“Explains why you’re always alone then. I guess even your own company gets old.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. She always did this to me—left me feeling off-balance, scrambling to find my footing. I knew how to argue. Hell, arguing was my profession. I could twist evidence, sway juries, and dismantle witnesses without breaking a sweat, but one sentence from her about my personal life, and suddenly, I had nothing?
Maybe it was because deep down I knew she was right. And I hated that she saw it so clearly—saw past every argument I’d ever made. She saw through me, and it unsettled the hell out of me.
I stared into my coffee, irritated by how easily she exposed the parts of me I’d rather keep hidden. Parts I wasn’t even ready to face myself.
She watched me for a long moment, a smug, self-satisfied little smirk pulling at her lips. Then she shook her head slowly, as if I were beyond help. “You really need sugar in this place.”
Before I could respond—or even figure out what the hell I wanted to say—she turned and walked away, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste that had nothing to do with the coffee.
My damn blood pressure was climbing, and it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m.
I had work to do. Meetings. Calls. Things that didn’t involve whatever the fuckthiswas.
I grabbed my keys and slid my wallet into my pocket before making my way to the bedroom door—the one she’d left cracked open. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through her phone, completely oblivious to what she was doing to me. She always made it seem likeIwas the one approachingher.Like it was my idea to get close. She never gave me the satisfaction of believing she might actually need something from me. No—she left that burden entirely on my shoulders.
She looked up as I placed a card on the table. Then she looked down at it, eyebrows pulling together. “What’s this?”
“You’ll need money,” I said simply. “Use it.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “I have my own now.”
“Save that for when you need it. Use mine instead.”
“What’s my limit?”
“Try to keep it reasonable.”
Her smile widened. It was dangerous—the kind of smile that usually got men into trouble. “Reasonable according to me, or reasonable according to you? Because there’s a very big difference.”
I had zero interest in debating finances with her, especially when it was the one thing I had plenty of. She wanted independence? Fine. She had it. But as long as she was here, she was my responsibility, and I could at least make sure she didn’t need anything. Hell, maybe that was my way of being useful.
I wasn’t sure why that mattered, but for some reason, it did.
“There’s no limit on the card. Spend whatever you need.”
“Is this the part where I ask if your money is clean?”
“It’s as clean as it needs to be.”
Her mouth curved. “What’s your rate, lawyer?”
I gave her a look. “One dollar, apparently.”
She laughed at the meaning. “I’m your cheapest client then?”
I didn’t answer right away, mostly because I wasn’t sure what I could say without opening doors I’d already decided were staying shut. I just watched her. Watched the way her eyes lingered on me like she was searching for something beneath the surface.
“Consider yourself lucky,” I said evenly. “I usually charge more.”
“Why the discount? Special circumstances?”
“You could say that.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly. Was she blushing?
“Really, what is your rate?” she asked, almost cautiously. As if she genuinely cared about my billing structure. As if the specifics mattered.
