Winning Her Over

by Alexa Rowan

  Crystal hung up the phone. “Paul’s out front. He can take you wherever you need to go.”

  Brenna’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thanks, Crystal.”

  She scoffed. “Oh, it was no problem, Brenna. Have a great night.”

  “Good night.”

  Brenna found Paul waiting under the glass portico, wearing his monogrammed livery and leaning against the hotel’s gleaming black town car. With his usual good cheer, he greeted her in his remarkably thick Boston accent. Then he stowed her gear in the trunk while she got comfortable in the back seat. Her head lolled against the headrest as fatigue descended upon her.

  The driver’s door closed. “New-bree and Glahsta?” Which—after living in Boston for close to a decade—she automatically translated to “Newbury and Gloucester?”

  “Thanks,” she said. “That’d be great.” The car eased away from the curb.

  Paul had been in the business long enough to understand she was too tired to make small talk, for which she was deeply grateful. He delivered her to Serenity Massage’s front door less than ten minutes later. When she pulled out her wallet to tip him, he held up a hand. “No need for that, hon’. I can see that you been workin’ even hahdah than me.”

  “You’re the best, Paul. If you or your wife ever need a massage, just call me. I’ll totally give you a discount.”

  “Thanks, doll. Lemme get ya things.”

  After he carefully deposited her gear next to her on the curb, he circled back around to the driver’s side and waved. “Have a good one!”

  “Same to you,” she said as he ducked back inside the limo.

  Shouldering her gear one last time, she maneuvered it up the brownstone’s exterior stairs. She let herself inside, then schlepped everything up another flight of narrow stairs to the suite.

  After storing her gear in the tiny coat closet, she changed back into her street clothes. Her uniform and the soiled sheets and blanket went into the dirty laundry bag, and the hotel’s payment and Cal’s outlandish tip went into the safe bolted into the utility closet. Only then did she shut off the lights and head home, where she absolutely, positively would not be fantasizing about Cal Wilcox and his perfectly sculpted body.

  3

  CAL’S ALARM WOKE HIM at quarter-to-five. Well-rested and full of energy—thanks in no small part to Brenna’s fantastic massage the night before—he quickly finished revising the witness outline he’d been working on last night. The plaintiff’s chief operating officer wouldn’t know what hit him once Cal’s cross-examination got underway. With an evil grin, he e-mailed the outline to Grant Coburn, the senior partner leading the trial team.

  At seven-fifteen, after a workout and a shower, Cal was dressed for court and sipping his orange juice in the cafe downstairs. His toast and Western omelet arrived just as Grant finally showed up.

  Grant’s bushy eyebrows winged upward as he greeted Cal. He sat down and ordered coffee and a danish. Then he turned back to Cal. “Clearly you took my advice. Good Lord, man. That must have been one hell of a massage!”

  Cal’s neck heated at the memory of Brenna’s hands molding themselves to his hips and butt, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “What makes you say that?”

  “You look like the weight of the world dropped off your shoulders.”

  Cal shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “It feels that way, too.”

  As the two attorneys ate and discussed trial strategy, Cal’s mind drifted back to Brenna and the mixed messages she’d been sending last night. She’d seemed extraordinarily uncomfortable with the idea of going out with him, even for a casual cup of coffee. But he hadn’t missed the way her eyes had raked his torso when she came back into the room after the massage had ended. She’d been embarrassed that she’d looked, but she’d still done it.

  It sank in that Grant was speaking to him. “I’ll take a look at the outline over the lunch break. Anything in particular that I should pay attention to?” Grant asked.

  Cal snapped his focus back to his boss. “Nah, it’s pretty tight at this point. I’m happy with it, and I think the new line of questioning will play well with the jury.”

  “Good.” Grant glanced at his watch. “Time to head over to court. You ready?” He shoved the last bite of his pastry into his mouth and washed it down with the rest of his coffee.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Cal suppressed a smile as he recalled giving Brenna that same answer last night. In reality, he hadn’t been prepared at all for the experience, or for the unusual intimacy—both physical and emotional—he’d shared with the beautiful masseuse.

