I sip my own glass. “Belief is subjective. Tell me, Harper—what do you really want?”
She pauses too long. I see the wine haze swimming in her blue irises. Suddenly she blurts, “You know, I understand more than you think. I covered up something once. For my sister.” Her engagement ring catches the light, innocent. “You can’t tell anyone—James is the only other person that knows and he would never forgive me if he knew I told you.”
Surprise rises in me—bright, quick. I swallow it.
“You know I’m here if you ever want to talk,” I say. “No judgment.”
She nods, wipes her eyes, sniffs. “Thank you. I appreciate it more than you know.”
“Always,” I murmur, patting her hand. Comfort as camouflage.
She manages a small smile. “It’d probably do me good to talk about it. The guilt keeps me up at night sometimes.”
“Guilt is a monster,” I say, eager for her to share more details.
Truth is as potent as any weapon.
Harper seems to catch herself then, her lips pressed closed as if she’s physically holding back her confession. She finishes her glass of wine and then sets it on the table. “I should probably get back to the AirBnB, it’s been a long day.”
“I bet.” I force a smile, walking her to the front door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I pull her into a quick hug. “Sleep well.”
After Harper leaves, Blake appears in the doorway, silent, camera resting in the dark. He catches me watching—hungry, impressed.
“You hear that?” I ask.
He nods. “Had the recording ready in case she revealed anything.”
“Mmm.” Heat curls under my skin. “It makes me hot how competent you are.”
Blake’s brows lift. “My diabolical tendencies turn you on, huh?”
“Yep.” I smile. “You know me so well.”
I slide my arms around him, mouth to his neck, a slow suction that saysmine.
“We’re a good team,” he murmurs.
Blake steps behind me, too close. He always is—orbiting my body like I’m the axis of some doomed planet. My spine stiffens out of habit, but I don’t move. Control sometimes looks like letting someone believe they’ve won proximity.
“Hell of a sunset,” he murmurs, voice low, worn rough by the day. He reeks of wine and cheap cologne.
I tilt my glass, watching the last droplets cling to the rim. “Sunsets are cheap tricks. People mistake them for meaning.”
He chuckles, dark and pleased. “You’ve got a way of killing magic.”
“Magic’s for people who still believe in it.” I turn my head just enough to catch him in my periphery, his jaw sharp in the dying light. Men like Blake—cocky, hungry, certain—stay that wayuntil they meet someone like me. Then they turn into teenagers: fumbling, second-guessing. And I feed on it.
His palm lands on my hip, hot even through cotton. I take another sip, pretending indifference while I catalog the sensation: pressure, warmth, the thrum of someone else’s pulse trying to sync with mine.
Cars drift by on the county road, headlights blinking like fireflies. He doesn’t care. Exhibitionism excites him. He wants to be caught consuming me.
I let my head fall back against his shoulder—calculated. “You’re predictable,” I murmur.
“Predictable?” His breath tickles my ear.
“Mhm. Men always are.”
He laughs, low and throaty, grip tightening. “And women aren’t?”
