Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

  “Welcome to your Family Law Clinic,” he said. “I know some of you; to those I don’t, welcome. In this class, you’ll learn the skills and background necessary to participate in the clinic that accompanies the course. Orientation at the Jamaica Plain clinic is either directly after this class at one or tomorrow at eight a.m., so please be on time in order to sign up for your scheduled hours.”

  Professor Ashe continued to go over the basics of the class as he distributed the syllabus to everyone.

  “Can anyone tell me the significance of In re: Marriage of Ferguson?” Professor Ashe asked once we had covered the course calendar. He took his place behind the lectern.

  And so, the class began, following a Socratic question-and-answer routine I had come to know well over the last two and a half years. When Professor Ashe finally released us, I was one of the first out the door, eager to get to Jamaica Plain.

  “Someone is asking about you.”

  Interrupted from my thoughts on Massachusetts welfare law, I jerked my head up to find Eric standing next to me, his hand wrapped in one of the stability straps above my seat on the train.

  “Oh, hey,” I said. “On your way to orientation too?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I’m doing another internship at the firm this semester too, so I need to make sure my clinic hours work with it.”

  He took the seat beside me, and I turned to face him. “What do you mean, someone is asking about me? Someone at the firm, you mean?”

  Shit. Had Margie heard something she wasn’t supposed to? It felt like so much longer, but it had only been a week since I’d stormed out of Brandon’s office. Maybe I was water cooler gossip after all.

  Eric’s brown eyes twinkled. “Something like that. Ana keeps asking weird questions about you.” His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket to look at the message. “Case in point. ‘Do you know if Skylar likes boats?’” he read. He looked up, one eyebrow arched. “Something tells me it’s not Ana who is concerned with your sea legs, Crosby. Anything you want to say back?”

  I blinked, trying to look as innocent as possible, but likely failing miserably. “Just tell her I’m a landlubber since she apparently needs to know. How odd.”

  “Odd, huh? Okay, then.” Eric chuckled and typed back a quick reply. His phone buzzed again instantly. “Oops,” he said with a grin. “I guess I wasn’t supposed to tell you she was asking. So why is Sterling digging for your preferences?”

  “Who says he’s digging?” I asked lamely.

  “Do I look like an idiot, Crosby?” Eric asked dryly. “Be honest. You hitting that?”

  “Oh my God, no!” I protested hotly, feeling the flush rise up my cheeks.

  It was the truth, but obviously Eric didn’t believe me. I scanned the train car to make sure no one was listening. It wouldn’t matter if my classmates had worked at Sterling Grove or not; everyone knew that firm, and an intern sleeping with the boss would be good gossip to anyone. Luckily, we seemed to be the only HLS students in the car.

  “Sure, sure, Cros,” Eric said. “Well, if you’re not, looks like he wants to. Is that why you refused a position at the firm?”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. I really was not enjoying this little interrogation. “I only just met the guy two weeks ago. We’ve talked maybe once since then.”

  Right. Once while he polished my shoes in his living room. And then that time in his office, where we almost ripped each other’s clothes off before I came to my senses. And then that other time, when he walked me home all the way to New York City and met my father and gave me the best goodnight kiss I’d ever had. I shook my head vehemently, more to avoid getting sucked into that particular daydream again.

  Eric just laughed.

  “I told Ben and Laura I wasn’t planning to take a position about a week before I met him,” I insisted.

  Eric studied me closely, as if he were looking for some flaw in my argument. I wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, but I didn’t want him thinking I had anything to do with Brandon Sterling in my professional life. After about a minute of Eric watching me blush furiously, the conductor announced our destination.

  “Whatever you say, Crosby,” Eric said as we filed off with the other passengers. His phone buzzed again, and he fell behind as he read his message. More than one of our classmates stepped off other cars. Thank God they weren’t there to overhear our conversation.

  “Hey, Crosby!” Eric called as he jogged behind me.