  Not that he was looking for an emotional connection right now. After nearly eight years of slavish devotion to Carter, Munroe and Hodges, he was finally up for partner, and he couldn’t afford to get sidetracked before the brass ring was within his grasp. Physical connections—so long as they were discreet and infrequent—were fine. Necessary, even. He was a man, after all.

  But he’d decided a few years ago that serious relationships were off-limits until the partnership question was settled—favorably, he hoped. Afterward, he could spare some time to woo a suitable other half. Someone well-educated, elegant, and classy, whom he could escort with pride and confidence to the Partner Prom, a retreat CMH hosted every year for all the US-based partners and their spouses. Someone who was behind him the way his mom had always supported his dad, who’d been the managing partner of a respected regional law firm in Cal’s hometown.

  Then again, right now he didn’t exactly have time for physical connections, either. It was probably for the best that Brenna had blown him off last night. Cal needed to kick ass at this trial, which meant sixteen- to twenty-hour days until it was over and he headed back to DC.

  At least the case against their client was weak. The plaintiff was claiming Conovan had hired one of its employees in violation of a non-compete agreement and had stolen its trade secrets. But Cal had been involved with this case since the very beginning, and he knew Conovan’s defense was supported by strong evidence, and their witnesses were well-prepared and credible. It had taken a lot of travel to Conovan’s offices in the Boston suburbs to get them that way, though.

  After so much time on the road, he was seriously considering moving his practice up to Boston. Conovan wasn’t his only client in southern New England. Although CMH had a corporate practice in Boston already, rumor had it the partnership was considering expanding the office to a full-service operation. Cal wasn’t going to do anything to screw up his chances of making partner, but if all went well and they elected him to the partnership at the end of the summer, maybe a transfer would be in order.

  They were approaching the courthouse steps now, and he realized he and Grant hadn’t exchanged a word during the entire walk. Grant must have been mentally preparing to deliver the opening statement on behalf of their client. While Cal, on the other hand, had been daydreaming. Time to get his head back in the game.

  Soon they were seating themselves at the defense counsel’s table in one of the smaller courtrooms in the historic Suffolk County courthouse. Renee, their paralegal, told him their audiovisual equipment was set up and ready to go. The jury filed in, and Cal’s pulse rate accelerated as the bailiff brought the courtroom to order and announced Judge Maureen Cooke.

  After Judge Cooke sat down and the bailiff swore in the jury, she said a few introductory words. Then she invited the plaintiff’s counsel to begin her opening statement, and it was game on.

  Plaintiff’s counsel stood up. She wore a conservative navy-blue skirt suit, and her dark brown hair was pinned back. Taking a position about ten feet from the jury, she introduced herself and her client. Then she began describing the evidence the jury would see and the reasons why the defendant should be found liable.

  Cal scanned the jurors as they listened to her presentation. Many seemed attentive, though a few appeared bored, staring out the window rather than watching her.

  Fifteen minutes later, Grant took her place. He
faced the jury in his impeccably tailored charcoal-gray suit, starched white dress shirt, and dark blue tie with a coordinating sky blue paisley pocket square. His opening statement was much livelier in comparison, in keeping with both Grant’s personal style and CMH’s apparently greater resources. Unlike the plaintiff’s presentation, Grant’s speech was interspersed with video clips and blowups of key pieces of evidence. Cal observed jurors nodding in agreement at several points during Grant’s opening, and they seemed to be paying closer attention.

  Grant finished and sat down, and the plaintiff called its first witness—the CEO of the company. As the direct examination progressed, Cal typed furiously on his laptop. He wasn’t surprised that the CEO was testifying about substance and not just fluff. In fact, he was glad. This opened the door to many more lines of cross-examination than they might otherwise have been allowed to pursue.

