“It’s my nature.” I didn’t even try to deny it. It was my job to find angles, motivations, hidden truths. I was good at it.
“No wonder everyone hates lawyers.”
Something close to amusement tugged at me. “Do you?”
She hesitated. “Do I what?”
“Hate lawyers,” I clarified quietly.
She tilted her head, deciding whether honesty was safe here. It rarely was, for either of us. “Only when they’re you.”
The corner of my mouth twitched despite myself. “Good thing you married me then.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not like I had a line of suitors beating down my door,” she said dryly. “Though I’m starting to regret turning down that guy with the boring stock portfolio who owned all those strip clubs in Jersey.”
“You always did have terrible judgment,” I said, shaking my head as I sat down slowly. “You joining me, or was your goodwill limited to cooking?”
“I suppose I could tolerate your company for a few minutes.”
“How generous.”
She slid into the chair across from me. “So grilled cheese, huh?” she asked after a minute, raising an eyebrow. “Any reason this particular meal gets special treatment?”
“Reminds me of simpler times,” I admitted.
She tilted her head, curious, doubtful. “Didn’t realize you had those.”
“What, simpler times? Or memories?”
“Both,” she said honestly, leaning forward. “You don’t exactly scream ‘sentimental type.’”
“Would you prefer if I screamed?” I asked dryly.
“It’d be an improvement.” She laughed under her breath. “But I guess even ruthless lawyers were kids once,” she said finally, a little softer now. “Did you have aspirations of courtroom drama even then?”
“My childhood ambitions were a bit more mundane,” I admitted reluctantly.
She smiled a bit, genuinely amused. “Let me guess. Astronaut? Firefighter?”
“No,” I said. “I wanted to be a chef, believe it or not.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You, a chef? Seriously?”
“Why’s that so surprising?”
She waved her hand vaguely, still smiling. “I don’t know. Cooking requires patience, passion ...”
“Qualities you think I lack?”
She didn’t disagree, just gave me a look that said enough on its own. I couldn’t really argue. Patience wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
Passion, though—she knew better. I’d shown her enough times.
“You said it, not me.” Valentina smiled faintly, then her voice softened almost regretfully. “What happened to the dream?”
“Dreams don’t exactly survive in foster care.”
Her eyes softened. No pity though. Valentina knew better than that. It was one of the things I respected about her: she didn’t waste her sympathy.
