She shrugs. “He’s done it in every other way. How hard would it be for him to blacklist my name with his associates? All I know is, each time I call a landlord or realtor, the conversation goes south when I tell them my name. If it’d only happened once or twice, I wouldn’t have thought much about it.”
“How many times has it happened?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You’ve called twenty-two places and they all rejected you? After credit checks?” How could that be?
“Before credit checks,” she clarifies. “Most rejections have been over the phone; a few have been after I’ve toured the place and things seemed to be going good. I’ve even been told a couple times that the place had already been rented only to drive by a week later to see a For Rent sign still posted.”
“It could be coincidence.” My mind grasps for rationalization.
“Could be.”
Neither of us sounds convinced.
Prescott has his finger on the pulse of this city, to be sure. He holds stocks and owns so many investments and properties, anyone would be hard pressed to know just how many.
We turn into the underground parking lot, through the yellow striped concrete tunnel, then park in my numbered space. Stepping out of the car, we walk to the elevator.
“Elle, I won’t pretend to know what you’ve been through, with the kids, trying to fight Prescott.” On her own.
“I’ve worked so hard on their behalf and Prescott has blocked me every step of the way. We were supposed to have a page two article in The Gazette that got relegated to a partial column on page twenty-two. I also had an interview set up with Thomas Beatty—”
“From Channel Five News. I remember you telling me that before. He’d be a good connection and could really get their story out. Beatty has a lot of clout in the twin cities. His is the most popular local show.” Without warning, I feel my insides clench with jealousy. Beatty’s good looking, popular and could definitely be a contender for Elle’s affections.
I shake it off and add, “I never saw you on his news spot.”
“That’s because it never happened,” she explains. “After having a deep interest in the issue, he abruptly and unexpectantly canceled our interview, stating there wasn’t time and something about ratings. I think it was a crock of shit.”
“You think it was Prescott.”
“Most definitely.” She shakes her head, then lowers her eyes as she thoughtfully fidgets with the zipper on her coat. “I love those children more than anything. I’m terrified of losing them and never seeing them again. I desperately want to be the one whom the judge grants custody to, but I have to prepare myself—and more importantly, them. If I don’t get custody, or guardianship, I have to secure every possibility for them, to keep them safe and together, and to give them a good life… even if that can’t include me.” Her chest heaves with a shuddering breath. “When I saw Jackson in the detention facility, he’d become so dark and broken. It shattered my heart. When I had to leave him there, it nearly killed me.” Her eyes storm over. “He never belonged there in the first place. The system pisses me off so much, ripping siblings apart and punishing them like they do. All he wants to do is keep his family together, protect them. And they lock him up.”
“Knowing you, how action-oriented you are, having to see him there with your hands being tied behind your back must’ve been a nightmare for you.” I put my hand on her shoulder, wanting so badly to make everything right and ease the suffering in her eyes.
“It was. I actually considered how I could break him out. Of course, as an adult I couldn’t—you know, kidnapping and prison charges—but in that moment, I thought of you.”
I stop short, completely surprised. “Me?”
“Yeah, Con, the teenager—no consequence was enough to stop you from freeing me when we were kids. Back then we didn’t care about rules or laws. We broke them when they were wrong.”
Shit, that takes me back and throws me for a loop. What a loaded but simple statement, reminding me who I used to be and what I believed in.
“Yes, we did.” Stepping into the empty elevator, I press the button for floor number five.
“That wasn’t the only nightmare,” she tells me. “Total confession: when I first read about who you were, after having to deal with you in court and discovering that you were the Twin Cities’ golden-boy, premier lawyer… I was scared to death, knowing you were going to bury us.” She swallows hard.
“I’m sorry, Elle.” I wince, the truth of her statement wrenching my heart.
“How could you have known?” She meets my eyes. “They kept the most important details from you. I know that now, but before I knew who you really were, I thought you were the biggest asshole for doing what you were doing to them.”
I lift my hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. I’d have thought I was an asshole too.”
Her fingers reach for my face. She thumbs the curve of my jaw, and I can’t help but clench it, knowing what I put her through. What I put the kids through.
“No, please.” She gently strokes at the tension. “It was the furthest thing from the truth. They wouldn’t be safe right now, or happy, if it weren’t for you. It was before you even knew what was happening on my end, before you knew how I felt about them. They—we—are okay only because of you.”
The elevator opens.
Quietly, I take her hand, thinking of everything she’s said as we walk to my door.
Elle sighs. “Connor Callahan.” The corners of her mouth tug up into a grin. “When Debra wanted to set me up with the guy I was stalking at The Core, telling me that you were one of her boys, I was nervous but excited. Then it was…” Her voice trails off.
“Me.” I nod, diverting my gaze away from hers. Guilty again.
She exhales audibly, as if releasing the fear she’d still been holding. Gently, she reaches up and guides my face back toward her so I’m forced to look into her eyes again. They’re filled with hope and possibility. “I’m so grateful that guy, that lawyer, was—and is—you.”
She comes up on her tip-toes and kisses my lips so sweetly.
Elle’s bared her soul to me, shared intimate details she only could’ve shared out of trust. She challenges me, makes me think.