  Cal suppressed a smile. This trial was going to be fun.

  BUT AFTER TWO FULL WEEKS of it—accompanied by late nights, last-minute additions to witness lists, and rulings that each side thought favored the other—tempers on both sides of the courtroom were wearing thin.

  Opposing counsel had made so many groundless objections during Grant’s and Cal’s witness examinations that a few of the jurors had begun rolling their eyes whenever she opened her mouth. So Cal took inordinate pleasure in his opponent’s scowl when Judge Cooke ended the day ten minutes early, rather than allowing her to start her cross-examination right before they broke for the weekend. Just as Grant had planned it.

  Sucks to be you, counselor, Cal thought. But he forced his expression to remain neutral as everyone stood and waited for Her Honor to exit the courtroom.

  As the last jurors left, Cal and Renee began collecting their papers and shutting down their laptops. Grant suggested that they drop off their stuff at the hotel, then meet in the lobby at six-thirty and walk over to this fantastic nouveau French restaurant on Newbury Street for dinner before calling it a night. And “fantastic,” to Grant, likely meant an unparalleled gastronomic experience, complete with hundred-dollar bottles of wine and maybe even a nice single-malt scotch or artisanal bourbon afterward.

  Cal stuffed his laptop and cord into his bag. “Sounds perfect.”

  “Yep, count me in.” Renee’s straight brown hair bobbed around her face as she nodded.

  The three parted ways at the nearest cab stand. Grant and Renee caught a taxi back to the hotel, but Cal decided to take advantage of the glorious late-spring afternoon and walk over from the courthouse. Maybe fifteen minutes of exercise and a glimpse of the Public Garden would reenergize him.

  As he had hoped, the walk provided a welcome change from the tense atmosphere in the courtroom. Though he perked up even more when he got to the hotel’s lower lobby. A few steps ahead of him was a familiar dark-brown ponytail, swishing in time with the measured steps of his favorite masseuse. Once again, she was hauling that duffel and massage table, which still seemed like they ought to be far too heavy for her slender frame.

  “Brenna?” he called out before he could think better of it. He’d have to wing this. Although he preferred not to leave important things to chance, sometimes opportunities had to be seized when they arose. It was as true in the courtroom as in the bedroom.

  She turned to look behind her, her bags swaying with the movement. Recognition widened her eyes as he closed the gap between them.

  Now he was near enough for the scent of her massage oil to drift into his nostrils. His body hardened, remembering her silky touch.

  “Cal?” Her attention darted down to his chest, then up to his face again.

  He realized he must look very different from the last time she’d seen him—when he’d been bare-chested and acting like an ass. There’d be none of that, this time. Trial attorneys were confident, every move planned out ahead, yet ready to roll with the punches when things took an unusual direction. Besides, it wasn’t like he hadn’t been hoping for a chance encounter with her, just like this one.

  He straightened, dragging his fingers through his hair, and gave her his most appealing and genuine smile. “Hey. I’m glad I ran into you like this. How’ve you been?”

  “Fairly busy. But that means business is good, so I can’t complain.” She offered him a friendly smile; all was apparently forgiven and forgotten. “How about you? How’s your trial going?”

  “Great. We should be finished early next week.”

  “Well, I hope you win.” She glanced down the hall toward the elevator. “I’m afraid I need to get going, though.”

  Only then did it sink in that she must be on her way to see another client at the hotel. An irrational surge of envy had him fighting the urge to clench his hands into fists. He couldn’t even ask her to dinner tonight because he already had plans with Grant and Renee—plans he’d been looking forward to until about a minute ago.

  He could carve out some time this weekend, though. A late night would be worth it, if it meant spending another couple of hours getting to know Brenna. He needed to eat anyway; why not with her? The worst that could happen was she’d say no. As his dad had always said, if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

  He rested two fingertips against the smooth skin at the back of Brenna’s hand. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “Have dinner with me tomorrow night? If you’re free, that is.”

