Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1)

by Nicole French

  If I had forgotten anything else, he could fucking have it. I needed to get out of there as soon as possible. I tiptoed back downstairs, grabbed my coat and bag from the closet by the door, and walked out before I had to listen to the argument Brandon and Miranda were obviously having in the kitchen.

  The wind picked up as soon as I was outside, sending a blast of sharp, frigid rain into my face as I tugged on my parka. I walked directly against rainstorm, forcing my way out toward the nearest train station. I hardly noticed the inclement weather; all I could think about was how phenomenally stupid I had been.

  How could I have not known this? I was soon-to-be a lawyer, for Christ’s sake. I knew how to do research, and if any of the client at the clinic had taught me anything, it was that people were capable of all sorts of treachery. People broke the law all the time. People lied. People always had skeletons in about ten different closets. Why would Brandon Sterling be any different? His Wikipedia page was obviously edited to omit this very important detail of his life; the only thing it said about his personal life was a list of charities he supported. No doubt a slightly more thorough search would have revealed a wife. Maybe even a family.

  Complicated, Kieran had said. Sometimes a prince is really the devil in disguise. Christ. While I’d convinced myself that she was supportive of our relationship, she was actually trying to warn me off. She’d yelled at a client about a woman named Miranda just yesterday. Quickly, everything clicked together. Kieran wasn’t working on business deals; she was Brandon’s divorce lawyer. And she’d watched, pitifully, as I’d been ensnared by a client she knew to be bad news, but about whom she could say nothing.

  I choked back another sob. No, I was going to hold this in, wait until I was safely under a hot shower where no one—not even Jane—could witness the immensity of my heartbreak. I focused on the biting wind against my cheeks and the way the race sent icy streams down the collar of my jacket. I picked up my pace, determined to reach the station in record time.

  The familiar red and white T sign was only a half-block away when I heard my name rise up out of the breeze. I continued walking, even though I knew it was a lost cause.

  “Skylar!” Brandon yelled again. He was clearly out of breath. A hand on my elbow jerked me to a stop, and I took a breath as I whirled to face him.

  He had dressed as hastily as I had and had obviously pulled on whatever was most readily available: a pair of jeans, one of his zillions of white undershirts, his worn Red Sox hat, and untied sneakers. He looked nothing like the billionaire lawyer whose face had been on the front page of Fortune magazine. Instead, he looked just like any other kid from Boston, albeit a bit out of place without a coat in the middle of a nasty downpour. The thin t-shirt was pasted to his body, translucent like some kind of frigid version of a wet t-shirt contest. If I hadn’t felt so angry, I might have appreciated the way the thin material clung to every square line of his pectorals, every chiseled edge of his abs. He sucked in air like his life depended on it—for him to have gotten dressed and still caught me before I entered the station meant he must have sprinted across the park. For a moment I wanted to throw myself into his big arms and pretend none of this had happened. But only for a moment.

  “Fuck off, Brandon,” I spat, turning to walk even faster through the park to where the Park Street T-stop waiting for me like a beacon. I splashed through puddles, their water soaking the bottoms of my pants up to my calves. Again my arm was tugged backward, and I would have fallen over if Brandon’s strong chest hadn’t been there to catch me.

  “I said fuck off!” I pushed him away from me with as giant a heave as I could manage, although it had little effect on his solid form. “I don’t want to talk to you, asshole! What don’t you get about that?”

  I turned before he could answer and darted down the escalators, thankfully void of people so early on a Saturday morning. I could hear the thud of his footsteps following me, but I ignored him, focused instead on locating my Charlie card from my wallet so I could zip through the turnstiles with ease. Brandon wouldn’t have one. If luck was on my side, there would be a train leaving from the multi-line hub before he could purchase one; maybe he had even forgot his wallet.