  I cringed, bracing myself for the inevitable “be careful about dating such a rich guy” speech. Surrogate brothers came with some embarrassing caveats.

  Instead, he just said, “Ana wanted to know if you eat red meat,” with a cheeky grin. It wasn’t any use, I realized. That was the thing about a surrogate brother. He’d call me on my shit just as much as I called him on his. I might as well let him in.

  Slowly, I returned the grin and let Eric catch up. “I’m as carnivorous as they come,” I said. “What else does he want to know?”

  Family Law Services was the name of the small, single-floor clinic housed in a run-down brick building just off Washington Street. It was a collaboration between several HLS donors and the law school, located in a part of the city where rent was reasonable, and people needed cheap legal advice. A far cry from the manicured lawns and white pillars of Harvard Square, Jamaica Plain was one of the parts of Boston that were gradually being gentrified but was still home to a lot of pawn shops and bodegas. FLS was sandwiched between a check-cashing shop and expensive French bakery. The diverse neighborhood actually reminded me a lot of Flatbush.

  The five of us who showed up for the afternoon orientation were ushered into a conference room, where we were told to wait for the director.

  “I heard she’s a hard-ass,” whispered one of my classmates, Alex. “I hope she’s not a giant bitch.”

  Alex was a tall, brown-haired kid from Brookline who had attended Boston College before coming to Harvard. His father was one of the top-rated divorce attorneys in the city, and Alex was planning to join him at his firm.

  “You sound like an asshole,” I whispered back. “The people who come into this clinic deserve to have a hard-ass representing them. All the better if she teaches us how to do it.”

  Before Alex could turn his arrogant frown into a retort, the door to the conference room flew open. A tall, thin woman with black hair, a razor-sharp nose, and red lips pressed into an intolerant line purposefully entered.

  “First of all,” she said as she came to stand at the front of the conference table. “Let me say that just because this is a pro-bono clinic, your level of professionalism won’t be pro-bono too. Anything even slightly below what you would demonstrate at a for-profit firm, and you can kiss your clinic grade goodbye. These people need our help, and some are literally putting their lives in our hands. That deserves patience, diligence, and above all, respect.” She stared around the table and lingered on Alex, making me wonder if she had somehow heard our exchange. “Is that clear?”

  We all nodded. She glared at Alex before continuing.

  “I’m Kieran Beckford,” she said, “the director of FLS. I’m also a partner at Kiefer Knightly. In other words, I’m busy, so the second rule here is don’t bother me unless you absolutely have to. Got it?”

  Again, we all nodded, and Kieran looked at the sign-in list.

  “Today I’ll assign each of you to a volunteer attorney. You’ll need to arrange your scheduled hours with them. Since you guys are the early birds, you have the privilege of first dibs. So, Christian Vegas?”

  Christian, a small, unassuming kid with a weak chin, raised his hand. “Ah, here.”

  “This isn’t fifth grade,” said Kieran without looking up. “I’m assigning your mentor, not calling roll. You’ll be with Rodrigo Almodóvar. He’s here now at the front desk. Eric der Vries?”

  Eric waved his hand slightly and smiled. Kieran pursed her lips and did not smile back.

  “You’re with Almo
dóvar too.” She quickly assigned Alex and the other girl, Tina, before she looked at me. “Skylar Crosby?”

  A flash of brief recognition flashed across her sharp features, and suddenly I realized I knew her too. She was with the other two men who came into Brandon’s house the night we met. She had not been happy to see me.

  “That’s me,” I said a little too loudly.

  Kieran blinked. “Right. You’ll be with me.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach. This woman could make or break my job prospects at the end of this semester. If she thought I was the type of girl who screwed her boss, then I was the one about to be screwed.

  “The rest of you, go meet with your mentors. Skylar, stay here.”

  After my classmates filed out of the door, Kieran turned to face me.

  “You were at Brandon Sterling’s house two weeks ago.” It was a statement, not a question.

