“You know, you don’t have to impress me. I’m just recording the facts,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He holds my stare a moment too long. “It wasn’t always fine.”
Then Livy rustles behind us and neither of us moves. She murmurs in her sleep. Without thinking, Colton scoots closer. I pretend not to watch—but I can’t help it. I follow his strong, veiny hand as it drifts to her tiny back, settling there to soothe her. My chest tightens annoyingly. It’s not painful—just… annoying. He notices my gaze and his silver eyes meet mine again. And suddenly the world feels like it’s paused. Like it’s just—us.
I blink first. Of course I do. “We’re losing time,” I say, scrambling at the keyboard. It comes out gibberish, but at least I’m typing.
“Then stop staring at me,” he murmurs.
I jerk upright. “Excuse me? I wasn’t staring.” Oh, I was staring.
“You were.”
“No.”
He gives me a faint grin. “Not complaining.”
My heart does a ridiculous little leap. God, Jenna, this is so unprofessional. I shouldn’t have taken this case.
I glue my eyes back to the screen as if my life depends on it. “If you say something like that again,” I murmur. “I’ll make you write the petition yourself.”
“Okay, I’ll shut my mouth. Keep staring. It’s for free.”
I snort but can’t stop the tiny twitch at my mouth’s corner. He’s funny—I didn’t see that coming. Quiet on one hand, sharp-witted on the other. I’m starting to think the Colton I knew in high school got abducted by the government, and because even they couldn’t stand him, they replaced him with… whatever this version is. Okay maybe I watch too many movies and tv-shows.
I keep working.
He does, too—in his own way.
And eventually, without noticing, we’ve inched closer. Just enough that our shoulders brush, and this time they staytouching as we list witnesses, compile evidence against his ex, and prepare for fucking Goldblatt’s counterarguments. To be honest, that idiot of a lawyer doesn’t have a single solid argument, but I’ll prepare for it anyway—just in case he suddenly discovers one in a moment of divine intervention.
After pages of work, we drift off track again… because suddenly, it doesn’t feel like work anymore.
“So, what did you do after high school?” he asks.
“Colton King,” I say in an absurdly playful voice. “Since when did you get so chatty?”
“I’m not, but maybe you got me interested.”
“I’m starting to believe I never really knew you, did I,” I reply, propping myself on an elbow.
“Well, I never knew you either,” he says. And he’s right. I didn’t really even know myself back then. College was when I finally dared to open up and just be me.
That’s when I notice the clock on my stove blinks 1 a.m. in neon blue, refusing to be ignored, as if the universe itself is giving me a heads up:Hey, it’s getting late. You’re forgetting something again. Also, you haven’t cleaned the microwave in three weeks.
We’ve been at it for five hours. Honestly, I thought we’d finish in three, but here we are, still talking.
I push aside a pile of client intake forms (already stained with something suspiciously close to soya sauce—thanks, Colton) and shift my laptop so it balances on my knee. He’s probably tired. I know I am. My fingers are still vibrating from all the typing and heaving my crappy laser printer around when it jammed (again, thanks Colton). Staying in my office would have kept everything on track but well, we’re here…in my apartment…which makes work feel way more intimate than it should.
I reach for my mug and realize there’s no coffee left, so I stare into the dregs and hope it will somehow refill itself. Whenit doesn’t, I lean back against my gray wingback chair and let my head thump against it.
“You always work this late?” Colton asks.
“Only when the case is borderline insane,” I say, then watch as he grins, wide and sharp. His teeth are distractingly nice. He could star in a toothpaste commercial if the hockey thing ever fell through.
I pull my knees up to my chest and smooth the hem of my pants. “You know, you could have just called the police,” I say, realizing too late that I’ve already brought this up. But I need him to understand. “What you did—taking her—was beyond risky.”
He shrugs. The nerve that man has. “Police never helped. Not when my ex is beautiful and said all the right words. I tried. Believe me.” His accent thickens just for a second, as if the words themselves are heavy to lift.
