by Emily Duvall
My shoulders still. I’ve already had a child. She’s dead. Though, I don’t say that to Ellen either. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll go by in bit.” I hang up in a foul mood.
The phone call skyrockets my irritation level. I plow through the document in front of me by slashing words that could be interpreted as warm or soft or caring. These daughters, Amanda, Ellie, and Beth should never have been allowed in the bar in the first place. Where were their parents? What did they think their daughters were doing out at ten o’clock on a school night? If they’re looking for blame, they need to look in the mirror. They didn’t protect their daughters and I’m going to rip what’s left of their family apart. They won’t get any money from this suit.
I didn’t get any compensation when I went to court for Darcy.
The smell of Chinese food causes me to look across the hall. The smell of working late and many law school evenings spent at my own internship brings me with humility back to my office. This case isn’t about the lawyers I hired for Darcy. She is not those girls. I need a break.
I get up from my desk and go to the conference room with papers and laptops sprawled on the table and a ring of interns and junior associates going through documents. I knock on the doorframe and catch their gazes. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
I drive over to Maren’s building and pause in the parking lot to answer half dozen emails that have popped up in my fifteen-minute absence. I enter the lobby and another resident lets me through.
No sounds emerge from her apartment. I stand outside her door with my pulse pounding and my eyes ready for the moment she answers. I lift my fist and knock. A series of clicks and the door opens. I freeze. Maren’s hair is in soft waves and my gaze is drawn to her lips. A light pink sheen glosses her mouth with tormenting appeal. Strokes of blush are up her cheeks and the mascara brings out a stunning depth to her eyes.
She’s breathtaking, my heart whispers intensely.
“How did you get up here without a badge?” she says, shattering the wall I have built with logical defenses.
Why did I make such an effort to stay away this week? I don’t know what this feeling is—what any of this means, but I am still standing in her doorway, unable to move. “Your mother called me,” I explain. “I’m making sure you haven’t burned your house down and one of your neighbor’s let me in.”
Her brow creases. “You’re here because of my mother?”
“And the fire.” I let a grin slip.
She turns her head to the kitchen. “There’s no fire here.”
“I know. Your mother was worried.” My reason for showing up is lame, and yet, I still came.
“Do you want to come inside?” she asks, widening the door open.
Do not. Turn back. Around. Keep walking. Keep moving. Unfortunately, I don’t take my own advice. Within seconds, I’m in her apartment checking out the impressive stack of dirty dishes on the counter. “Not much into washing those?”
She casts a flippant look at the plates. “Nope. I’ve never been much into cleaning up right after a meal. Why not let them sit and do them later?” Maren closes the door behind me. “You’re staring at me longer than you should. One second is long enough.”
“I’m not staring.” That’s incorrect. “I’m checking you out. You’re wearing makeup.” More important: Why does it look like she’s done such a great job?
“I had to take a photo at work. Charlotte helped me.”
She angles her head and those curls unwind a little down her back, making me think of brushing them away with my hand. My breath tightens. My brow creases from her statement. “What kind of photo?”
“I’m giving a speech at a conference in Manhattan. Mr. Williams asked me a couple of weeks ago. The company needed a professional photo of me for the brochure and they had everything set up at the office today.”
“Wait. Are you talking about Garrett Williams? As in the president of your company?”
She does the Maren shrug. “Yes, the only one. He came to my office and asked me in person. At first, I said no, but they needed an answer and I said yes.”
The owner of her accounting firm is a big deal. I whistle. “You should be honored.”
“Because he’s rich and powerful, I know.”
“It’s more than that. He’s brilliant. I know several people who would kill for an opportunity to be in the same elevator with him. Good for you, Maren.”
She releases a tired sigh. “I’m not sure I feel the same.”
“Why not?”
“I’m supposed to tell complete strangers how diversity in the workplace makes us better team players.”
“Ah,” I say, understanding, and in the same breath, getting a grip on something else. The more I get to know Maren, I realize she’s like any stubborn woman. Except with a few more quirks, and one who prefers a mess to any over-organized, obsessive neat freak. “They picked the right person.”
She reaches around me for some reason and her gaze catches mine. Her hand stops midway to whatever she was about to grab. My spine is straight, and I resist for a long minute from lowering my heady gaze to hers. One look at the heat in her eyes is enough. The air is thick between us. A steady pounding of hunger and unspoken needs release in a slow, thin breath. My brain is no longer in control. I don’t think hers is either. “Is there something you want?” My voice is rugged, but unyielding.
Her fingers trace a path down my arm until her fingers splay over the fabric of my pale blue shirt. I take that hand and bring it to my lips, brushing over her skin. Her gaze never wavers. Never looks anywhere else. I glimpse her heart, her struggles, and her needs wrapped up in one glance. “I need you to kiss me,” she whispers in the clearest, sexiest voice I have ever heard.
I am going to kiss her. I will not pretend that I don’t want this. I give in to the fight I’ve been avoiding for days. I want to taste her lips. Feel what her skin is like sliding over mine. Run my hands down her neck and breasts until I know her fully. I want to feel her tremble at my touch and her legs to squeeze around my thighs. I take her face in my hands and sweep my lips over her mouth. The impact is swift and strong, and I claim her lips with my own. My hands grip her waist and lift her onto the counter.
