I roll my eyes. He’s right. “That’s fair. But are you okay?”
“I’m good. Just a little road rash.”
I narrow my eyes at him, not entirely sure he’s telling me the whole truth.
He finishes his muffin and lies down between my legs with his arms resting on my thighs, his chin resting on his arms, and looks up at me.
“You worried about me, doll?” he asks, giving me a sly grin.
“A little,” I reply, running my fingers through his hair around his face.
And it’s the happiest I’ve felt in days. Weeks, maybe.
Chapter 20
It’s a testament to the legal profession that you can implode into a puddle of shame for a week and still be expected to sit in a meeting at 9:00 a.m. on Monday and act like nothing happened.
I’m back at the office, hair ironed flat, lips glossed, suit impossibly crisp. I am the perfect picture of a woman who has not wept into a Netflix queue for seven consecutive days.
Nash sees me in the lobby and hesitates. He wants to hug me, probably, but that’s not what we do here, so he gives me a subtle salute instead. It makes me laugh.
We step into the elevator together. He brushes his knuckle against the back of my hand.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and private, “if anyone gives you shit today, text me. I’ll slash their tires.”
I snort, careful to keep it low.
“Thank you. But no tire-slashing until at least after lunch.”
“No promises,” he says, eyes flicking up and down my reflection.
Inside my office, a sticky note is pasted to my monitor: “Welcome back” with a winky face.
Nash’s handwriting, obviously.
My team is already settled into the week’s rhythm, the worst of the post-trial fallout apparently taken care of in my absence.
When Teresa, one of the senior associates, breezes by with her large iced coffee, she pauses to lean in, offer a tight but genuine smile, and say, “Heard you did everything right. Jury just didn’t go your way. Happens to all of us.”
“Thanks, Teresa,” I say, the words more brittle than I’d like.
She nods and moves on, her heels snapping at the tiled floor. She’s gone before I can ask what I’ve missed.
I scroll through my inbox, which is overloaded, naturally, but nothing catastrophic. Just the usual: requests for status updates, a handful of new client intakes, a calendar invite for a team meeting.
I’ve barely begun my work when Nash pokes his head in, mouth set in a line that means he’s trying to look professional and not like someone who spent Saturday morning lying on my lap.
“Ready for the meeting?” he asks. “James wants everyone in the conference room in five. Got your coffee right here.”
I take the cup, feeling the heat curl through my hands, and for a second I want to rest my forehead against it just to let the steam seep into my skull.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
He grins, lets it hang between us a moment, then disappears, leaving the faintest trace of cologne behind. I take a sip of my coffee, then make my way to the meeting.
The conference room is already full. James stands at the head of the table. I take a seat near the end.
James launches right in, voice smooth.
