Chapter 15: The Red Dress Arrives
The corner table offered the best view of the door and the worst view of the ocean, which was exactly what Mark wanted. He'd been sitting there for twenty minutes, nursing a glass of sparkling water, watching the entrance like a man waiting for a verdict. The umbrella above him cast everything in a cool blue shadow, but the sun still found the edges of the table, the rim of his glass, the napkin he kept folding and unfolding beneath his fingers.
His phone buzzed.
He didn't look at it.
He already knew the message. Evelyn Shaw didn't believe in patience. She believed in results, in deadlines, in the slow squeeze of pressure until something broke. But he'd been her Green Knight for twelve years, and in all that time, she'd never asked him to do anything quite like this.
Watch them, she'd said. Get close. Find out what the girl remembers.
Not kill. Not steal. Not burn.
Watch.
But watching had turned into wanting, and wanting had turned into something he didn't have a name for anymore.
His mind kept drifting to Katrina—the storm-grey eyes, the dancer's body, the way she'd looked at him on the porch like she was deciding whether to trust him. She hadn't decided yet. He could see it in the way she held herself, the careful distance in her gaze, the half-step back she'd taken when he'd moved too close.
She was smart. She should have been smarter.
He imagined what it would be like to defy Evelyn Shaw, to burn the whole mission to ash and take Katrina somewhere no one could find them. The mountains, maybe. Or the coast. Somewhere with no magic and no memory and no one who knew his name.
He imagined her beneath him, those long legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth open and gasping his name. He imagined the taste of her skin, the weight of her breasts in his hands, the way her cunt would clench around his cock when she came.
He imagined a child—a little boy with her eyes and his stubborn jaw—calling them Mommy and Daddy.
The fantasy was so vivid, so stupidly domestic, that he almost laughed at himself.
He took a sip of water instead.
The door opened.
Katrina stepped onto the patio in a red dress that clung to every curve, black stilettos clicking against the tile, her dark hair loose and damp at the ends. The fabric caught the sunlight like it was woven from something more than silk. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs. The neckline plunged just low enough to be a threat.
Every head turned.
She was overdressed for a waterfront sandwich joint, and she knew it, and she didn't care.
Mark rose slowly, his throat tight, his cock already half-hard beneath the table. He'd seen her in jeans and a tank top, in sleep shorts and bare feet, in the soft grey light of dawn with her hair tangled and her eyes still heavy with dreaming. He'd thought she couldn't look any more beautiful.
He'd been wrong.
"You're here," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he'd intended.
She smiled—a nervous, real smile—and said, "I'm here."
He pulled out her chair. When she sat, he caught the scent of her: soap, salt, and something warm and floral underneath. The same scent that had lingered on his porch after she'd left, that had followed him into sleep and stayed there.
He sat across from her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The ocean crashed behind them. The waiter hovered at the edge of the patio, notepad in hand, waiting for a signal that wasn't coming. The ice in Mark's water glass cracked and settled.
"I'm glad you came," he said.
Katrina met his eyes. "I'm still deciding if that's a good thing."
He laughed, and it was genuine, and it hurt because he knew exactly how dangerous this was—for her, for him, for whatever remained of his conscience.
"That's fair," he said.
The waiter returned, more insistent this time. Mark ordered for both of them without asking: two fish tacos, extra lime, two glasses of white wine. He didn't look at the menu.
Katrina raised an eyebrow. "Presumptuous."
"Efficient," he corrected. "I'm a terrible decision-maker when I'm nervous."
"You're nervous?"
"Terrified."
She laughed, and the sound went straight to his chest.
They talked—about Miami, about the ocean, about nothing important. The weather. The traffic on the causeway. The way the palm trees swayed when the wind came off the water. There was magic in everything, she told him, if you knew where to look. He asked her if she knew where to look.
She said she was learning.
The tension between them coiled tighter with every shared glance, every accidental brush of fingers when they both reached for the bread basket, every pause that stretched a heartbeat too long.
When the food arrived, Katrina ate with her fingers, licking lime juice off her thumb, and Mark had to look away.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
"No."
"Liar."
He looked back at her. She was smiling, but there was something sharp beneath it, something that said she'd spent thirty years learning to read people and wasn't about to stop now.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You're staring."
"You're worth staring at."
Her cheeks flushed. Just a little. Just enough.
After the plates were cleared, she leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and said, "Why did you ask me out?"
Mark considered lying.
He could have said something easy—something about her eyes, her smile, the way she walked. He could have given her the same lines he'd given a hundred women in a hundred cities, the ones that worked because they were true enough to be believable and empty enough to mean nothing.
He didn't.
"Because you looked like someone who'd been waiting a long time for something good to happen."
Katrina's breath caught.