She reaches around my neck and pulls me close. Her lips are on mine, prodding, moving, tasting. I give back in light movements, inhaling her crisp scent, doing nothing to stop this insane, thriving need simmering under my skin like a smoldering fire. My mouth rakes over hers purposefully and wholly, igniting heat straight to my core. Each flick of her tongue and I’m gone. My cock is rigid and swollen. She has me. I’m beyond enticed. My hands run up her sides, one of them slipping under her shirt and feeling her middle quiver at the stroke of my hand. I want her to know how she makes me feel. I won’t let her feel different about this. There’s a beat of being out-of-sync, a wildness I fully intend to tame, and I smile against her mouth at the taste of her lips, like water and air. The rhythm of my heart is fierce. My breath is uneven.
“Don’t stop,” she says, catching my mouth with hers. “We have a pattern to our kiss.”
“I won’t break it then.” The words rush past my lips with a surge of energy. Her lips tease mine and I kiss her back. The rough movements are tamed, followed by gentle. Each clip of her lips is like a blow to my defenses. I want her. I want to drag my mouth all over her body. I haven’t felt this way since, forever.
She pulls away. Her face is serious and her expression, unwavering. “Let’s go have sex.”
Automatically, my hold on her waist stiffens. I swallow down a chuckle. “You ever hear of being subtle?”
She folds her arms over her chest. “Did I move too fast?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I could take you right here on the counter.” I’m the problem. One evening with her would ruin the last month, which I’ve enjoyed more than anything lately and sex could change whatever this is.
She’s genuinely stumped. She’s also endearing. “I thought you would stay
the night.”
“I would love to…” No really, who gave me this moral compass? I’m hard just thinking about the two of us spending the evening in her bed. There’s an audible huff from her charming mouth. I shed a piece of my callousness. “You have to get what you want, without being eager,” I explain bluntly, the only way I know how when we’re together.
Her eyebrow crinkles. “I thought we wanted the same thing.”
“We do—I do. Just not tonight. I have to get back to the office and that’s not an excuse. My team is waiting for me.” My arms bring her closer and I press my lips against hers. “Saturday. Jogging. I’ll see you then.”
And there goes my week. It’s all I can do from knocking on her door and doing what I promised, taking her right there on her kitchen counter.
The case swallows my attention like some giant, pissed-off cagey animal and by the end of the week I need to take a few hours off. Maren’s parents are back in town which causes me to assume she might not meet up for running. That notion is struck down the split-second I see her sitting on our bench, oblivious to the group of women hovering and exchanging annoyed expressions because they need somewhere to sit, and she’s seated in the dead middle.
Maren’s attention is elsewhere. Head bowed, eyes fixated on the watch on her wrist, she doesn’t see me walk towards her.
I’ve got more than one problem when it comes to Maren. All week I’ve been keeping my thoughts on the caseload, ordering staff around, moving with a grumpy demeanor through the office that my coworkers are mistaking for the upcoming trial. The truth is, I’ve been doing everything I can to not think about the kiss. Burying the memory hasn’t worked. Every freaking time I close my eyes I feel her lips rub against mine and my body is longing with selfish need for so much more. My ears hear the words, “I want to have sex.” My dick responds, even now, and I think about Libby coming at with me an axe. That helps. Sort of.
The women behind Maren see me. They notice me with flirtatious smiles. I ignore their silent plea to take up my attention. I stand in front of Maren. I look only at her. All those self-centered desires thunder through my heart. I can ignore what I want, but I know my efforts are futile. “Maren,” I greet her in a voice waging a war.
She glances up and goes back to adjusting the watch on her wrist, a sleek band with a square face. “Hey,” she says simply.
My gaze flickers to her wrist. “You counting steps now?”
“Yup. Ten thousand a day. I only have one thousand.”
I extend my hand to hers. “Then let’s get moving.”
She doesn’t take my hand. She gets to her feet and takes another look at her watch.
I’m restless to get going. “I want to go another way today.”
Maren’s face turns up. Her eyes are on mine. “We always go my way.”
My laugh has an edge. “Ha, err, no. We’ve done the same one for weeks. Let me lead the way.” Her troubled expression tells me this isn’t going over well. “I’m going a different way today,” I say with more conviction. “You can go your way.”
“But I want to run together.”
“Then you have to compromise.” She doesn’t look anywhere near ready to accept this. Those thoughts of her mouth all over mine vanish. She’s going to have to bend if she wants this. I’m half-worried if I go, she won’t follow. I also don’t have a choice. I need this.
I hold firm. I refuse to let whatever we’re doing be one-way. “Guess I’ll catch up with you next week.”
“Guess so,” she says, taking off in the opposite direction.
I run my own way. Screw this. Screw her. I run my own way. I want her to wind up in my arms and she wants to go her own way. I take off, heading down the direction that I want. My feet run hard and my mouth is clenched. Now I know kissing her was a mistake. This, whatever we’re doing, is under my skin like a raging, red, unpleasant rash, and the worst part? She’s winning. She’s making me work for this every step of the way.
