Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
“You’re looking for trouble,” I accuse.
“That’s the name of the game during a trial.”
“We can get coffee but not there. Pick another place.” I grab my briefcase, stuff my purse inside with my MacBook, and head for the door.
Reese joins me, but he doesn’t reach for the door. “Let’s get coffee at our place, Cat.”
“Fine, but let’s set some groundwork. The days you are heading up a high-profile trial, or really any trial, you will get your way eighty percent of the time. The days you are not, I get my way eighty percent of the time.”
“I can live with that. Do you need a coat? Do you have one with you?”
“I brought one, but I don’t want to deal with it in court. I’ll be fine. I’m ready.”
He doesn’t move. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a key. “For you.”
My lips part. “What is that?”
“You’re staying here,” he says, taking my hand and closing it around the key. “You should have a way to come and go.”
“Reese—”
He leans in and kisses me. “It’s yours, Cat.” He brushes hair from my face. “And don’t go getting spooked on me.”
“I’m not. I’m just—surprised.”
“Then you must not get it yet.”
“Get what?”
“I play for keeps, sweetheart. And I’m keeping you.” He motions to the door. “Come on. Let’s go win a trial.”
He says those words like we’re in this together, and we are. I’m in this with him. I’m holding his key in my hand. He opens the door and we step into the hallway. While he locks up, I stick the key in the zipper pocket of my briefcase and we head to the elevator. Once we’re inside, both our phones buzz with a text. He laughs at his and shows it to me.
I read it: Don’t be a loser, pretty boy. No one likes a loser.
I arch a brow at him. “My sister,” he says.
“She’s brutal, but funny,” I comment.
“Yes, she is.” He sends her a quick message, and I show him my text message that reads: We need to talk. I’ve talked to the publisher on your behalf because I care how this ends for you.
“Your agent,” he says.
“My ex-agent.”
The elevator opens, and we start our walk toward the exit. “Call her while we walk.”
“I’ll call her tonight. You need to focus on you and the trial, not my agent drama.”
“Cat. This is your career.”
“This trial is my career. I’ll call her.” It hits me that he’s the only man, of the many in my life, that actually presses on matters that concern me. We stop at a stoplight and I turn to him. “I promise. And thank you for pushing. I know it’s because you want to look out for me.”
“I owe you. Your input on this trial has been invaluable.”
The light turns and he motions us forward. A few steps past the intersection and we arrive at the coffee shop, and avoid talking about the trial while we wait in line. Instead, we talk about his parents. “Tell me more about the ranch your parents own.”
“They have stallions. Do you ride?”
“No,” I say. “But I’ve always wanted to.”
“I’ll take you up there. We’ll figure out when and do it.”
He wants to take me to his parents. “You want to take me to your parents?”
His eyes soften. “Yes, Cat, I do. Just be prepared for a cranky married couple. And my brother, who rivals my sister in attitude.”
“I’m used to brothers.”
“You’ll like my sister.”
“Does she work at the ranch?” I ask.
“No. She’s an interior designer, but she only lives an hour from the ranch. She’ll show up if I show up.”
It’s our turn at the register, and it’s not long until we have our coffee and we’re finishing the short walk to the courthouse. I stop him a block away. “You don’t need to walk in with me, Reese. Mr. Hotness gossip isn’t what you need right now.”
“Cat—”
I push to my toes, lean into him, and kiss him. “Please. Go on without me. And go Team Summer. Kick ass.”
“Are you Team Summer, Cat?”
“You had me the minute you cut in line and earned your temporary Mr. Arrogant Asshole title.”
He laughs and kisses me again. “I’ll see you for lunch unless some hell breaks loose.”
“See you at lunch.”
“Call your agent,” he says, and starts walking.
“Ex-agent!” I call after him, but he’s right. I need to call Liz.
I glance at my watch, and it’s actually early. I have time to call her. I walk onward to the courthouse, and since the picketers have already started, I round the corner and sit on a bench. I punch the autodial for Liz and the moment is rather anticlimactic, since I get her voice mail. I text her: I’m headed into court. I’ll try and call you at lunch. I disconnect, place my phone on vibrate, and head inside. A few minutes later, I’ve claimed my spot in the courtroom and pull out my notebook, not sure if I did the right or wrong thing when I wrote that closing statement and read it to him.