Instead, I found a note on my bedside table. Water. Advil. And an empty couch, where he’d spent the night.
He’d left before I even opened my eyes.
The first time he bailed—after I’d spilled my guts while painting that ridiculous lime-green wall—maybethat was because of an urgent phone call. An emergency. Something legitimate that couldn’t wait.
But twice? Twice was a pattern.
And the message was loud and clear: whatever had been growing between us was over before it started. He’d heard my damage and decided I was too much work. Too broken. Too complicated for a guy with his shit together.
Fine. I got it. Really, I did.
But I couldn’t keep doing this, seeing him every day, pretending my chest didn’t tighten every time he walked through my door. Pretending I didn’t care that he kept running.
I was done being the girl people ran from.
So, after careful consideration, I had one solution that might actually work.
“Okay?” His eyebrow arched, all casual confidence.
“You’re a criminal defense attorney with many years of experience, right?”
“Is this a pop quiz?” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Because I left my number two pencil in my other pants.”
“Are you the only attorney willing to take my case?”
The amusement died on his face. “I’m very good at my job, Faith.”
“I’m sure you are. But there are other criminal defense attorneys in Chicago.” I kept my voice level, reasonable. “What would it take for me to secure one of those?”
He went still. “Do you want to fire me?”
“I think us working together might be a bad idea. You know, conflict of interest and all that. You’re also my brother’s best friend. And we’ve”—I gestured vaguely between us—“complicated things.”
“Complicated.” He said the word like it offended him personally. “That’s what you’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?”
He moved closer, and suddenly, the room felt smaller. “I’d call it me trying to do my job while you’re making it impossible to think straight.”
My pulse kicked up. I tried to hold on to my anger, but when he looked at me like I was both his salvation and his damnation, it took a sledgehammer to every defense I’d built.
“Well, maybe that’s exactly why you shouldn’t be my lawyer.”
“Or maybe,” he countered, voice dropping, “that’s exactly why I’m the best person for this. Because I give a damn. Because I won’t stop until you’re free.”
My anger flickered and threatened to die. No. I needed it. Needed the protection it offered.
“Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done. But I think we’ve crossed some professional boundaries, wouldn’t you agree?” I kept my tone crisp, businesslike. Like my heart wasn’t currently trying to claw its way out of my chest. “It’s messy. And I don’t do messy well.”
He studied me, those blue eyes dissecting every micro-expression, every tell I couldn’t quite hide. “You’re pushing me away.”
“I’m being practical.”
“Bullshit.” He moved closer. “You’re running because you think I rejected you.”
The accuracy of that statement made my stomach drop. How could he already read me so well?
“I’m not running anywhere. I’m currently facing murder charges, remember? Kind of limits my travel options.”