Almost half a mile passes, and she does the unexpected, blowing my frustration to fluttery, silver ashes. She appears at my side.
“We can go your way,” she says in defeat.
Thank God. A victory that had I wanted and one that I needed. “Finally,” I say, nudging her arm with mine. She imitates the action and misses like a loose high-five.
I take her a way we haven’t covered. A route nowhere close to our usual one. Change feels good, refreshing, and right. We keep a steady, fast pace. Midway through the run I realize she’s competing with me; her steps are always a couple ahead of mine. I don’t care though. She came to me.
We return to the park bench together, out of breath and feeling energized.
“I like your way,” she admits, pacing with her hands on her hips.
“Told you.”
“How about we take turns picking routes from now on?” she suggests, pacing in front of me. “Every other Saturday you get your way and the rest mine.”
“We don’t have to stick to that though, right?” I don’t even wait to hear the answer. We’re breathless and sweaty, and I don’t give a shit. I smile into her lips.
“Are you going to kiss me?” she says, taking the spontaneity out of the moment.
“Yes,” I answer, slipping in a laugh. My arm curls around her waist possessively and my mouth moves over hers delicately at first. I remember to go slow. To establish a rhythm. Keeping control is undoing every part of me. I deepen the kiss, testing the boundaries, letting her fumble and correct her movements until our mouths move with strength and force and all the demands from my body. “Damn,” I say, breaking away with hurried breaths. My hand drifts to hers.
She doesn’t seem impressed. Her face is scrunched. I have no idea what she could be analyzing. “You’re a good kisser.”
“Just good, huh?” My arms fold over my chest. “You’re telling me there’s room for improvement?”
“Definitely.”
“Then by all means, show me how this is done.”
Maren slides her hands up my jaw and brings me close. She runs her lips over mine like a teaser. I stiffen. I wait. I hold my breath. She latches her lips to mine and works her tongue over my mouth. My lips part in anticipation for her thorough kiss as she moves her tongue and lips in sync with mine. Everything about me is alive with sudden awareness. We finally get this right. “You’ve been holding out on me,” I say with a humbling ache and pause at the concern in her eyes. “What?”
“I just want to make sure you don’t want Sara,” she says, letting go, leaving me wanting more.
“There is not one part of me that wants her.” I slip my hand over her cheek. Looking in to her eyes, I’m not entirely sure what the expectations are here. I want Maren to understand how I feel which is proving harder than going in front of a judge.
“Are you sure you don’t want her?”
“I’m sure.” I beat my fist against my chest. “The heart can only belong to one person.”
“Do you want mine?”
Be very careful with the answer. Hearts are fragile, breakable things, and Maren’s will shatter easier than most. “I don’t have an answer.”
“I don’t want yours, no offense. I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I was curious. Is it okay that I asked?”
“Yeah, of course. You can ask me anything. I’ve told you that.” My fingers move a strand of hair off her forehead. “What are you doing the rest of the day?”
“My parents are in town, I’m not sure what they have planned.”
I glance at the watch on my wrist. “Do you have to go now? Or do you have some time?”
She looks at her watch. “I have three hours.”
“You want to see where I live?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then let’s go.”
Chapter 13
Maren
I accept Caleb’s offer on the spot. Invitations like this don’t happen often. My apartment is the center of my social life. I’ve never seen where Charl
otte lives, and Libby was the only other place I hung out on a regular basis.
We walk to his place, which isn’t far from the park. My fingers rub and twitch against one another. The fast movement of my hands is calming.
There’s a short driveway leading to a large home. The house is square with white bricks up the sides and around the door. Tall, spikey shrubs that are geometrically the same in size and number create a border around the house. I point to the mulch around their roots. “You’ve got weeds.”
“Thanks for noticing.” He toggles the keys in his hand. “Anything else?”
“The pattern of the bricks is off-putting. You have random red ones mixed with the white.”
A half smile is on his face and I don’t think twice that I’ve insulted him.
“That cost me a lot of money.”
“I’m sorry you paid so much. Can you get it back?”
“No, and, I don’t want to.” Caleb leans his shoulder on the doorframe. “You know, people usually bend over backwards to compliment a person’s house as opposed to criticizing.”
My thoughts are stuck, searching, searching, searching for the right words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I like your house.”
“An apology. I’ll take it.” He laughs and inserts the key in the lock and opens the door. “After you.”
“You’re not the first guy I’ve kissed,” I blurt the second we enter his house.
“Good to know.” Caleb gives my face a fleeting appraisal. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”
“I haven’t kissed anyone for,” I say, pausing to calculate the years between now and my freshman year of college, “seven years, plus or minus a few months.”
“No one’s keeping track.” His hand gestures to the entryway. “This is my home. No weeds here or mis-matched brick patterns. What do you think?”
I’ve been asked this question before. Space and design are different to me. The place is quiet and easy for me to adjust. There’s an openness to the area with a zig-zagged staircase. Black-and-white checker pattern on the floor. I feel the urge to count the squares and sum up which color has more tiles.