Yeah, this doesn’t look like work.
It should have been. That was the whole point. But if I’m being honest—really, brutally honest—it wasn’t. Not for a second.
And that makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
Things with Matthew are… bad. Worse than bad. But this—having a genuinely good time with another man—still feels wrong in a way I don’t know how to justify. I don’t like what it says about me.
I’m not unfaithful. I don’t do that. Ever.
But when Colton smiles at me like that, it feels like I am.
Which is ridiculous. He would never be interested in someone like me. There’s no version of reality where that happens, and I shouldn’t even be thinking about it.
And yet. I haven’t been sleeping well since the fun park.
The worst thing? I gave him my fuckingprivate numberafterward, because—unsurprisingly—we didn’t finish going overthe notes from the hearing. I made some offhand comment about wasting time, and he just… told me to call him that night.
So, I did.
I called Colton King from my private phone.
One: I never call clients at those hours. Two: I never call clients from my private phone. I always call from my office. Anything else is unprofessional and since work is my everything, all of this feels so unfamiliar to me. I don’t know what I’m doing but I should stop. And then—because apparently, I’ve lost all sense of dignity—I check if he is online on Instagram.
I don’t text him. Obviously not.
Ijustlook at his profile picture. At that stupid little green dot next to it.
And imagine things.
Him at home with Livy. What they are doing. What their evening looks like.
While I sit alone on my couch, binge-watching some show I couldn’t even focus on, I check if he is online… It feels absolutely childish. Well, I am childish.
“Since when are you taking clients to amusement parks?” Isla asks, her eyebrow arched with the precision of a surgeon again.
I take anotherlongsip of iced tea, buying time. “It wasn’t planned. We had just finished a strategy session at his apartment, and Livy?—”
“That’s his daughter?”
“Yes. She had been cooped up all day. She’s only six, Isla. And she looked at me with these eyes—she has his eyes—and…” Damn. I trail off, remembering how small her hand felt in mine as we walked through the park.
“Oh, I get it. They’re so beautiful that you melted and spent your day at the bumper cars instead of preparing for the next hearing? This doesn’t sound like you.”
“I couldn’t say no.”
Isla sets down her fork and studies me with the same intensity she uses to cross-examine her show’s guests. “You’re getting attached, Jen.”
How does she always manage to know? It’s as if she can read my mind. She’s spot on, but I’m not ready to admit it just yet. “No. I’m being thorough,” I try. “This case is different, Isla. You should see how that little girl looks at him. Like he’s her whole world. And her mother...” I shake my head, remembering the photos in Colton’s file. Livy with unwashed hair, a kitchen with nothing but condiments and vodka in the refrigerator. The way she acted in court.
“Different how? You’ve handled dozens of custody cases. They always have cute kids.”
“It’s just…different, okay?” I drop my voice to a hush, leaning in as if the other diners might suddenly sprout ears and start taking notes on my every word. “I just feel like I need to do more to help than I did with others. When he looks at Livy... it’s like nothing else in the world exists. And she needs him. Really needs him.”
“And the fact that he’s hot as fuck and looks at you like you hung the moon has nothing to do with your sudden interest in family outings?”
“It’s not like that. He was awful to me in high school. You know that.”
“Please, high school was a lifetime ago.”
