“Doesn’t it? Because you went from avoiding even hearing his name to spending weekends with him awfully fast.”
She’s right, and we both know it. Two months ago, I would have laughed if someone suggested I’d willingly spend time with Colton King. Now I’m defending him to my best friend.
“You’re right…” I finally give in; she won’t stop otherwise. “I kinda… I think I don’t hate him anymore.” There. It’s out and it feels good to be honest for once.
Isla takes another bite of her wrap. “Just be careful, okay? I know how you get with these cases. All in, no boundaries.”
“I have boundaries,” I protest.
“Usually yeah, but I just want you to watch out for yourself once.”
“That day in the park was different.”
“It’s never different, Jen. You pour everything into these cases until there’s nothing left for you.” She taps the phone screen, where the fun park photo still glows. “But this one feels... personal. I want you to enjoy it, really, but I love you and I hate it when you get hurt.”
The busy street noise fades for a moment as I stare at the image.
“Maybe it is personal,” I admit. “His ex-wife is neglecting that little girl, Isla. Not in the ‘forgot to sign the permission slip’ way. In the ‘left her alone with no food for twelve hours’ way. And the court still favors her because she has a stable address and Colton travels for games.”
Isla studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Just remember that when this case ends—and it will end—you’re the one who has to live with whatever lines you’ve crossed.”
Her words settle heavy in my stomach, mixing unpleasantly with the tuna wrap. I know she’s right. I know I’m getting too invested. But then I remember Livy’s small hand slipping into mine, trustingly, as we walked through the fun park. The way she whispered, “Are you my dad’s friend now?” with such hope in her voice.
Some lines are worth crossing.
“I know what I’m doing,” I tell Isla, with more confidence than I feel.
“Sure you do.” She signals the waiter for the check. “You always do. Until you don’t.”
She hands her credit card over to the waiter, brushing off my attempt to split the bill with that familiar, immovable stubbornness—and I’m just reaching for my tea when my phone buzzes on the table.
I glance down.
And freeze.
No. No. No. It’s Colton.
Not the office line. Not an e-mail. Nothing even remotely professional. It’s my private phone number. Of course, I had considered the possibility of this happening—I even suggested giving him my number—but now that his message has popped up on WhatsApp, it feels... wrong. Right. Wrong. And yet, somehow, right.
I glance down at my phone, where a text from Colton waits. It’s just a text, I remind myself, but the way my heart races makes it feel like so much more. The casualness of the text feels like a breach of some unspoken boundary—a line I hadn’t intended to cross. Or maybe I did.
I didn’t give him my number for this.
My pulse does something inconvenient.
I unlock the screen anyway.
Colton
Livy wants to know when she can see “Miss Jenna” again. Apparently, you’re her favorite now…
Something warm spreads through my chest.
I don’t reply. I don’t even type.
I just sit there, staring at the message a second too long before locking my phone and slipping it back into my bag like it might get me in trouble.
Which—it probably will.