  She had started to turn away from him, but pivoted back at his question. The warmth in her eyes had him wanting to reach out and brush back a few strands of hair that had come loose from her ponytail.

  “Ummm…” Her gaze slid sideways. Crap—she was going to shoot him down again.

  “Wait. Before you say no, it wouldn’t be a date.”

  Her forehead crinkling, she considered the statement he was already wishing he could retract. “What do you mean, not a date?”

  “You said last time you don’t date your clients. So this wouldn’t be a date. You do eat dinner, right?”

  She nodded, still reluctant.

  “We’ll just be two hungry people, sharing a meal.” He was watching her closely as he said these words, and he smiled when the tension in her shoulders eased. She was going to say yes. “Since I don’t know the area, you pick the place. And time,” he added. “I’m flexible.”

  She exhaled a long breath. “Okay. But I’m booked tomorrow night.”

  Sunday would be more difficult since he needed to be in court the next morning, but he would take what he could get. “How about Sunday?”

  Her shoulders dropped as she let out another nervous exhalation. Then she nodded decisively. “Yeah. Sunday should work.” She paused. “Do you prefer Indian or pizza?”

  His smile broadened. “Pizza sounds great.”

  “There’s a place about three blocks down Newbury Street from here, Ciro’s. It has the best Neapolitan-style pizza in Boston.”

  “Sold.”

  She looked up at him. “Would eight-thirty be too late?”

  “Nope. Perfect.” He paused. “Should I pick you up somewhere, or meet you there…?”

  “Um, we can meet there.” She fumbled in her duffel before pulling a business card from one of the outer pockets. “Here’s my card, with my cell phone. You know, in case you can’t find the place, or need to change plans.”

  He glanced down at the card, then back up at her. Her flushed cheeks were frickin’ adorable.

  Not to be outdone, Cal extracted a black leather card case from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and plucked out a cream-colored card on heavyweight stock. CMH didn’t stint. “My cell and e-mail are on there, if you need them.” Their eyes met. “But I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”

  She took his card, but tension crept into her shoulders once more. “I really do need to go now. I’m going to be late.”

  He nodded toward her duffel. “Can I carry one of those bags for you, at least up to the lobby? I’m headed that way myself.”

  She actually looked tempted this time, but still refused his offer. “I�
��m okay. It’s easier for me to have them both. It helps balance the load.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  He remained at her side as they rode the elevator up to the main lobby, the melodic lilt of her voice keeping him entirely focused on her as they talked about the unseasonably hot May weather and the little herb garden she was growing on her roof deck.

  “There are a lot of things I’m good at,” he said. “Keeping green things alive unfortunately isn’t one of them.”

  Her golden brown eyes lit up. “I know a plant I bet even you couldn’t kill.”

  He arched an eyebrow dubiously.

  “I’m serious,” she protested.

  He’d been enjoying their banter, but when the elevator door opened, rendering them visible from the front desk, her demeanor became noticeably more distant.

  “It was good seeing you, Cal,” she said as she stepped out. As if this encounter was going to be the last time she laid eyes on him.

  A reminder was in order. “I’m looking forward to Sunday night.”

  She regarded him for a long moment. Then she nodded once. “Yes. Of course.”

  He watched her walk away, her hips gently swaying. If he stayed much longer, she would catch him at it when she stopped at the front desk. So he circled around to the main elevator bank and entered Brenna’s contact information into his phone before heading up to his room to get ready for dinner.

  A scant hour later, Cal was perusing the menu at L’Avenue, hard-pressed to choose between the smoked oysters with truffled potato cakes appetizer and the hearty bouillabaisse. At least he already knew what he was going to order for his entrée—the medallions of veal in tomato and shallot sauce, which came with tender baby green beans sautéed with garlic and pine nuts. In the meantime, he was stuffing himself liberally with the steaming bread rolls that had been placed on their table by their most attentive server, and was relaxing with a glass of pinot noir that Grant, a wine connoisseur, had picked out.