Page 14

Chapter

Eleven

L ucas glanced sideways at Miranda as she shifted in her seat, her body sliding against the smooth leather.

Her head fell back slightly, eyes closed, a soft sound escaping her lips—a sigh of pleasure at the simple luxury of the ride.

Damn. He wished he was the one putting that look on her face. Preferably in bed. Not in his car.

But tonight? He’d take what he could get. Her in his passenger seat. Out of the office. Out of her armor.

He fired up the engine and backed out of the space, forcing his thoughts into neutral.

“What are you in the mood for?” he asked as they pulled out of the garage. “Thai? Italian?”

She laughed—an easy, unexpected sound that lit the air between them. “You’re in Savannah, the capital of down-home Southern food. If you don’t have something fried and drowning in butter, they’ll revoke your Southern card. Take a left.”

He smirked and followed her directions through the soft-lit streets of the historic district, where moss-draped oaks arched over cobblestone lanes and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine and salt.

They pulled up to a restored Victorian with a wraparound porch and a crowd of locals chatting outside like time didn’t exist.

Definitely not Chicago.

He parked along the curb and joined her on the brick-lined sidewalk. His hand slid to the small of her back again, warm and proprietary. The contact wasn’t necessary—but he didn’t move it.

“Shouldn’t we wait in line?” he asked as they approached the porch.

Miranda’s lips curled. “I know the owner, AnnaMae. There’s always a table for me.”

The front door creaked open before she even knocked. A petite woman in a wild, multicolored caftan blinked in surprise before her face split into a wide smile.

“Miranda Callahan, honey! It’s been too long. We’ve all been praying for your daddy. How’s he doing?”

AnnaMae wrapped Miranda in a hug, her flowing sleeves twirling around them both. Lucas stayed back, hands shoved in his pockets. Another person who adored Miranda. Another room where she was the sun, and he was the satellite.

He didn’t know why it unsettled him. It just did.

Miranda finally turned and gestured. “AnnaMae, this is Lucas Wainright. He grew up here—back when he still remembered what good food was.”

AnnaMae lit up. “Wainright? I’ll be damned.” She yanked him into a hug that caught him completely off guard. “Still too skinny, but those arms? Not bad.” She winked and gave his bicep a squeeze. “Let’s fatten you up, sugar.”

She led them through a maze of tables inside the house-turned-restaurant, the air thick with buttery spices and laughter. She stopped at a cozy alcove near a stained-glass window where a candle flickered softly between two place settings.

“Perfect spot for a little romance, eh?” she said with a knowing wink.

Lucas cleared his throat, awkward. Miranda just smiled. “Business dinner, AnnaMae.”

“Mmmhmm,” AnnaMae said, unconvinced. “Annabelle! Get these two a pair of Savannahs, and make sure they leave room for pie.”

Their waitress—platinum hair, nose ring, full sleeve tattoo—gave them a cheeky grin and poured water. “Be right back with your cocktails.”

“Thanks, Annabelle.”

Lucas arched a brow. “Annabelle? AnnaMae?”

“Family tradition,” Miranda said, folding her hands on the table. “All the girls are named Anna. It’s a Southern thing. Legacy.”

He glanced around. “Shouldn’t we have menus?”

“AnnaMae knows what we like.” She leaned in. “Now stop dodging. How does it feel being back?”

He shifted in his seat. “Honestly? Like I’m visiting someone else’s memories. It doesn’t feel like home.”

Something softened in her expression. “You grew up here. You really blocked it out that much?”

Their drinks arrived—murky cocktails in old-fashioned glasses—and Miranda offered her thanks while Lucas gave a stiff nod, her question landing like a stone in his gut.

“My job keeps me moving. Hotels, airports, stadiums. I haven’t had a real ‘home’ in years.”

She reached across the table and laced her fingers through his. Her touch was warm, steady. Grounding.

“What about your mom?” she asked gently.

He snorted, not out of amusement. “Dad died just after I finished school. Mom couldn’t stand the house after that. She moved to Florida. My siblings scattered. We all did. It was... easier.”

The memories crept in anyway. The sense of drifting. Of being untethered. He’d built a life around movement, but this—this night, this woman, this city—felt like an anchor trying to drag him back in.

She studied him with that same quiet intensity. “I’m sorry.”

He gave her a look that said don’t be , but he appreciated the sentiment more than he wanted to admit.

“Try the butter,” she said, nudging the bread basket toward him. “Honey-flavored. Ruin-your-diet good.”

She tore a piece, popped it into her mouth, and moaned. Actually moaned.

Lucas groaned. “Have mercy, Miranda.”

She opened her eyes and smiled sweetly. “Bothering you? Maybe you shouldn’t start things you can’t finish.”

He took a gulp of his cocktail—and sputtered. “What the hell is in this?”

Miranda laughed and drank hers like a pro. “Gin, white cacao, and something AnnaMae swears is a secret. It’s called a Savannah. Perfect for warming you up… or wearing you down.”

“So tonight’s about memory lane, huh?”

“It’s about reconnection,” she said. Her hand slid across the table again, fingers brushing his. “And you, Lucas Wainright, seem like a man in need of roots.”

Something in him stirred. Maybe it was the cocktail. Maybe it was the kiss. Maybe it was her. She was throwing him off-balance in all the best ways. For once, he didn’t care about who was in control.

“You’ve got a lot of ground to cover at the stadium,” he began.