  I gulped. “Yes.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No. Not really. I was an intern at Sterling Grove last semester, but that night was the first time I’d seen him.” I couldn’t say it was the only time we’d met, but hopefully, Kieran didn’t catch that. “I was there with a friend of his housekeeper’s. I came upstairs to get cell service.”

  “It didn’t look like you were on your phone. It looked like you were making yourself comfortable in his living room.”

  I blanched. Well, I had two options here. I could act contrite and admit guilt where there wasn’t any. Or I could do what my instincts were telling me. If she was anything like the hard-faced girls I knew back in Brooklyn, Kieran was a wolf, and it was important not to show fear. So, I met her face-on with my best canine expression.

  “I live in student housing. And it’s a comfortable living room.” I prayed my gamble would pay off.

  Kieran narrowed her eyes briefly, evaluating my response. For a minute, I thought she was going to tell me to get out, but then her crimson lips spread into an unlikely smile. She barked a short laugh.

  “That it is,” she chuckled. “Good for you. Well, let’s get to work.”

  I followed her back into the main office, which was split into about ten cubicles shared by the volunteer lawyers. In the front was a small receptionist desk, behind which a few staff typed away at their desks. She led me into an office just off the receptionist area.

  “You can put your things there,” she said, nodding to a small desk to the right of her larger one. It was a tiny office compared to the partners’ offices at Sterling Grove, but it was covered with marks of Kieran's legal pedigree: framed degrees from UMASS Amherst and Harvard, a shelf full of well-used books on family law, protective orders, and custody, another full of case files.

  “All right,” Kieran said, sitting down at her desk. “I’m here Wednesday afternoon and all day on Fridays. You should pick two four-hour slots to be here during regular working hours. What will it be? You have to be here with me at least one slot, but you’ll get more out of it if I’m here both.”

  I chose to work on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and she marked me neatly on her desk calendar.

  “Right, then,” Kieran said. “You’ll basically be doing a lot of my research and paperwork for several of the different cases we take on, and you’ll also meet with clients of your own. For instance, I’ve got an appointment today with a woman who is trying to claim emotional abuse against a spouse while also filing for divorce. It’s nasty. I’ve just taken her case—” She gestured to a thick envelope in front of me. “You’ll need to read her file, interview her, and then begin drafting a motion for a protective order and sanctions. Any questions?”

  I accepted the file and thumbed briefly through the documents. There were several court transcripts from previous hearings, as well as signed statements by witnesses affirming the abuse in different forms, including a letter from a psychiatrist proclaiming the guy a sociopath. I looked up.

  “One, if you have the time to answer it. What’s a sociopath?”

  Kieran scowled.

  “A first-rate son of a bitch,” she said emphatically. “Otherwise defined as someone who doesn’t act with logical notions of morality or social awareness. A narcissist only concerned with his own wellbeing. Someone who plays games with others to bolster his own ego, who gifts to procure debts, who loves to exact his demented version of vengeance.”

  Kieran huffed with each definition and rapped her knuckles on the wood desktop after each one.

  “These kinds of assholes usually start out sailing into a relationship like a white knight," she continued. “They make grand gestures to vulnerable women. Proclaim their love, then take control because of it. And they hate to lose, which is why legal battles with them tend to be very expensive. This guy in particular”—she nodded at the file—“embezzled half of the client’s 401K, and now she’s bankrupt because they’ve been in litigation for over a year. It’s why she’s here instead of some big firm. But he won’t stop until he’s ruined her, even if it ruins him.”

  It wasn’t the kind of case I’d expected to see here. This woman was educated, a respected businesswoman before she’d gotten mixed up with this guy. She could be me, just a few years older.

  “You’ll learn a lot working here,” Kieran remarked. “About your own life as well as theirs. Sometimes a prince is really just the devil in disguise.”

  13

  The buzzer tore through the apartment at five minutes past eight. Brandon was slightly late, but I only noticed because I had been ready to go for at least an hour. Before leaving for her date with a Physics Ph.D. student, Jane had helped me get ready for the first date in a long time that made me nervous.

