Eleanor arched a brow. “The one who still looks surprised every time the copier works?”
“Adorable,” April corrected. “And his tie stayed straight all week. I respect a man with a functioning iron.”
April shifted closer, already mid-story, her voice animated in a way it rarely was during business hours.
A shift in the crowd drew Eleanor’s attention back toward the stairwell.
A few minutes later, Reid had worked his way farther into the crowd, pausing near the bar, scanning the space with a quiet, practiced awareness that suggested he noticed everything without making a show of it. Dark jacket, open collar, sleeves pushed back just enough to flash a gold watch at his wrist.
He took in the crowd, the exits, the bar.
Then a flash of copper caught the light near the bar. Before Reid could make it three steps, a hand anchored to his sleeve—perfectly manicured.
Not just any redhead.
Sloane Gentry.
Judge Gentry’s daughter was impossible to miss—tall, polished, copper-red hair falling over one bare shoulder, the kind of woman who looked like what she was: the living, breathing campaign ad for old Jackson County money.
Eleanor recognized her vaguely from courthouse Christmas parties and one miserable judicial fundraiser where Sloane had spent most of the evening draped over Reid like she was auditioning for the part.
Apparently, she still was.
Sloane smiled up at him, fingers still looped lightly around his sleeve.
“Reid. There you are.”
He bent his head to hear whatever she said, wearing that easy, practiced expression that probably ought to have been illegal in three states.
Sloane laughed immediately.
Touched his arm.
Leaned closer.
Reid took it all in stride, leaning against the bar with one hand in his pocket, perfectly at ease in the center of the attention like he’d been born there—which, annoyingly, maybe he had.
“See?” April said smugly. “This is what I’m talking about.”
“He does that on purpose,” Marla said, appearing at Eleanor’s shoulder with a fresh drink in hand. “Half the women in Sylva think they’re going to be the one to finally tame him.”
Eleanor took a long sip of her drink. “Tame him from what? Excessive self-confidence?”
April snorted.
“You have to admit he’s pretty.”
“He knows he’s pretty,” Eleanor corrected.
“That’s the worst part,” Marla said. “He uses it in court. I watched him smile at a jury forewoman once, and she practically convicted herself.”
Despite herself, Eleanor laughed.
“It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s effective,” April said. “If he looked at me like that, I’d probably confess to tax fraud.”
“You don’t pay taxes,” Marla pointed out.
