Ray blinked. Then a slow grin spread across his face.
"I was going to say there's no problem, but thank you for the legal brief, counselor."
The table erupted. Tommy howled, slapping the wood hard enough to rattle the glasses. Claire lost her battle withcomposure. Even Gator, watching from the bar, cracked a rare full smile.
Jake was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite name. Wonder, maybe. Or close to it.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing." He shook his head, but his eyes stayed on her. "Just you."
Under the table, his hand found hers. She let him take it. Let herself be here, in this booth, with these people, being seen.
Across the room, she caught Gator's eye. He raised his glass, just slightly. A toast to an understanding only the two of them shared.
Emily raised hers back.
The jukebox switched to Tom Petty. Tommy started singing along, badly. Claire joined him, worse. Ray covered his face with his hands while Jake laughed — really laughed, the kind that came from somewhere deep.
This, Emily thought. This is what I was protecting myself from. This is what I almost missed.
She leaned into Jake's shoulder and let herself stay.
CHAPTER 8
Emily woke Saturday morning with a smile on her face and a text from Jake.
Ten still work?
She'd been awake since seven, which was unusual for a weekend. More unusual: she'd been awake since seven and hadn't reached for her laptop. She'd made coffee, stood at her kitchen window watching the parking lot fill with morning light, and let her mind do what it almost never did.
Nothing.
Ten works.
Wear something you can sit on bleachers in.
Bleachers. She had no idea what that meant, and she found she didn't care. Jake Walsh wanted to take her somewhere on a Saturday morning, and she was going to let him.
That thought alone would have sent her reaching for a legal pad a week ago. Pros, cons, risk assessment. The Emily Callahan decision-making matrix, tested and proven through seven years of federal prosecution and thirty-one years of never once doing something just because she wanted to.
She put her phone down and went to find jeans.
She put her phone down.
On the lock screen, below Jake's text, an email notification she'd swiped past without reading. Katherine Winters, DOJ Criminal Division. The subject line saidChecking in — coffee next time you're in DC?Emily had met her once, at a sentencing conference in Arlington, and Winters had spent ten minutes asking about her Montgomery strategy with the focused attention of someone who was cataloging talent. Emily registered the name, filed it, and went to find jeans.
He pickedher up at ten exactly.
She'd chosen a soft gray t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. No armor. No performance. Just Emily on a Saturday morning.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
He looked good. Of course he looked good. Jeans, a faded Tampa Bay Rays t-shirt, sunglasses pushed up on his head. Relaxed in a way she hadn't seen at the office or even at The Anchor. This was weekend Jake. Off-duty Jake.
She liked this version too.
