Chapter 52: Reid
I swing a leg over the wall and drop down beside her, the rock cold through my jeans. The tide’s out far enough that the waves only hiss at the base of the boulders, quiet and steady—but I know how vicious this spot gets when the water rises. At high tide, this whole place becomes a throat, swallowing anything stupid enough to linger.
“Madeline,” I say again, softer this time.
She doesn’t jump. Doesn’t even look startled, like she already knew I’d come. Her voice is small, quiet enough that the wind almost takes it.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That was unprofessional.”
That makes me frown. That’s what she’s worried about? Professionalism?
I don’t give a damn about professionalism right now.
I want to know who the hell called her. What kind of person can drain all the color from her face in a single second.
I want to know who I need to deal with so it doesn’t happen again.
But what comes out instead is just, “You okay?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
Nothing else. Just that one word, too quick, too practiced.
I can hear the lie in it. Feel it.
The wind whips through her hair, tangling it around her shoulders, and she doesn’t bother to fix it. She just stares out at the horizon, the light catching the curve of her jaw, her throat. I shouldn’t notice any of that, but I do.
I want to push. To ask who called her, what they said, why she looked like the world had just ended. To tell her she can’t shut down like that out on the water, not when the sea doesn’t forgive mistakes.
But that’s not why I want to know.
It’s not about the sea. Or work. Or the damn report.
“Reid?”
Her voice slices through my thoughts, soft but too damn effective.
I grunt under my breath. My name on her lips—it does something to me. Lights up something primal I’ve been trying real hard to keep buried. Predatory. Possessive. Dangerous.
I drag a hand through my hair, force myself to sound normal. “Hm?”
She’s still staring out at the horizon. Her voice wavers when she speaks again.
“I know you hate me,” she says. “But just this one time… can you tell me something good? About Northhaven, or… or anything.”
I don’t answer right away. My chest tightens. Hate her? Christ. That’s not what this is. But I don’t correct her.
When she whispers, “Please,” her voice cracks a little. Just a hairline fracture—but it kills me.
And before I even know what I’m doing, words start leaving my mouth.
“There’s a place,” I say. “About fifteen minutes into the forest. Not far past the stream. Wild strawberries grow there sometimes. Tiny ones. But they’re the best I’ve ever had.”
Her head turns toward me. “You’ve actually gone strawberry-picking?”
I shrug, glancing down at the rock between us. “Couple times. Charlie dragged me out there years ago.” I pause. “Haven’t been back since.”
A small smile tugs at her mouth, soft but real. “You don’t look like a guy who eats strawberries.”
I arch a brow at her. “No? What do I look like I eat then?”
She tilts her head, pretending to think, her lips twitching. “Hot coals. Or maybe raw steak… dipped in extra spicy sauce.”
I stare at her. “Hilarious.”
She laughs—a quick, breathy sound that spills between us and lands somewhere in my chest.
There she is again. A bit of color. A bit of life.
And I tell myself that’s all I wanted to see.
I want to ask her about the call—just push a little, see if now, with the edge taken off, she’ll open up. But one look at her profile, hair still soft from the light and wind, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, and I choke it back. If I press and she goes right back into that state, I’ll hate myself more than I already do for even sitting here.
Christ, what am I even doing? Sitting on a rock, taking time out of my day to comfort an employee like this. That’s not me. That’s never been me. But with her, every rule I’ve written for myself gets torched the second she looks at me.
We sit there for a while in silence, the sea breathing against the rocks below. Every shift of the wind pushes her scent my way—vanilla and salt, soft and clean, nothing like the harsh tang of diesel and rope I’m used to. It makes me tense. Annoyed. On edge.
Finally, I clear my throat. “You should get home before it’s dark.”
She nods and stands, brushing her palms on her joggers, and now that she’s upright the top of the rock wall hits her nose. I blink.
“How’d you even get over in the first place?”
She glances at it, cheeks pink. “I… I’m not sure. It seemed less high then.” She reaches up and her fingers don’t even graze the top. “Clearly I can’t now.”
I pick up her bag, sling it easily over one arm, and set it on the other side of the wall. “Need a hand?”
“No,” she says, a little too quick. She tries anyway—bouncing on the balls of her feet, stretching, jumping, getting nowhere. The wall doesn’t budge, and she’s practically the same height as it.
“Let me.”
Before she can argue, my hands slide to her waist. She stiffens, her breath hitching audibly, and for a heartbeat everything in me goes still. She’s so small under my palms it’s ridiculous. But I lift her anyway, steady, until she can plant her hands and a knee on the wall and scramble over.
“Thanks,” she mutters from the other side, brushing her hair back.
I jump it in one easy motion, landing next to her without a sound. My pulse is hammering, but my face stays blank. Always blank.
“Let’s go,” I say. My voice is rougher than it should be.
She blinks at me. “Let’s go where?”
“Your home,” I say. “Are you okay to walk, or should I come with you?”
That earns me a look—a quick, assessing flick of her eyes that sweeps the street, the docks, the people still milling around near the edge of town. Her hands twitch at her sides like she’s counting exits. Whatever that call was, it’s still clawing at her, I can tell.
“Let’s go,” I repeat, and this time I don’t give her room to argue. I start walking, slow but certain, the crunch of gravel filling the space between us.
For a second, I think she’ll stay planted there, stubborn like always. But then I hear the soft patter of her steps catching up to mine. She keeps a careful distance—close enough to follow, far enough that if she changes her mind she can vanish into the crowd.
The wind’s cold, threading through her damp hair, and she tucks a strand behind her ear without looking at me. Every few seconds she glances around, shoulders tight, like she expects something—or someone—to appear.
I don’t say anything. Not yet. Just keep walking, matching her pace, making sure every shadow we pass stays behind us.