I squeeze her waist. The way she makes me feel causes my blood to pump and adrenaline to spike and reinforces the fact that I’d do anything for her.
Once inside, Elle scans my apartment and remarks, “This is quite the bachelor pad. Open layout. Simple. I like it.”
Suddenly, I’m struck with how bare bones it is. “Truthfully, I’m hardly ever here.”
She walks around, giving herself a tour, while I put our bags over by the sofa.
“I can tell.” Her voice echoes from the kitchen. I look over and see her peering into the open refrigerator. “Is your fridge always this empty? Or is it because of being at North House for the week?”
“That’s how it usually looks.” Folding my arms over my chest, I watch her with amusement.
She opens the cabinets and pantry, examining my ridiculously vacant shelves. “You’re a great cook, Connor; how is it you have no ingredients?”
“Told you, I only cook when I have someone I want to cook for. When I’m working, I don’t have the time.”
My eyes slide over to the expansive dining room table covered in office work. Numerous files and stacks of papers from different cases are neatly organized all over the tabletop.
As she meanders back to me, she follows my gaze to my workstation. “I see what you mean. It’d take you at least two days to clean that up enough to even use the table.”
“That table always looks like that. That’s why I have the coffee table.”
“So, you eat at the coffee table. And what do you eat?”
“Healthy takeout, protein shakes, a lot of coffee.” I chuckle. “I swing by North House for more homecooked fare.”
“No one would blame you there. Debra’s a wonderful cook. I bur
n soup,” she says self-depreciatingly with a light laugh. “If you lived with me, you’d starve.”
I answer, dead serious, “We wouldn’t starve. I’d cook for you.”
Her eyes dart to mine then away again just as quickly. There it is, that sweet splash of blush across her cheeks. I like being responsible for it.
She wanders through the living room.
In simple steel and grays, the furnishings are stately rather than comfortable. Sophisticated. There’s a polished glass and steel coffee table with matching end tables. The carpet is a gray Berber pile, and the walls are a crisp, clean white.
“It looked pretty good in the Best of the Twin Cities Magazine spread,” I tell her.
“You keep it very neat.”
“I have someone who comes through once a week to clean.”
As she steps closer to the wall, her eyes linger over my framed degrees and accolades.
“Having gotten to know you and your interests, I’d have guessed you would’ve practiced human rights law,” she remarks. “What made you get into business and corporate defense?”
How does she do that? Peg me and be one-hundred percent accurate? And why the fuck does her innocent inquiry sting like it does? “Human rights was my focus, but once I graduated, I scored an internship with Harrison and Smith. I was learning a lot, and the wins in court were… plainly put, fucking exhilarating. I got good, gained a killer rep and was amassing a fat bank account. I ended up staying.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Yeah, why do I feel like I’m blaming myself? It’s needled me for a long time, knowing I set my ideals and aspirations to the side, and for fucking what? Money and prestige? Not that those things are intrinsically bad, but I know I haven’t followed my passion where law is concerned.
She runs her finger over the framed photo of Cade, Debra, my brothers, Quinn, Sophie and Rachel.
“Love this pic.” She smiles. “Looks recent.”
“It was taken this summer.”
“I love how close you all are.”
She moves to my bookshelves, her eyes scanning the titles and thick spines. Not only do I have stacks of contemporary and historical fiction, I collect memoirs and biographies, and of course have a plethora of law books to consult.
“Not much in the way of nick-knacks or mementos,” she observes.
“Like I said, I don’t spend much time here.”
“Yeah, but that says a lot about you.”
I cock an eyebrow curiously. “What does it say?”
“That maybe this place is more an extension of the law firm as opposed to a cozy space you’d call home.” Her voice is tentative.
“You won’t piss me off, sweetheart,” I assure her. “I’m eager to know what you see.”
“Okay, like maybe this is where you come to get the work done that you have to do, but that your true home is where you go to feel more relaxed and alive.” She studies my face, confident in her assumption. “That’s really The Core and North House. Even when we pulled in, you told me that you live here so you can be ‘closer to home.’” She makes air quotes with her fingers.
I exhale a thoughtful breath. “I did say that.” What an observation.
“Your personality and character are much warmer, and more open and colorful, than this apartment reveals.” She quickly qualifies what she’s saying. “Am I okay? Saying these things to you?”
“More than you know.”
She throws me a flirty look before going back to her examination. “You have no TV set?”
I shake my head. “Don’t need one.”
“Not even in the bedroom?”
“Nope. I never have time to watch anything.”
A new reflection crosses her eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“You don’t relax here at all.” Her eyes fall over me. I catch the sympathy, but it’s not condescending. Rather, it’s like she knows the feeling.
I expected the scrutiny—welcomed it so she could get to know me deeper—what I hadn’t expected was the introspective analysis. Or its outcome. And, maybe worse, her dead-on precision.
As if on cue, we both look toward the closed door.
“Bedroom?” she inquires.
“Last room in the place.” It seems like a challenge.
She cocks an eyebrow. “You got a credit card, Mr. Hot-shot, fancy lawyer?”
