“I’m not even up to his shoulder,” I say, which is technically true, but exaggerating for Isla is like putting a single marshmallow in a mug of cocoa—you know she’ll add the rest herself.
She claps her hands and then does the most deranged fan-girl pantomime I’ve ever seen, complete with swooning. “Please tell me you’re going to be on Page Six by tomorrow.Please.”
I shrug but can’t hold back a grin. “If this goes how I think, probably yes.”
She squeals again, then grabs my phone out of my hand. “Let’s take a selfie. I want to remember the exact moment before your life explodes.” She holds the phone up, angling us so both our faces fit in the shot. Her hair looks perfect. I look like someone who hasn’t slept in three weeks. “Say ‘restraining order!’” she crows.
“You’re an idiot,” I mumble, but the corners of my mouth betray me again. Even Mom chuckles.
She tucks the phone back into my hand, then sobers up for a second, which in Isla-time feels like an eternity. “You’re okay, though, right? I know you love the high-wire cases, but?—”
“I’m fine,” I say, but she’s probably not buying it.
She pokes me in the arm. “You don’t have to befine, you know. You can just be. That’s allowed. Even for you, Iron Lady.”
I bristle at the nickname, but also feel weirdly grateful. Sometimes it takes Isla-level ridiculousness to remind me I’mstill a person, not just a legal meat grinder or Matthew’s punching bag.
“You know what this means right?” Isla says. “This calls for an emergency wardrobe intervention.”
“Excuse me?”
“Page Six is going to ship you with Hockey God the second they spot you. Those vultures will dissect every stitch you’re wearing.” She gestures at my gray blazer. “Your Brooks Brothers collection isn’t going to cut it.”
I glance down at my court-appropriate attire. “These are Tahari.”
“Exactly my point. We need something that says, ‘I can destroy you in court while looking fabulous doing it.’” She flips her blonde hair and all I can do is roll my eyes at her.
“I don’t think I’ll have time to shop. This case is wild, believe me.”
“Oh, I bet it is,” she says and bites her underlip. “God, please, ask him if I can do an interview one day. Please.”
“Okay, wild cat, for now you don’t say a word to anyone. When it’s media official, you’re the first with the spicy details, okay? I try to do what I can.”
She sighs. “Okay.”
My phone chirps, and I realize with a jolt that I haven’t checked it for nearly half an hour. Shit. Something about Isla’s hurricane-force personality always pulls me completely out of my orbit. As predicted, I have thirty-six unread e-mails, four missed calls from the firm, and one e-mail from Colton:
Let me know when we are allowed to talk.
—C
I type back, “We’ll need to prep ASAP. I’ll call you in an hour.” Then, out of habit, I scroll through a few tabloid sites just to see if the story’s broken yet. Nothing. But the clock is ticking. The court’s set the emergency hearing. Three days from now.The judge granted temporary custody to Colton until then, but we’ll need to pull more all-nighters to be ready.
Mom’s forehead creases. “Honey, you’ve gone white as a sheet. What’s wrong?”
“Yep. Total ghost mode,” Isla adds.
But I’m already on my feet, snatching Mom’s tote with the banana bread or chicken leftover or whatever. “Duty calls. I’ll update you both later!” I call over my shoulder, half-jogging toward the door, keys already jangling in my hand.
Isla’s loud voice follows me out the door, something about emergency online shopping and outfits she’ll deliver to my doorstep that will “make the hockey god sweat in his penalty box.”
I pretend not to hear.
TEN
Colton
Ionly realize I’ve been staring at Jenna for a full minute when her computer screen goes black, taking the last traces of her work with it. The city is blurred and smudgy behind her, the floor-to-ceiling windows glinting the pastel pink of whatever this hour is called.
