April gasped. “Showtime.”
Eleanor’s heart kicked.
“Text me everything,” April whispered as Eleanor passed.
“I absolutely will not.”
“You absolutely will.”
She grabbed her clutch.
She would go.
She would be honest.
She would explain Charleston—the ADA, the headlines, the way ambition had twisted everything.
They would agree this was dinner. Nothing more.
Deck stepped aside as she moved past him.
As she reached the doorway, he muttered quietly,
“About time you remembered you’re not carved from stone.”
She paused.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Crusty. Always.
But his eyes were proud.
And for a second?—
Eleanor allowed herself to feel something dangerously close to anticipation.
Reid — Early Evening
Reid buttoned his cuff and reached for the navy jacket. He checked himself in the mirror, but he wasn’t looking at the suit. He was looking at the man beneath it—the sharp, dangerous edge he usually kept buried under the "Golden Boy" persona. Even in the dim light of his bedroom, the white cotton of his shirt stretched across shoulders that were more wire and corded muscle than a politician had any right to possess. He was lean, built for endurance rather than just show, with a centered, predatory grace that usually made witnesses crumble before he ever opened his mouth.
He ran a hand over the dark stubble at his jaw. He should have shaved, but there was a restless energy in his blood tonight that didn't feel like "clean-cut." It felt like a fight.
The knock came as he adjusted his watch.
“It’s open.”
Luke Hale stepped inside, keys still in his hand. He stopped mid-stride.
Brows lifted.
“Well now.”
Reid didn’t turn. “Don’t.”
Luke walked farther in, taking in the jacket, the polished shoes, the fact that Reid absolutely did not look like he was headed anywhere casual.