“Discover, and three more, baby.” I’m fully game for whatever she has in mind.
“Let’s go shopping.”
When we get back later that evening, we stand in my living room deciding whether or not the placement is good for the new armchair.
“This is perfectly you. It has a modern classic bend, colorful, almost art deco but chic and stylish. It brings new life to the room,” she decides, then asks, unsure, “Do you think so? Or do you hate it? Tell me the truth. You can always return it; you won’t hurt my feelings.”
It’s ironic: the style and color she chose as “me.” She has no idea how hard she nailed it. Even better, I had no say in it—I let her do the thinking and the choosing, and she still hit the target.
The chair is deep red with black and silver accents. It’s comfortable and big enough to fit both of us.
Stepping behind her, I wrap my hands around her waist and sweep her hair out of the way so I can kiss her on the neck. I have the urge to ask her if we should christen the new piece, but she’s not exactly my girlfriend yet, and I’m treading carefully in this new-relationship territory we’re exploring.
Meanwhile, the aroma of teriyaki tofu, veggie stir fry and fried rice takeout wafts from the kitchen.
“You ready for our in-house dinner and movie date?” I ask.
“Yes.” She giggles as I kiss along the pulse point of her throat. “I’m starving.” Then she gasps. “Oh my God, I forgot to call Anya. I bet I have like, a zillion messages from her. Do you mind if I take it in the bathroom?”
“Not at all. I’ll get everything set up while you do that.”
Grabbing her overnight bag and phone, she disappears into my bathroom.
Bringing the food and wine into the living room, I set the thin white cartons on the coffee table, open my laptop and set it in the middle, then put in the movie Elle picked out.
It’s some chick flick. I don’t give a fuck what the movie is, all I care about is that she’s spending more time with me. I’ll watch whatever she damn well wants.
“I miss you too, Lily,” Elle says as she comes back into the room. “I miss all of you, and I promise we’ll spend time together tomorrow. I already spoke to Cade and I’m taking the three of you on a picnic.” She tosses me a sweet smile. “Yes, I know there’s snow outside, Max. That’s why our picnic is going to be at Chuck E. Cheese!”
Elle quickly pulls her phone away from her ear as the three kids shriek in excitement. Her eyes meet mine and she laughs. “They’re so great.”
“Yes, they are,” I agree wholeheartedly. And so are you.
“Okay, I’ll be there to pick you up at one. You guys be ready,” she instructs before exhaling a deep sigh. “I love you too.”
When she disconnects, she stares at her phone while worrying her bottom lip.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, confused. “The call sounded like everything is going great.”
“It is and it did. I’m just thinking about them. Lily and Max both regularly tell me that they love me. I say it back and mean it with all my heart. But I’m just afraid if the court doesn’t smile in my favor and I don’t get them, how it will hurt them… again.”
I absorb her thought. “Even if you didn’t get to keep them, and though it would hurt all of you,” I add, knowing she’d be just as wounded, “the love will stay. Just knowing you’re loved, especially when things get tough, can make all the difference in the world. For them and you.”
She nods and her shoulders relax again. “You’re right. They need to know that they’re loved.”
“And they do now, because
of you,” I remind her. “How’s Anya?”
“On a date. I just shot her a text message. Also, I didn’t pack enough clothes. Could I borrow a tee shirt?”
“Sure, although I’d rather have you naked,” I tell her. Suddenly, the heat of embarrassment climbs up my spine. “Christ, Elle, that just slipped out.”
She laughs. “I’d love to be naked… again… underneath and then on top of you.”
“In that case, we’ll never get to the movie,” I say with a growl.
“You said ‘just slipped out’ apologetically. Why are you still so apprehensive with me?”
I study her as my thoughts grow serious. “I don’t want to rush things, or you, or create an atmosphere that makes you think that’s all I want. Not that I don’t want it, because Christ, I do. Making love with you was like nothing I’ve ever felt before.” Moving in close, I massage a thumb over her jaw. “But I could kiss you goodnight and that could be all, and you’d make me the happiest fucking guy alive. I like you, Elle. That’s an understatement. I really like you. I don’t want to fuck anything up.”
“I’m not worried about you fucking anything up, Connor. And I really like you back.” She tucks her hand against the nape of my neck.
“Then… you don’t want the shirt?” I say and watch a smile spread across her pretty face.
Elle shakes her head no, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Well then, let me help you out of your clothes.”
Elle
IN A HEARTBEAT, Connor lifts my shirt over my head and drops it to the floor.
As quickly as I can, I work to unbutton his dress shirt. He can’t wait. He pulls the fabric apart, allowing the buttons to pop off and revealing his gorgeous physique. I push it off his shoulders and to his forearms, where it gets hung up.
I massage his shoulders and chest, before running my hands all over his colorful tattoos and the planes of his cut muscles leading down to the defined V descending into his pants, like a road map to the prize.
He finally gets his shirt off and starts working on the button and side zipper of my skirt. Too soon, he’s having trouble. It’s tricky since there’s a silver clasp hidden inside the waistband.
Risk: An Enemies to Lovers, Second Chance Romance Standalone (Brothers of Ink and Steel) Page 23