I grabbed the file and headed to Conference Room B, which was just a converted dining room with a table and some chairs that Catherine had bought from IKEA. I opened the door, already shifting into professional mode, ready to be sympathetic but efficient—
And stopped.
The man sitting at the conference table had red hair.
Not just red, but that specific shade of auburn that caught the light and looked like fire. He had it pulled back in a small ponytail at the nape of his neck and was wearing a faded band T-shirt and jeans.When he looked up at me, I saw an ocean of freckles.
For a split second—one inappropriate, unprofessional split second—I thought about the man from this morning, the one I’d crashed into outside that building in Ybor like some kind of filing cabinet tornado.
The one with the Irish accent and the easy smile and those electric blue eyes that had looked at me like my complete chaos was amusing instead of pathetic.
The one whose fingers had brushed against mine when I’d snatched my papers back, and for half a heartbeat, I’d forgotten I was late for work.
But this wasn’t him.
This man was older, maybe mid-forties, and his hair was darker; but something about him—the red hair, the freckles, the casual posture—made my brain loop back to that moment on the sidewalk.
To a crooked smile and lilting brogue.
“Mr. McCarthy?” I said, checking the file and trying to look professional.
“That’s me.” He had a Southern accent, not Irish. Florida born and raised, probably. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“Of course.” I sat down across from him and opened the file, forcing myself to focus on the intake form. “So I understand you’re looking to file for divorce?”
“Yeah. My husband and I, we’ve been trying to make it work, but . . .” He shrugged. “Sometimes it just doesn’t, you know?”
“I understand. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
“Thanks. That’s kind of you to say.”
We talked for twenty minutes about assets and timelines and whether his husband would contest the divorce (probably not, they’d already discussed it and were trying to keep things amicable). I took notes, asked the right questions, and gave him the information he needed about next steps.
“—does that make sense?”
I blinked and realized Mr. McCarthy was looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?”
“I asked if you handle these kinds of cases often. Amicable divorces.”
“Oh, yes. We do.” I smiled, trying to look competent and not like I’d just been daydreaming about a stranger. “The Morrisons prefer cases like yours. It makes the process much smoother for everyone involved.”
“Good. That’s good.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Chase, please. And you’re welcome.” I shook his hand and walked him out to the reception areawhere Ashley was typing a thousand words per minute while chomping like her gum owed her money.
After Mr. McCarthy left, I returned to my office and sat down at my desk.
I had a motion to draft, discovery documents to review, and an endless list of client calls to return. Instead, I found myself staring at the wall and thinking about the way someone’s fingers had felt against mine for half a second on a Monday morning.
I pulled out my phone and pecked out a text to my best friend, Diego.
Me: Hypothetically, if you ran into someone on the street and had a moment, would it be weird to hope you ran into them again?
Three dots appeared.
Diego: Who is she?