  “Skylar!” he called as I slid my card through the reader without a backward glance. Behind me, I heard a grumble and a distinct “Fuck it” before a large thump and the sound of feet hitting the pavement. When I turned to check, he was on the other side of the turnstiles, and definitely wasn’t putting anything back in his wallet or pockets.

  “So we’re back to this,” he said in between still-heavy gasps. “Chasing you down everywhere you go. I’m starting to feel like I’m training for a marathon.”

  “Then stop,” I retorted. “Did you just jump the fucking turnstiles?”

  He smirked, which equally made me want smack him and kiss him. “Keep it down, Ms. Goody-goody. What did you expect me to do?”

  “I expected you to stop fucking following me and not commit a Class A misdemeanor,” I hissed. A train was just pulling out of the station, and there were no others approaching. Fucking weekend schedule. “You’re probably the richest man in Boston—”

  “Third richest, actually.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” I bit out. “This ridiculous. I don’t want to fucking talk to you, so just go back home to your wife.” I spat out the last word so hard they practically cut my tongue, and inwardly I congratulated myself for keeping my voice from shaking.

  Brandon scowled and shivered. His arms were turning a vibrant red from the damp cold, and he rubbed them absently while he sucked in another lungful of icy air. “Skylar,” he said slowly. “Please. You have to let me talk.”

  “Is she actually your wife?”

  He didn’t say anything, just continued to rub his triceps and stare down the line at the empty track behind me.

  “Right,” I said, and strode across the platform toward another track, where I found a seat on one of the worn, empty benches.

  Heavy footsteps approached, and I didn’t need the signature nutty scent to know who had joined me on the bench. We sat there for a moment in silence, staring down the track into the empty tunnel.

  “It’s really fucking cold in here,” Brandon remarked. For some reason, his nonchalance pissed me off even more.

  “Maybe you should go back and get your coat,” I sneered. “I’m sure your wife would warm it up for you.”

  “Goddamn it, Skylar, will you stop?”

  I whipped around to glare at him. “Isn’t she? Because that’s what she said, Brandon. You know, while I was lying naked on top of you. So which is it: is she lying or are you fucking married?”

  My voice rose with every word, and I couldn’t quite stop the crack that broke through “married.” Tears rose again, and I did my best to sniff them back, praying that they would disappear before they betrayed me. Brandon stared at me sadly, the crease between his eyebrows more pronounced than usual. Our eyes locked for at least a minute, and I was determined not to look away first. I’d stare the truth out of him if I had to.

  Finally, he bit his lower lip and sucked in another deep breath, heaving his broad chest out and in before he opened his mouth.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, not breaking eye contact with me. “She is.” His eyelids shuttered, and he finally looked away.

  I stared. The teapot had reached a boil, and for a moment I forgot where I was, who I was. It was true. He was married. I was nothing but a…fuck.

  “Skylar?” he interrupted me from the inarticulate mess of my thoughts. I blinked and looked back at him.

  “Please,” he said. “Say something.”

  Before I knew what I was doing, I reached a hand back and slapped him as hard as I possibly could across the face. I closed my eyes, reveling in the suddenly throbbing of my palm. When I opened them, he was holding one hand to his face with a mixed expression of shock and respect.

  “I guess I deserved that,” he said acidically.

  “
Get the fuck away from me,” I replied, this time not bothering to control the uneven tenor of my voice. “I mean it.”

  I stood up, and he stood with me. He reached out a timid hand, which I batted away as I stepped away from the bench.

  “I’m serious, Brandon!” I yelled. “Leave me alone!”

  “Skylar, stop,” he pleaded as he started toward me, but was interrupted.

  “Do you need some help, miss?”

  We both swiveled out heads to the right, where three rather large construction workers had approached with concerned looks on their faces. With their beat-up baseball caps and worn out jeans, they looked like they were on their way home from work. On the Red Line, that meant South Boston, maybe even Dorchester or Quincy. They weren’t the kind of guys you messed with, and considering he was from the same part of town, Brandon likely knew that.

  I looked back at him.

