“He wants to talk to you.”

I look up from the papers on my desk to see a woman in a clingy red dress outside the glass cage that is my office, poking her head in through the open door.

“Did he say why?” I ask, since I already know that the he she’s referring to is the Hammer, and I even know what her answer will be, because he never volunteers more information than necessary.

Danielle, his third personal assistant this year, actually rolls her eyes at me. It's no secret that Hammer hired her for that young and pretty face, flaming-red hair, and hourglass figure, but this one might actually outlast the fiscal quarter. She's got the temperament to deal with his bullshit. I like her.

I swallow a sigh. “Tell him I'll be right there.”

Danielle disappears without a word, and I slouch back in my chair as I return my attention to reviewing the report on a client’s case that just came in from Rodriguez, our in-house investigator.

I'm not in a hurry. Charlton Hammerness III stopped being my boss when I made partner, but he's an offer-him-your-pinkie kind of guy. If I allowed it, he'd treat me like a first-year associate again. He could easily walk down the hallway to my office when he wants something. Instead he asks his PA to summon me. It's a power play, pure and simple, and I refuse to play along.

Which is probably one of the reasons he’s always liked me so much.

I'm too curious about what he wants to wait too long, though. As I toss the report down on my cluttered and overflowing desk, my gaze falls on the small black photo frame propped up near the edge.

It contains a picture of my kids that I took about six months ago. Sitting in the grass at a park, seven-year-old Freya is holding her toddler brother, Elliott, in an iron grip to get him to stay still long enough for a photograph, and five-year-old Abigail crouches beside them.

Three little blond heads and three pairs of rosy cheeks and dancing, blue eyes. It's the kind of photo people place on their desks to make their workspace more personal.

I keep it to remind me of what I have left to lose.

It used to be a different picture. One that included her. Paige. My wife, who I've been separated from for almost a year.

I finally switched that photo out. Not because I couldn't stand to look at her anymore or because I felt like I needed to move on. No, I just got tired of the too-casual glances from coworkers whenever they came to talk to me.

Is that picture still there? I could read on their faces in that split second. Yup. Poor guy. He's still hung up on her.

So I removed her from my desk.

If only it were that easy to get her out of my head.

I grab my suit jacket off the back of the chair and shrug into it, working the buttons as I head out the door. Hammer’s office is a short stroll past partitioned desks where associates, PAs, paralegals, and interns are busy working their computers and their phones and their stacks of folders and documents. Except for a phone ringing and the hum of a few muted conversations, the room is quiet. It's been one of those rare days where the fan has remained shit-free and peace has reigned on the twenty-third floor.

In his oversize corner office, Hammer sits with his feet up on his desk, talking on the phone. When he catches sight of me, he gestures for me to shut the door. I pause for a second, because it’s an unusual request, but then I push it closed. One-handed, I pop the button on my jacket again as I take a seat across from him.

His forehead is creased and his lips thin as he listens to the person on the other end. It’s an expression that used to have my gut twisting with apprehension. At some point, though, I managed to stop letting his moods affect my own. Might’ve been around the same time that my marriage fell apart, when keeping Hammer happy didn’t seem as important anymore.

Because that’s what my life consisted of for the first ten years I worked at Stevens and Hammerness, arguably one of San Diego’s biggest and most successful law firms. The Hammer hired me straight out of college, made me his protégé, put me on a fast track to partnership—and in return, he owned me.

He hasn’t changed much since the day I first walked into these offices. The skin is a little looser on his heavy-jowled and hook-nosed face, his dark hair is thinner, his eyebrows bushier, and his paunch is more pronounced. Back then he was a ruthless and self-serving middle-aged asshole, and the only difference now is that he’s older, approaching retirement age. Though he’s probably the kind of guy who won't stop working until he's six feet under.

After a few terse replies, he ends the call and tosses his phone onto his desk.

“What's up?” I’m not faking my casual tone, despite the way he’s glaring at me. If I allowed him to faze me, I would’ve quit years ago, joining the ranks of countless associates who’ve passed through this firm and ended up deciding he wasn’t worth it.

