“Well, I’d much rather have the burger and fries. I’m sick of this Salsa Street place—they never know what they’re doing.” His father muttered a racist expletive. His brother, Warner, laughed.
Jude’s eyes narrowed. “For the hundredth time, you can’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not? The walls have ears?” Hollis crunched his taco salad with a fork.
“Yeah. Yours.” Warner flashed a polished smile that earned a chuckle from their dad. “What with that new security system you put in last week.”
Jude ignored his brother. “Because it’s racist. Or at the least, bigoted.” Knowing his dad, it’d be both.
“What, am I on trial now?” Hollis laughed. “Save it for the courtroom, son. You need the practice.”
Jude shoved another bite into his mouth to keep from saying something disrespectful. Some days, he couldn’t believe this was his family. Other days, the framed Ivy League degrees on the walls proved it was in his blood, and escape felt the opposite of imminent.
In fact—if he half closed his eyes, the walls felt like they might be slowly moving together, like that carnival fun house he went to when he was ten. The one that Warner abandoned him in, thinking it’d be hilarious. That night was the first and only time he heard Maria yell. Good thing Warner hadn’t known Spanish back then.
He opened his eyes. The walls, with their custom crown molding and mahogany chair rails, remained in place. But the weariness of his load felt a dozen times heavier.
Hollis tossed his napkin on the table. For someone who didn’t like Salsa Street, he sure had devoured that entire salad. “How’s the Blackwood case coming?”
Speaking of heavy loads. Jude couldn’t muster the energy to mask his sigh. “It’s coming.” His dad had given him a complicated scandal on purpose as training, and it was taking most of Jude’s post-work evening hours to investigate thoroughly. And he wouldn’t even get credit for it.
“How enlightening an update.” Hollis’s tone dripped with sarcasm. His attention shifted to Warner. “What about the Steiner case?”
Warner straightened in his seat. “It’ll be wrapped and ready for trial in three days.”
Jude fought the temptation to roll his eyes and settled for finishing his quesadilla in two forceful bites. The way they seasoned their chicken was exactly on point. Cumin, cayenne pepper. He chewed slower. What else was he tasting? Maybe—
“You still with us, baby brother?” Warner tilted his head toward Jude. “Who is she?”
“Who is who?” Jude shoveled in a forkful of rice and beans. He knew who she was. Well, her username anyway—ColorMeTurquoise. But Warner had no idea he’d been chatting online with a woman the last few weeks, and he’d like to keep it that way. Besides, he hadn’t been thinking about her anyway. Leave it to Warner to think he knew every—
“The girl on Love at First Chat.”
Jude’s eyes narrowed, and he dropped his plastic fork. “You’ve been monitoring my internet usage at the office?”
“I just said the walls have Dad’s ears.” Warner spread his hands wide. “Regardless, personal time should be for personal time, am I wrong?”
“You’re not the boss.” He immediately hated how petty that sounded. But Warner had crossed a line with the privacy invasion, and now his heart pounded faster than at the final lap of a 5K. His conversations with ColorMeTurquoise were one of the highlights of his evenings—the last thing he wanted was for Warner, of all people, to poke his haughty nose where it had no business being.
Warner bristled. “Maybe I’m not the boss yet.”
“Hey,” Hollis said, “I’m still very much alive and well over here.”
Warner ignored him and pointed at Jude. “You know, maybe you need to study more instead of drifting off into la-la land over some chick.”
“You’re one to talk. You have a girlfriend.”
“I didn’t when I was taking the bar. It’s in less than a month.”
“I’m aware.” Jude boxed his trash and tried to keep the grit from his voice. Warner knew how to push his buttons. It was just a matter of staying calm. Staying in control. Not giving in.
Warner ignored the hint, per usual. “You know me and Dad both scored a—”
“I said I was aware.”
“Don’t get testy. Sometimes I go weeks without seeing Madison. We all have to pay our dues to get where we’re meant to be.” Warner set his bottle of sparkling water hard on the table. It’d always aggravated him that things came a little easier for Jude in school—he got his master’s six months faster than Warner had. It wouldn’t be a competition, except that Warner insisted on making it that way.
Jude swiped a stray piece of cheese from the table. “And I’ll pay mine.” At the moment, his entire life felt like paying a debt—or maybe more like prison labor. The cutthroat lawyer blood didn’t run in his veins. But carrying the last name Strong didn’t give him a choice.
“When?” Warner refused to drop it. “I haven’t seen you crack a book in two weeks. I breathed law for literally nine months in preparation for my bar.”
“I don’t see how you could breathe at all, with your head so far up Dad’s—”
“Boys.” Hollis’s voice boomed. “Enough.”
Boys. Exactly how they were acting. His brother always brought out the worst in him, and Jude hated that he let him. If he tried hard enough and passed the bar with flying colors, then maybe—maybe—he could earn their respect. Even earn Dad’s favor over Warner, for once.
He just wasn’t sure he wanted to anymore.
What did he want? Not the bar. Not another plaque on the wall. Not another rat race paired against his brother, striving to earn their father’s empty praise.
And somehow, under all that, he couldn’t stop wondering about that dang quesadilla. What was that other ingredient?
He offered a halfhearted apology to Warner, more for the sake of his own conscience than for any true attempt at achieving peace. Warner brushed it off, as expected. And naturally, his brother didn’t return the gesture but rather set his jaw and averted his gaze.
Jude shoved away from the table. He’d had enough, alright. Enough of all of it.
Betsy St. Amant is the author of more than fifteen inspirational romances and a frequent contributor to iBelieve.com. She lives in north Louisiana with her husband, two daughters, a collection of Austen novels, and an impressive stash of pickle-flavored Pringles. When she’s not composing her next book or trying to prove unicorns are real, Betsy can usually be found somewhere in the vicinity of a white-chocolate mocha—no whip. Learn more at www.betsystamant.com.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Dedication
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Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Betsy’s Next Romance Novel
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
List of Pages
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The Key to Love Page 30