She did not step back.
“Well,” he said evenly, his voice dropping a half-octave, “this is an unexpected advantage.”
“Home-court advantage,” she said, her voice steadier than her pulse. “What can I do for you, Mr. District Attorney?”
He lifted the folder.
“Exhibit disclosures. Figured I’d drop them off before you accused me of withholding evidence in front of Judge Harlan.”
A small corner of her mouth lifted. He never softened arguments for her in court.
She would’ve despised him if he had.
“Come in.”
He followed her toward the kitchen, his presence filling the hallway. In court, her blonde hair was always pulled back into a smooth, deliberate ponytail—controlled. Tonight it fell loose down her back, pale and silver in the low light.
The kitchen opened out, all clean lines and warm wood, white cabinets, stone counters catching the last of the evening light. Art on the walls. A view of the dogwood through the window.
Reid let out a low whistle.
“Nice place,” he said, taking it in. “Maybe I should’ve gone defense instead of prosecution.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Oh really? Why’s that?”
He let his gaze travel across the room again, then back to her.
“Then I could live like this,” he said lightly. “Very nice.”
“Well, it’s not too late,” she said. “You could always switch sides.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“Oh, and give up the moral high ground?” He shook his head. “Never.”
He looked at her then—really looked at her.
“Maybe you ought to come over to the cheap seats with me,” he said.
Her brows lifted. “Why would I do that?”
“You might sleep better at night.”
She held his gaze for a beat, then reached into the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water.
She twisted the cap, the plastic giving with a soft crack.
“I sleep just fine,” she said.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m sure you do.”
She tipped the bottle back and took a long, thirsty drink.
A thin trickle slipped from the corner of her mouth, tracking a slow path down the line of her throat, disappearing beneath the edge of her sports bra before she caught it with the back of her hand.
Desire hit him hard and fast. The “closing argument” charm he usually wore like armor felt suddenly thin.
“Water? Beer?” she asked.