She reached across the table and took his hand. Her fingers were cool and steady.
"You don't know me," she said.
"I know enough."
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, one by one, slow and deliberate.
Katrina's lips parted. Her pupils dilated. The waiter cleared his throat somewhere behind them, but neither of them looked.
The damage was done.
He paid the bill, left a generous tip, and led her out onto the boardwalk. The sun was high, the beach crowded, but he steered her toward a quiet stretch of sand behind the restaurant, where a weathered lifeguard stand cast a long shadow across the dunes.
He stopped.
She stopped.
"Katrina," he said, and her name felt like a confession. "I want to kiss you."
She stepped closer, her heels sinking into the sand. "Then do it."
He did.
His mouth found hers, and it wasn't gentle—it was hungry, desperate, the kiss of a man who had been starving. She gasped against his lips, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. He backed her against the lifeguard stand, his body pressing hers into the weathered wood, his thigh sliding between her legs.
She moaned, a low, throaty sound, and ground against him.
Mark groaned, his cock straining against his zipper.
"We should stop," he muttered against her throat.
"We should," she agreed, and unbuttoned his shirt. "But I don't want to."
He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, the red dress riding up to her hips.
She wasn't wearing underwear.
He could feel the heat of her cunt through his slacks, the dampness soaking through the fabric.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You planned this."
"I hoped," she admitted, and bit his earlobe.
He carried her behind the lifeguard stand, out of sight of the beach. The sounds of the crowd faded—the laughter, the splash of waves, the distant drone of a drone. Just the two of them and the creaking wood and the smell of salt.
He set her on the wooden steps.
He knelt between her legs.
He pushed the red dress up to her waist.
Her cunt was bare, glistening, the lips swollen and pink. He looked at her—really looked—and then he lowered his head and dragged his tongue through her folds.
Katrina cried out, her hands flying to his hair, her hips bucking against his mouth. He licked her slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste of her—salt and musk and something sweet. He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, then sucked it between his lips, and she screamed, her thighs clamping around his head.
"Mark—fuck—don't stop—"
He didn't stop.
He slid two fingers into her, curling them against that spot inside her, and worked her clit with his tongue until she came, her body convulsing, her juices flooding his mouth. He lapped them up, groaning, his cock painfully hard.
She pulled him up by his hair and kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue.
"Inside me," she gasped. "I need you inside me."
Mark fumbled with his belt, shoved his slacks down just enough, and guided his cock to her entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, and Katrina's eyes rolled back.
"God," she whispered. "You're so—"
He thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and she cried out, her nails raking down his back.
He fucked her hard and fast, the lifeguard stand creaking with every stroke, the sound of the ocean drowning out her moans.
"Harder," she demanded. "Fuck me harder."
He did.
He pounded into her, his balls slapping against her ass, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She came again, her cunt clenching around him like a fist, and Mark followed, spilling inside her with a guttural groan.
He collapsed against her, panting, his face buried in her neck.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Katrina laughed—a shaky, incredulous sound.
"That was not a sandwich date," she said.
Mark lifted his head and grinned. "No," he agreed. "It wasn't."
He kissed her softly, then helped her down from the stand, adjusting her dress, smoothing her hair. She looked at him with those storm-grey eyes, and for the first time, he saw something besides wariness—something like hope.
"What happens now?" she asked.
Mark took her hand. "Now," he said, "we get ice cream. And then we figure out the rest."
They walked back toward the boardwalk, hand in hand, and Mark didn't look back at the lifeguard stand—didn't let himself think about the Green Knight, or Evelyn Shaw, or the fact that he'd just fucked the woman he was sent to betray.
He just held her hand and pretended, for one more hour, that he was a man who deserved her.
The ice cream stand was a little shack wedged between a surf shop and a tattoo parlor, painted the color of cotton candy and smelling like waffle cones. Katrina ordered pistachio. Mark got vanilla. They sat on a bench facing the water, shoulders touching, the cold sweetness melting down their fingers.
She licked a drip off her wrist. He watched.
"You're doing that on purpose," he said.
"Doing what?"
"Being distracting."
She smiled, small and private. "Maybe."
The silence that followed was comfortable. Easy. The kind of silence that usually took months to build, not hours. Mark felt it settle over him like a blanket, warm and steady, and he didn't want to move. He didn't want to break it. He didn't want to remember that this was temporary, that everything was temporary, that the woman beside him would hate him if she ever learned the truth.
"You're thinking too hard," Katrina said.
He looked at her. "How can you tell?"
"Your jaw tightens. Right here." She reached over and touched the hinge of his jaw, her fingers cool against his skin. "You do it when you're worried."
"I'm not worried."
"Liar."
He caught her hand and held it. "I'm not worried," he repeated. "I'm just—"
"Just what?"
