“Well,” Luke said dryly, “enjoy the five minutes of peace you’ve got left. The rest of the county’s about to find out what you were doing in that stairwell.”
“Goodnight, Luke.”
“Good luck, man.”
He sat there a moment longer before finally stepping out of the car.
Tomorrow, the podcast would spin it.
Tomorrow, Judge Harlan would probably arch an eyebrow.
He could handle the press. He could handle the news cycle.
But tonight?—
He’d kissed her.
And she’d kissed him back.
That wasn’t a cycle.
That was real.
9
Jackson County Courthouse — Side Entrance
Eleanor stood in the narrow, limestone-cool hallway outside the courtroom doors. She could hear the muffled roar of the gallery—the restless, hungry energy of a crowd that wasn’t there for justice, but for a show.
She closed her eyes and pressed her palms flat against her navy pencil skirt, smoothing a wrinkle that didn’t exist.
Breathe. Five seconds in. Five seconds out.
She ran through her mental checklist: motion to suppress. Section 403. Witness order. But her brain kept betraying her, flashing images of a dark stairwell and the scent of cedar. She could still feel the rough friction of his denim against her thigh. It was a physical brand, hidden beneath silk and wool.
“You are Eleanor Harper,”she whispered to the empty hallway.“You are a defense attorney. You are a wall.”
She reached for the heavy brass handle. Her hand stayed steady, but deep in her gut, a cold, tight knot of dread and something else—something hot and rebellious—twisted.
She pushed the door open.
The wall of sound hit her first. And then she saw him.
Reid was already seated. He didn’t look up immediately, but she felt the exact moment he registered her presence. It was like a shift in the air.
Then, slowly, he glanced over his shoulder. Briefly.
Her stomach didn’t flip; it bottomed out so hard she had to grip the back of a spectator’s bench.
But in the dim, hallowed light of the courtroom, his eyes weren’t those of a District Attorney.
They were the eyes from the stairwell.
Check, she told herself. Put it in check.
She forced her chin up, her gaze hardening into the “Ice Queen” stare that had survived Charleston. She walked past the prosecution table, her heels clicking a rhythmic, defiant tempo on the hardwood. She didn’t look at him again. She couldn’t.
If she looked at him, the wall wouldn’t crack.