The Hammer picks up a pen and starts clicking it, a habit he knows drives people up the wall. “Got a case for you.”

I raise my eyebrows when he doesn’t elaborate. “Okay…?”

“It’s Lennie Bellamy,” he says. “Actually, it’s his son, Greg. Twenty-one years old. Goes to UCSB.”

Right. His dad is one of the wealthiest men in Southern California, and UC Santa Barbara is a notorious party school. Meaning this kid probably has a trust fund and is only in college to give his family the appearance of pursuing a career. I dislike him already.

“What'd he do?” Bellamy is one of the firm’s oldest and most loyal clients, CEO of a biotech company that accounts for a significant percentage of our firm’s income. Hammerness would sacrifice limbs to keep the guy happy.

The older man’s scowl deepens. “Possession of child pornography. Roommate found some pictures on his computer. Called the cops.”

I wince. “Are we talking teenage girls that are just a little bit too young or...what?”

“No. Prepubescent kids,” Hammer says with a sigh. “Honest-to-God kiddie porn.”

“Not gonna happen.” I bite out the words, my shoulders tensing.

The man across from me puts on his I-used-to-be-your-boss face. “Do I need to remind you—”

“No.” Fuck him. He knows better than to ask me to defend a goddamned pedophile. Yeah, I chose criminal defense of my own free will, and I’ve represented some serious scumbags over the years, but everyone has a line they won’t cross, and this is mine.

The Hammer opens his mouth as if to argue, so I harden my voice as I repeat, “No.”

“All right.” He flings the pen back onto the desk as he slides his feet off and down to the floor. “I’ll give it to Darby.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Jason Darby is a hungry fourth-year who kind of reminds me of myself at that stage in my career, except he has all the cockiness without the intelligence to back it up. In other words, exactly the kind of representation the trust fund perv deserves.

I stand up to leave without bothering to ask if the Hammer’s done with me. Because I don’t give a shit.

“Don’t forget,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Eighteen holes at Torrey Pines on Saturday.”

“I can't.” I don’t bother to sound regretful. Because I’m not.

“All the partners will be there.”

Yeah, right. I swallow my snort. The partners are like cats. He can’t even get them all to show up for meetings to discuss changes to their compensation, and he thinks they’ll come play golf with him? On a Saturday?

“I've got the kids this weekend,” I explain, not because I need an excuse but because it’s the truth.

Hammerness waves a hand. “Switch weekends. Or get a sitter for half the day.”

“My dad and I are taking them to Lake Jarrell,” I reply with a shake of my head. “Reserved the campground months ago.”

The older man lets out a disgusted grunt. “You wouldn't have to do shit like that if you hadn't left her.”

My stomach clenches. I’m so not in the mood for this right now. “I didn't exactly—”

“You know what I always say,” he interrupts, and he’s got that look now, the one that means he thinks he’s about to make a pithy observation when he’s actually just spouting the same garbage he has since the dawn of time.

“‘It’s cheaper to keep her?’” I offer as a guess. That’s a favorite saying of his, and of course, he acts like he coined it. The Hammer has been married for more than three decades, but I don’t think he’s had a conversation with his wife since the Bush administration—the first one—and I could guess how long it’s been since he’s fucked her…if I wanted to contemplate his sex life.

Which I definitely don’t. It’s bad enough that I’ve spent more than ten years putting up with him trying to drag me along when he goes to pick up hookers.

“Exactly,” Hammerness says, and I can't decide if he's oblivious or indifferent to the disdain I'm making no effort to hide. “So, listen. One last thing. Stu Garnett.”

“What about him?” Stuart Garnett is another important client, the powerful head of a third-generation real estate family corporation, and his name makes a regular appearance on the Forbes’ 400 list. Four years ago, while he was mayor of Marino Vista, a small but wealthy seaside suburban San Diego town, I defended him against charges of accepting bribes from city contractors. I got him acquitted of all charges, of course.

“His wife is divorcing him. He wants you as counsel.”