She didn’t blink. Just tilted her glass and peered over the rim. “I wasn’t talking about work. I meant us. Where do we go from here?”

The air between them thickened. He knew that look. She was serious. And this time, she wasn’t letting him slide away from the question.

“The kiss,” he said slowly. “There’s something between us. Always has been. We’re adults. We can handle it.”

Her brows lifted, skeptical. “Can we?”

But in her eyes—desire, flickering beneath the challenge.

Before he could say more, Annabelle arrived with platters of Southern comfort food—fried chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, tangy greens, golden cornbread. Lucas watched Miranda dig in without hesitation. No posturing. No delicate picking at lettuce.

She was hungry. Real. And sexy as hell for it.

His stomach growled in protest. He grabbed a plate and filled it. The flavors hit hard—salt, spice, nostalgia. It was like coming home after a decade away and realizing everything had changed… but the most important parts were still there.

The candlelight caught Miranda’s cheekbone as she sipped her drink and looked at him like he mattered. Like he belonged.

The noise of the restaurant faded. The pressure of the Knights disappeared.

Just him.

Just her.

And the question that hovered like smoke between them: What do you want, Lucas?

Because tonight wasn’t about business.

And tomorrow could wait.

A fter dinner, Miranda stepped out into the warm night air and turned away from the direction of the car. Lucas watched her for a beat, her silhouette backlit by the amber glow of the gas lamps lining the street. Then, with a quiet sigh, he followed.

She didn’t speak—just reached back and slid her hand into his, her fingers curling tightly around his like she wasn’t about to let go. Not tonight. Not yet.

“So the night’s not over?” he asked, catching up with her in a few long strides.

She glanced at him sideways, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Eager to be rid of me?”

He smiled, a slow curve of his lips. “Not even close. It’s a beautiful night.”

“Exactly. Thought we’d take a walk. Savannah’s too pretty to waste.”

“Why, Ms. Callahan,” he murmured, letting his thumb brush over the back of her hand, “are you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?” she asked with a teasing lift of her brow.

“Maybe.” He gave her a pointed look. “But just for the record, I don’t put out for dinner alone.”

“Don’t forget the drinks.” Her grin was wicked.

“God, especially the drinks.” He glanced around, noticing other couples strolling just like them—hands linked, conversations soft. “So, is this still about connecting me to my roots?”

“I love walking through the historic district at night,” she said, her tone gentler now.

“The houses are so full of stories. I like to imagine what it was like when they were built. What people were thinking, what they feared, what they hoped for. Sherman’s army was getting closer. They must’ve heard the guns.”

Lucas chuckled. “Pretty sure they were scared out of their minds. I would be, if I knew an army was torching everything in its path. But Savannah was spared—strategic sea port and all that.”

She bumped her shoulder against his. “Spoilsport. Can’t let me have my fantasy?”

“I’m just saying, history nerd to history nerd, facts matter.”

They walked in easy silence, his hand still locked with hers.

The spring air was warm but carried a whisper of ocean breeze.

For a moment, they weren’t team exec and consultant, weren’t facing down financial ruin or franchise collapse.

They were just a man and a woman walking under the soft glow of lanterns, the rhythm of their steps perfectly in sync.

He glanced at her again, taking in her quiet smile, the soft fall of hair across her cheek. And something in his chest pulled taut.

“This is different from Chicago,” she said, her voice a near whisper.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Chicago’s colder. Windier.”

She rolled her eyes. “Duh. I meant… does this feel different to you?”

He paused, then slipped his jacket off and draped it around her shoulders when she gave a small shiver. “I don’t spend much time there, honestly. I’m always traveling—team to team, project to project.”

“So you live out of a suitcase.”

“Most of the time, yeah. Teams usually put me up in short-term housing. I’m not stuck in hotels constantly, but it’s not exactly home.”

“So where is home?” she asked.

He hesitated, jaw flexing. “I don’t really have one anymore.”

She squeezed his hand gently. “Most people build their own. Families of choice. Tradition’s overrated.”

He lifted her left hand, turned it in his. “And you? No ring. Have you built your family yet?”

He tried to ask it casually, but the question came out sharper than he intended. Jealousy flicked beneath the surface, unexpected and hot. Why did it matter?

She didn’t flinch. “Nope. No husband. No secret fiancé. The team is my family.”

The answer punched harder than it should have.

The Knights. Her family. The weight of that, the legacy, settled like a stone in his gut. If this team fell apart—if she lost it—she wouldn’t just be losing a job. She’d be losing everything.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just about metrics and market value. It was about her. About what this meant to her. About the fire she carried inside, and the fight she’d waged while everyone underestimated her.

She wasn’t just another exec asking for advice. She was Miranda Callahan—a sharp, relentless force who shouldered expectations like armor and refused to be crushed by them. Tough. Loyal. Gorgeous as hell. Too sexy for his peace of mind.

And utterly irresistible.

The realization stopped him cold.

Miranda turned, confused when he tugged her hand to a halt. “Lucas?”

He let go, pulling his hand back like he’d touched fire. “We should call it a night. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

She blinked, surprise flickering across her face. But she didn’t argue. She just nodded, her smile slipping a little. They turned back toward the car, but her footsteps were slower, more hesitant.

The air had shifted. The easy rhythm was gone.

And he hated that he’d broken it.

But even as he told himself it was the right call—to draw the line, to keep things professional—his pulse was still thundering from the press of her hand in his. From the phantom feel of her body leaning into his side.

He was in too deep.

And it scared the hell out of him.