“Matthew.” Now her voice is hard. “Enough.” She steps between us, only for him to sidestep and keep glaring at me. “We’re handling a crisis. It’s not a casual case.”
He barks a laugh. “Looks like it. Who is she?”
“She’s the crisis,” Jenna snaps, then softens her voice and turns to me. “Colton, please, you should—just?—”
“Are you alright?” I ask and overstep again.
She’s right. I should go.
It’s late and Livy needs to sleep in her bed. But something about this guy just doesn’t sit right. Something tells me I shouldn’t leave her alone but… this is her home. He’s the one she chose to live with… I really should go. Why don’t I?
But the three of us just keep standing there, a triangle of tension.
Matthew’s chest rises and falls, his knuckles whitening against his arms. I can tell he wants to make this physical. It’s like a sixth sense with men like him. But I’m not budging an inch, not until I absolutely have to. The guy barely comes up to my shoulders. If he wants to throw down, he’d need a stepladder just to land a punch.
Livy stirs again, this time more. She blinks, eyes wide, and for a second, I think she might scream, but she just looks at me and then at Jenna, and then burrows deeper into my shoulder, hiding her face from Matthew.
“So, what the fuck are you still doing here? We’re waiting for you to leave in case you didn’t get that, moron.”
“Watch your mouth. I don’t go before she tells me she is safe.”
“Both of you. Enough.” Jenna’s eyes go to me first, then to Matthew. “This is my job, and you will not make it a scene. We had to move things here and that’s it. Colton, you really should go.”
Matthew shakes his head. “Whatever, Jenna. If you want to bring work home, do what you want. Just maybe next time you can tell me you’re running a halfway house out of our apartment.”
He turns, heads for the kitchen, then stops and spins back. “And of course there’s no food. Thank you for making my day even better.”
I glance at Jenna. She’s pale. For a moment, I feel sorry for her. I almost ask him why she’s supposed to cook for him. She’s an attorney, not his maid.
Matthew snorts, then opens the fridge with more force than needed. “Who has an empty fridge, really,” he says, pulling out a beer. He cracks it, drinks, and stares me down over the rim.
“Colton, pleaseeee,” she pleads. My chest tightens at the sound.
“He won’t—are you sure you’re okay?” The words almost scrape out of my throat.
“Yes,” she says, grabbing Livy’s cup and almost shoving me toward the door with enough force that I have to brace against the frame. Her fingers dig into my bicep and the moment she touches my skin, we glance at each other. Just briefly. But in that half-second, I see everything I shouldn’t—her lips slightly parted, eyes wide with something beyond panic, a flush climbing her neck that makes me wonder how far down it goes. I swallow hard and look away first. She lets go of me.
“I’ll e-mail you if I hear anything.” She hands me Livy’s cup.
Once the door is closed behind us, I walk straight to my car and try not to think about the words Matthew is spitting at her right now.
I should go back.
No, I shouldn’t go back.
I shift Livy’s weight in my arms and force myself to keep walking to the car, even as every muscle in my body seems to pull in the opposite direction. It doesn’t even make sense. I’m just her client. She’s not another person I need to save. I only have to care for Livy and that’s it. Jenna doesn’t even like me. And more importantly, she doesn’t need my help. She’s the best family attorney in New York. I don’t know a smarter woman than her. A man helping her is the last thing she needs.
Thirty heartbeats,maybe less.
That’s how long I sat on my beige couch after putting Livy to bed before I grabbed my phone and opened my e-mail app. I clicked on “new e-mail” and selected Jenna Davis—but then I stopped. The fact that I don’t even have her number should be enough to tell me not to type. This is a professional relationship, not a personal one. We’ve only been in contact for like a month, mostly via letters she’s sent me, each one starting with “Dear Mr. Dickhead.” She hates me and only took the case to help Livy. So why the hell am I staring at my damn mail client?
I chuck my phone onto the couch and jump up like I’ve been stung by a tarantula.
Then I storm through my massive living room.
I live in a huge penthouse in the middle of New York. It’s almost entirely open-plan with white pillars, glass walls, and pale furniture. Everything’s sterile. It’s not what I chose. It’s what my ex wanted. Hardly cozy, not at all what I’d choose for Livy. When we divorced, I bought them a little house on the outskirts of the city, so she’d have something more homey. Somewhere she could play without slippery floors, sharp corners, or dangerous terraces and infinity pool to worry about. Somewhere with kids nearby. There are no kids here. But my ex hates the house, said it was the biggest dump she’d ever seen. I told her to get her own place then—she gets plenty of money from me every month. Technically for Livy, but whatever. Who cares about the fine print?
I head to Livy’s room. It’s a pink paradise: dolls, an art corner, a bookshelf, teddy bears—but what she really needs, is nowhere to be found. An intact family. Stability. I lean against the doorframe and watch her sleep. Luckily, it’s off-season right now. Otherwise, I’d have to tell Coach he’d be without me for a while. But I’d give up my entire career if it meant getting her life back on track. That choice, at least, I don’t have to make yet. I’ve got two more weeks until it’s August and training ramps up again, and until September I have zero stress—which definitely makes things easier right now. At least I have that.
