He shifted into gear, the Jag’s engine growling.
He had access to more databases than anyone in this town, but if he went digging into her past behind her back, he’d be doing exactly what she accused him of. Playing the game instead of the man.
He turned into his driveway.
Small house.
Nothing flashy.
He killed the engine, the ticking of cooling metal the only sound.
Like a countdown.
He didn’t get out.
The memory hit again.
Her back against the brick.
The way she hadn’t pulled away.
When he’d asked?—
About us?
—he hadn’t hesitated.
He’d told himself he said the word “us” to steady her, a tactical move to lower her pulse.
But sitting here in the quiet, the word felt less like a tactic and more like a confession.
He was worried she’d retreat.
That she’d decide the fallout wasn't worth the heat.
The phone buzzed again.
Luke.
He answered.
“Yeah.”
“You two just broke the internet in Jackson County,” Luke said dryly.
Reid leaned back in the seat, looking up at the stars.
“Give it a week,” he said. “It’s just a news cycle, Luke. The internet is a fire that needs new wood every twelve hours. Tomorrow someone will get a speeding ticket or a local councilman will say something stupid, and they'll move on to the next shiny object.”
Luke chuckled. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah,” Reid said, though he was mostly trying to convince himself. “The internet is built on short memories.”
“Tell that to the fifty people who just tagged me in the photo,” Luke said. “You don’t do things by halves, do you, Calloway?”
Reid looked away, the scent of cedar and soap—and her—still ghosting his senses.
“Apparently not,” he said.
