Chapter 33: Reid
The Seafoam Bar is the same as it’s always been: wood sticky under my forearms, low hum of the jukebox, Benny muttering behind the counter like every pint poured is an insult to his patience.
Jake sits across from me, beer in one hand, flipping through the report I dragged here. His hair’s a shade lighter than mine, though no one would notice that, jaw just as sharp, but his eyes carry more patience than I’ll ever have. Doesn’t make him soft. Just different.
I tap the page between us. “The calf sighting matches the hydrophone patterns. If we run another transect Monday, we’ll confirm it.”
Jake doesn’t even look up. “Or you could eat your fries before they go stiff enough to hammer nails.”
“They’re cold.”
“You let them get cold.” His mouth twitches. “That’s on you.”
From the counter, Benny grumbles, “Do you two ever stop talking about work?”
“No,” we say in unison.
Jake exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. I don’t.
He leans back, bottle dangling from his hand. “He’s not wrong. We’re miserable company.”
“You are,” I mutter.
“Takes one to know one.”
We lapse into silence, the kind that isn’t awkward because it never is with him. Still, he’s needling, always has been. I let him.
The scrape of heels cuts through the air before I even look up. Two women stop at the edge of our table. They’re polished to the nines — lipstick too red for this place, perfume too sharp.
“Well, well,” one says, eyes flicking between us. “Twins. And twins this handsome? What the hell is Northhaven hiding you for?”
Jake lifts his eyes slow, voice dry. “Not hiding. Just boring.”
The other one leans a hand on his chair, smile slow. “Handsome and modest. Dangerous combination.”
The first one turns on me, lips curving. “And you. God, you’re even hotter up close.”
“Thanks.” My voice is flat.
Jake cuts me a side-eye that says play nice for once. I don’t.
The girls keep at it, layering on questions, batting lashes. “What do you do?” “You must ruin women for sport.” “Are you always this serious?”
Jake humors them, offering clipped, polite replies. Nothing inviting, nothing promising. Just not… cruel.
I cut in before they get too comfortable. “Not interested. You can go now.”
Their faces falter, sharp silence landing between us.
“Wow,” one says finally, stiff. “You’re a real charmer.”
“Good luck with him,” the other mutters to Jake before they walk off, heels snapping against the wood.
Jake watches them go, then takes a slow drink. “Jesus, Reid. You could at least try not to be a complete asshole.”
“They were wasting their time.”
“They were pretty.” He meets my eyes, his expression flat but needling all the same. “Most men would’ve at least pretended.”
“I’m not most men.”
“No shit,” he says, leaning back. “It’s gonna take a miracle to make you like someone.”
I grunt, flip the page like I’m still reading. “You’re no better. Haven’t seen you in a relationship in, what, four years?”
“Five.” He doesn’t blink. “Because the right one hasn’t come along. And because the institute eats my life, same as it eats yours.”
“Convenient excuse.”
“Convenient truth.” He sets his beer down, pushes his chair back. “Anyway, I’m not as rude as you, so I’ll at least buy them a drink.”
I scoff. “Waste of money.”
“Better than wasting oxygen sitting across from you all night.”
He leaves, stride measured, calm. Not trying to impress anyone — just… less jagged than me.
I lean back, drag a hand over my jaw, glance at the window.
And that’s when I see them.
Charlie first, walking quick, still half-laughing. Liam right behind, sunburnt, dragging a towel over his head. Finn beside him, grinning like he owns the world. They must've went to the beach, given the day that shun on Northhaven. Good. They deserve a little bit of fun.
And then—her.
Madeline.
Her auburn hair is loose, tumbling waves catching every shred of dying light. Not just red. Fire. Copper, gold, flame. The sunset makes her glow like she’s lit from the inside out.
Her cheeks are flushed, her freckles brighter, skin touched with the day. She looks alive in a way that doesn’t fit with the tight, careful girl who sits across from me in the lab.
She laughs.
I’ve never seen it. Not like this. Not her head tipped back, her eyes crinkling, her mouth open wide with joy. It hits me like a gut punch.
And then she does something stupidly ordinary that wrecks me more: she swats Finn on the arm, playful, sharp enough to make him bark out a laugh. She darts after Charlie, hair flying behind her, light catching every strand.
Alive. Untouchable.
I can’t hear it—too much bar noise, glass between us—but god, I want to. I want to know what her laugh sounds like, want it lodged in me the way her voice already is.
And I hate it. Hate that just seeing her like this tangles me up, makes me ache for something I have no business wanting.
She passes, golden and laughing, shoulders brushing Finn’s as he leans close to say something. She doesn’t look in. None of them do. I sit there, stone, burning, caught in something I don’t even have words for.
Jake drops back into his chair with a sigh, shaking his head. “Didn’t last long. No sense of humor. Turn-off.”
I force my face into blankness, every muscle locked.
He studies me for a beat, then smirks faintly. “But then again, neither do you.”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan.
He chuckles low, lifts his bottle. “I’m sticking around for a few weeks. Got everything wrapped up in the city. Figured it’s easier to be bored here with you than there alone.”
I nod, but I’m not listening. My eyes are still on the glass, on the space where she was, where light caught her hair like it was spun gold.
And I hate it—hate that she’s still in my head, that I want something I can’t even name.
Madeline Quinn. My employee. My problem.