the scenery roll past. The wind pressed her dress against her body, tracing every line. She should have felt exposed, but up here, with the sky turning soft and the world falling away on either side of them, she felt strangely safe.
“This is why I stayed,” she said as another sweep of mountains unfurled before them.
Reid glanced at her again, at the softness in her eyes that didn’t quite match the sharp, unflinching attorney he knew from across a courtroom. He knew what it meant to choose a place and call it home; he also knew what it cost to leave one.
“I can see why,” he said, and he wasn’t talking about the view.
Her palm brushed his thigh again as the car took another curve. This time, she didn’t move it away as quickly.
By the time they reached Bryson City, the festival was already alive. Strings of twinkling lights hung between trees along the riverbank, casting a golden glow over the crowd. Music slipped through the night air, a steady, pulsing rhythm that seemed to hum right under his skin.
Food trucks lined the edge of the park. The scent of barbecue, grilled peppers, and sweet kettle corn wrapped around them like another kind of invitation.
Reid parked near the river. When Eleanor stepped out, the band started a new set, a low, sultry guitar sliding into the air. She straightened, smoothing her dress down over her hips. His gaze followed the motion, lingering before he caught himself.
He offered his hand.
She took it, her fingers sliding against his palm, cool from the night air. Neither of them let go as they fell into step together.
He’d brought dates to nice dinners, charity galas, the sort of things that looked good in a society column. None of those felt like this—bare shoulders under lantern light, music in the distance, her hand in his, and no one he had to impress but her.
They didn’t notice the two people standing near a food truck, half hidden in the shadows. One lifted a camera with a long lens.
Click.
Another photo.
The lens followed them as they moved through the crowd.
Reid bought them lemonade first, condensation slick against his hand as he gave her the cup.
“Careful,” he said. “It’s cold.”
“I like cold,” she murmured, taking a long sip, throat working as she swallowed. A drop of lemon clung to her lower lip.
He looked at it a second too long.
Long enough that she noticed.
The air between them practically crackled.
Then he bought tacos from a food truck, spicy and dripping. Eleanor stole half of his without hesitation.
“You ordered two,” he pointed out.
“Yes,” she said calmly around a bite, eyes glinting. “But yours looked better.”
He watched her lips as she licked salsa from the edge of the tortilla, then dragged his gaze back up to her eyes when she caught him.