  “Do I?” I asked evenly.

  Brandon just stared at me, obvious frustration emanating from his stiff posture and clenched fists. He looked like he wanted to throw down with all three of the guys, sling me over his shoulder, and carry me away as a booty of war. Too bad I would have rather thrown myself on the tracks instead.

  Finally, he exhaled slowly and stood up.

  “No,” he said, and turned to walk toward the exit. With a forlorn look, he pushed back through the turnstiles and jogged back up the escalator and out of the station. Threat neutralized, my impromptu rescue brigade disseminated quickly, walking back to their side of the station while I took another seat on the bench to wait for a train back to Cambridge.

  Less than a minute later, my phone buzzed in my pocket as the train approached.

  skylar we WILL talk about this

  Right, I thought. What was there to talk about? He was married. Which made me a cheap home wrecker and him a philandering asshole. Not much to talk about there.

  With a bit too much gusto, I deleted the message and tucked my phone back into my pocket, ignoring the continued buzzing that signified more messages and several missed calls. He could try all he wanted to talk. I wasn’t interested any more.

  ~

  It took me nearly two hours to get home. Too absorbed in the maze of my thoughts to notice the automated announcements of train stops, I stared vacantly under the fluorescent lights all the way to the end of the line, where I had to wait another thirty minutes to catch the return train back to the Harvard Square. I trudged the last ten-minute walk through another horrid downpour to the brick exterior of my apartment building. But I couldn’t feel the rain. Brandon’s simple admission echoed through my head the whole time as numbed shock replaced the anger I felt, and a deep sadness slipped underneath it all.

  I approached the door of my building completely soaked through with my head hanging low. My wool jacket was saturated and dripping, and the stray edges of my hair were plastered to my forehead and chin. There was water in the bottoms of my pumps that made them squish with each step. I noticed none of it. It wasn’t until I was pulling my keys from my waterlogged purse that Brandon’s familiar voice rang out in the chill.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  I snapped my head up. He was standing with his back against the glass doors of the building, arms crossed in front of his expansive chest, and frown fixed on his face. He had obviously gone home and changed—while he still wore his jeans and Red Sox cap, he had replaced his t-shirt with a fleece and raincoat, his running shoes with waterproofed boots. He wore black knit gloves, and his head was still covered with his trusty Red Sox cap, from under which I could see the edges of his hair curling in the humidity. He had obviously come prepared to wait in the wet, despite the presence of his driver and Mercedes at the curb. The only thing that betrayed any discomfort was the way the tip of his nose was tinged pink, matching the ruddy tone of his cheeks. He looked cold. And he also looked really, irritatingly fuckable.

  The numbness I had developed disappeared, replaced once again with anger.

  “I told you to leave me alone,” I said in a low voice. “I need some space, Brandon.”

  “I give you space, Red, somehow I’m guessing I’ll never hear from you again,” he said, pushing off the door. “That’s not gonna cut it for me.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you don’t have a choice,” I said, looking over his shoulder toward the building entrance. “You need to stop chasing me.”

  I feigned right and tried to dodge around him to the left, but he moved with me, forcing me to look at him in the eye.

  “I’ll never stop chasing you,” he said fervently. “You can believe that.”

  “You sound like a stalker!” I protested.

  “I sound like a man in love!” he yelled back.

  I stepped back, shocked by his outburst. Usually I was the one who spouted off.

  “Don’t look at me as if last night didn’t happen, Skylar,” he warned me, a gloved finger pointing at me furiously. “I’m fucking crazy about you, and you’re crazy about me too. From the goddamn second I found you sitting in my house, I’ve been acting like a complete lunatic, and I can’t do a thing to stop it! You’ve got me wrapped around your little finger, and you don’t even know it. But you know what? I know you feel it too. I know you do.”