He didn't have an answer.
Katrina studied him for a long moment, her storm-grey eyes searching his face. He wondered what she saw. He wondered if she could see the cracks, the lies, the rot underneath. He wondered if she cared.
"You're hiding something," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Mark's stomach clenched. "Everyone's hiding something."
"True." She pulled her hand free and went back to her ice cream. "But most people aren't very good at it."
"And I am?"
"No." She licked her cone. "You're terrible at it. That's what makes it interesting."
He didn't know what to say to that.
They finished their ice cream in silence. The sun was starting to sink, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and gold. The beach was emptying, families packing up their umbrellas, couples walking hand in hand toward the boardwalk. The air was cooler now, softer, carrying the smell of salt and sunscreen and something sweet from the funnel cake stand two piers down.
Katrina shivered.
Mark shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It was too big for her, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, the hem falling to her thighs.
She looked up at him. "You'll get cold."
"I'll survive."
She pulled the jacket tighter, inhaling. "It smells like you."
"Is that a good thing?"
"I haven't decided."
He laughed. He couldn't help it. She was impossible—sharp and soft and guarded and open, all at once. He'd known her for a day. He'd known her for a lifetime.
"I should get back," she said, but she didn't move.
"I know."
"My family will be wondering where I am."
"Your family."
"The Williamsons." She said it simply, like it was obvious. "They're my family."
Mark nodded. He'd read the files, studied the photographs, memorized the names. Mike and Casey Williamson. Their four children. The half-elf girl with silver hair. The son with the bakery. The tech nerd with the basement full of servers. The photographer with the sharp eyes.
And Katrina Harlow, the woman who'd fallen into a void and come out thirty years later, still young, still beautiful, still haunted.
They'd taken her in. They'd made her one of their own.
He wondered what it would be like to have a family like that.
"I'll walk you to your car," he said.
Katrina shook her head. "I took a cab."
"Then I'll walk you to the cab."
She smiled. "You're very persistent."
"I'm very motivated."
They walked back through the sand, past the lifeguard stand, past the restaurant with its blue umbrellas and wrought-iron tables. The boardwalk was quieter now, the neon signs flickering to life, the streetlamps casting pools of golden light on the pavement.
Katrina stopped at the edge of the street.
"I had a good time," she said.
"So did I."
"That's what worries me."
He didn't ask why. He already knew.
A cab pulled up, summoned by some app on her phone. She opened the door, then paused, looking back at him.
"Mark."
"Yes?"
She stepped close, rose up on her toes, and kissed him. Soft. Quick. Over before he could respond.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For making me feel like something good could happen."
She got in the cab. The door closed. The car pulled away, its taillights shrinking into the distance until they disappeared around a corner.
Mark stood on the sidewalk for a long time.
His phone buzzed again.
He looked at it.
Evelyn Shaw: Progress?
He typed his response.
Mark: Yes.
He put the phone back in his pocket and started walking. The night was warm, the stars were coming out, and the ocean crashed against the shore like it had been doing since the beginning of time.
He didn't look back at the boardwalk. He didn't look back at the lifeguard stand. He just walked, one foot in front of the other, and tried not to think about the woman in the red dress and the taste of her on his lips and the way she'd looked at him like he was something worth hoping for.
He was the Green Knight.
He had a mission.
And he was already failing.
The van was parked three blocks away, tucked behind a strip mall. Calista sat in the passenger seat, her phone in her lap, watching the tracking dot on her screen inch its way toward the beach house.
"She's headed home," she said.
Rick leaned forward from the back seat. "And Mark?"
"Still at the boardwalk."
"He didn't follow her?"
"No."
Stacy, sitting beside Rick, crossed her arms. "That's suspicious."
"Everything about him is suspicious," Beth said from the very back, camera in hand. She'd been taking pictures all afternoon—not of Katrina, not of Mark, but of the city. The light. The shadows. The way Miami looked when the sun was going down.
She'd also taken a few of Mark. His face. His hands. The way he looked at her sister's surrogate cousin when he thought no one was watching.
"He's in love with her," Beth said.
Everyone turned.
"What?" Rick asked.
"I've seen that look before." Beth lowered her camera. "It's the way Dad looks at Mom. The way Uncle Hank looks at Aunt Fatima. The way—" She stopped, glancing at Rick and Stacy. "You know."
Stacy's expression didn't change. "That doesn't mean he's not dangerous."
"No," Beth agreed. "But it means something."
Calista turned off her phone. "We'll figure it out. Right now, we need to get back to the house. Mandy and Huy are waiting."
Rick started the van.
They pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the beach house, leaving the boardwalk and the lifeguard stand and the man in the white shirt behind.
The night was young.
The storm was coming.