  All he had told me was that we were going to dinner and to wear a dress. I had received one cryptic email on Thursday confirming our date, but that was it. Beyond that, I had nothing. Did I even have anything remotely appropriate in my wardrobe for a date with a billionaire? Could I wear boots and tights befitting the frigid weather, or was I expected to wear a sexy cocktail dress? His previous references to “events” made me wonder if we were going to some fancy function (I really hoped not).

  Where did billionaires go on dates anyway?

  In the end, Jane and I had decided on a short-sleeved, knit black dress that hugged every curve I had, from the flared, knee-length hem all the way up to the scoop neck. I paired the dress with sheer black stockings and my favorite Manolos, fresh back from the cobbler. Jane had tucked my unruly locks into hot rollers for fifteen minutes and then teased them into waves that tumbled down my back. Once I had my contacts in and put on a bit of mascara and lip gloss, I felt like I had completely eschewed my bookish law-student exterior in favor of a sex kitten I didn’t know I had in me. Or at least that I hadn’t seen in a very long time.

  It still didn’t stop my nerves from dancing around my belly like maniacs for another hour after Jane left. Until the buzzer rang, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure the date was for real.

  I pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”

  “It’s Brandon. Let me up?”

  I leaned my forehead against the wall momentarily. “Sure,” I said and buzzed him in.

  I opened the door and waited. Footsteps, heavy and urgent, grew closer. My stomach. I was setting myself up for disappointment, I knew, but at this point, I couldn’t care less. He was finally here.

  “Do you realize that we forgot to trade cell phone numbers?” Brandon demanded as he strode into my apartment like he owned the place.

  I closed the door and watched him swipe through his iPhone contacts without even looking at me.

  “All your intern file contains is a Google Voice number that apparently you don’t check. I wanted to call this week to confirm our date, but I couldn’t. Shit, I wanted to let you know I was stuck in traffic just now, but I couldn’t.”

  Immediately, I was glad I had gone with a more casual dress instead of something more formal. He looked good—amazing, actually—in tailored jeans, a light-gray button-up sh
irt, a black skinny tie, and a leather bomber jacket. He clutched a black scarf and a pair of leather gloves in one hand, and his tousled blond hair was unruly and free. My fingers tensed with the desire to grab it.

  “I sent you an email,” I said in a small voice.

  “Margie checks my Sterling email. I never go through it,” Brandon said absently as he continued swiping through his phone.

  The catch of the lock made him look up. I stood against the door, my hands wrapped around the knob behind me. A sly half grin slowly spread over Brandon's face, and he dropped his phone into his pocket without another look. He blew out a slow, uneven breath.

  “Damn, Red,” he murmured. “I thought you were gorgeous before, but…wow.”

  I ducked my head to hide the blush rising up my cheeks. Before I could look up again, he was close enough that I was inundated with that intoxicating blend of mint, almonds, and man that had been driving me crazy for the last week. It had been easy to daydream about him, but there was no substitute for the real thing.

  Brandon played a finger over my jaw and tipped my chin up so I had to look into his eyes, where I could almost perfectly see my yearning reflected back at me. I swallowed as he leaned down to follow his finger with his nose. My skin pebbled deliciously beneath his touch, set alight with goose bumps that had nothing to do with the weather.

  “One week,” he murmured against my skin, “is too long to go without seeing you. I won’t do it again.”

  His finger traced down to the neckline of my dress, skimming the edge of my collarbone.

  “Well, you probably need my number then,” I said, my voice unnecessarily breathy.

  His nose, accompanied by the warm breath, the suggestion of his mouth, nuzzled the soft skin just under my jaw. I just barely stifled a whimper.

  “Oh, I’m going to need a lot more than that,” he rumbled against my ear before pressing his mouth into the skin just below it.

  I grasped at the doorknob to keep my balance. His lips were softer than I remembered. Involuntarily, I arched my neck into his face, urging him to do what, I wasn’t entirely sure. At this point, I didn’t really care.