  “So what if I do!” I burst out, dropping my purse on the wet ground as I flung my arms out to the side. My ponytail came lose, and wet snakes of copper-colored hair flew into my face. I brushed them away furiously. “You’re fucking married! You’re unavailable, yet you pursued me, over and over again, broke down every barrier I had, mentally and physically. Fucked me senseless all over your pretty little mansion until your wife shows up. Do you know what that makes me, Brandon?”

  “Don’t say it…” he warned, shifting back and forth on his boots and tugging anxiously on the bill of his cap.

  “It makes me the other woman, Brandon,” I said flatly. “But since we hardly know each other and you insist on throwing money at me all the time, really it just makes me your whore.”

  “Goddammit, I said don’t say it!” he bellowed, yanking the cap off and throwing it onto the sidewalk. Several students peered down curiously from the windows above us, and I suddenly wanted to get into my apartment as soon as I could.

  “Where are you going?” Brandon asked sharply as I picked my wet bag off the pavement and turned toward the door. “We’re not finished here. Do want me screaming up at the window like a Tennessee Williams character? Because don’t think I won’t go all Marlon Brando on you, Red.”

  “Don’t call me that!” I shrieked as I whirled back around. I gulped in a breath, surprised by the intensity of my response. For some reason, his casual use of my nickname under these circumstances caused almost as much pain as everything else. I glanced up at the heads still watching from their windows; most of them popped back inside, but I knew they were still listening.

  “Have it your way,” I said through gritted teeth. “If we’re going to scream at each other, we’re going to do it where my classmates can’t stare at us. And where I can get some dry clothes. Come on.”

  Brandon bent down to retrieve his now-soaked cap and balled the worn fabric in one hand as he worried the bill in the other. “Lead the way.”

  ~

  Chapter 38

  A quick text to Jane confirmed that she was thankfully studying at the library, and would be for most of the day. While I definitely wanted her as a sounding board at some point, there were some conversations to finish first.

  With heavy feet that scraped the thin, battered carpets of the building, Brandon followed me into the empty apartment. Only a few cold, gray rays stole through the blinds while the rainstorm outside continue to batter the window panes, setting a gloomy film noir mood that fit the situation. I shut the door and flipped on the lights, carefully avoiding Brandon’s gaze as I removed my coat and shoes.

  I set my leather bag, which I now figured for ruined, on the table. I stood there for a moment, studying the tabletop, while
Brandon, who had taken a seat on the couch, watched nervously.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” I announced abruptly, suddenly desperate to get out of my sopping clothes. The tight, wet denim chafed around my hips and thighs; my socks were essentially sponges.

  “Alone?”

  I snapped my head up to find Brandon’s sly half-smile soaking the room with charisma. I frowned. The smile disappeared.

  “Yes,” I said curtly. “Stay there. I’ll be out when I’m out.”

  Maybe it was the opportunity to delay the inevitably awful conversation waiting for me on the couch, but my shower felt like I was readying myself for battle. I took my time about it, reshaving my legs and underarms, letting my conditioner for an extra five minutes, scrubbing down every inch of my body twice with the jasmine-scented soap I saved for special occasions. When I got out, I went over my eyebrows with a tweezer and spent another thirty minutes putting on just the right amount of makeup and blow-drying my hair into wild waves that rioted around my face like a lion’s mane. I wanted to feel powerful and free. Severe, but not necessarily polished. In my room I pulled my favorite black sweater and a pair of light gray corduroys that fit me like second skin. Comfortable, but dark enough to fit my mood.

  Brandon still on the couch, facing our nonworking fireplace with his boots kicked off. He had removed his coat and hung it next to mine with his hat. In his plain t-shirt and jeans, he looked more like a student than I did.

  “You look nice,” he said, looking me up and down as I walked in. Despite the compliment, all traces of flirtation were gone. “I like your hair like that.”

  I looked down at my outfit and then back at him. “Thanks. I’m going to make a pot of tea if you want any.” My tone was similarly devoid of kindness that should have matched the courtesy of my offer.

  “Sure,” he said cautiously. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”