I'm blinking down at the man across the desk, trying to process the words he just spat out quickly and almost…nervously? What the hell is going on here?

“You want me on a divorce case.”

“I know, I know.” The Hammer pinches the bridge of his nose. “I told him he’d be better off with someone from family law, like Kerri Atkinson. But he thinks you're a goddamned magician or something.”

Okay. I get it now. The curtains are drawn, and this whole conversation finally makes sense.

“So,” I state, “you try to pawn a kiddie porn case off on me, knowing I would say no. Then you harass me about playing golf, knowing I fucking hate golf. Because you thought that’d make me more likely to say yes to this? A divorce case?”

Hammer’s eyes flash, and his response is heated. “He's a seven-figure client, Logan. He wants you, he gets you.”

God dammit. God dammit.

It's not that divorce cases are beneath me or that they're annoying and boring or that they're a waste of my time and talents or that they're not my area of expertise…

Actually, it's all of those things. Plus the fact that I already have more active cases than I care to count, am constantly in and out of court, and perhaps most importantly: I just don't want to.

None of that matters, though. The big man is right. A client like Stu gets what he wants.

“Fine.” I think I manage to not sound petulant.

“Here.” The Hammer shoves a folder across the desk at me. “There's a meeting in the small conference room in twenty minutes. Should give you enough time to skim through.”

And now I really am gaping at him. Twenty minutes. Is he kidding?

Clearly, he's not. Jesus Christ.

“You owe me,” I grind out as I pick up the folder. “A big one.”

“Well, we all know what you want. Not gonna get there unless you take a few for the team.” He says this with a wolfish grin and a glance out through the glass walls toward the front doors, where his and Vic Stevens’ last names are engraved.

I clench my teeth. Yeah, I want my name on that door. I want it so badly I can taste it. And that's why I've been taking more than “a few” for the team for the past decade.

“Who’s opposing counsel?” I ask as I flip open the folder.

“Uhh, some skirt I've never heard of. Masters? Jean…Joan…no, Johanna. Johanna Masters. Shouldn't be much of a challenge for you.” Hammerness picks up his phone, squinting as he starts reading something on the screen.

All right, then. He pawned this pile of shit off on me, and now he's moved on. Great.

Without a word, I turn around and leave, heading back to my office, where I thumb through the case notes, which were typed up by Hammer’s intern. I get through them in about five minutes, and when I'm done, my annoyance at having to deal with this has reached critical mass.

Johanna Masters… I have this feeling that I’ve heard that name before, but I can’t place it, and it’s bugging me. Grabbing my phone with a jerk, I bring up the browser to Google her. I’m better with faces than names. If I do know her, I’d prefer to remember now instead of later, when we’re in front of our clients.

The phone on my desk buzzes, and my assistant’s voice rings out loud and sharp over the intercom. “Ms. Carne and her attorney are waiting for you in the small conference room.”

“Thanks, Jewell.” With a tap, I close my phone browser. If I’ve met this Johanna Masters before, so what? I’m pretty good at taking things in stride. Besides, I got to know Stu’s wife, Caroline, fairly well back when I represented him, and I got along a hell of a lot better with her than I did with him.

I catch some strange looks from coworkers on my way to the conference room, sharp and wide-eyed stares that seem both intrigued and apprehensive. Has word spread that fast? And what word is that exactly? This situation isn't that bizarre, is it?

A divorce case. Potentially a nasty one, considering the value of the assets involved, but still just a divorce case. Kind of surprising, though, to be honest. Stu and Caroline’s marriage always seemed rock solid.

Through the glass walls, I can see two women sitting at the conference table with their backs toward the door, a blonde with her hair pinned up and a brunette with her shoulder-length hair down. They both seem familiar, which means… I do know Johanna Masters? Dammit.

It's just the two of them. Stu’s late. No big surprise there.

I push open the glass door, saying, “Good afternoon, la—”

The greeting dies in my throat as they swivel their heads toward me.

And I see that the younger one struck me as familiar because she is. I’d know those ice-blue eyes anywhere, could never mistake her honey-blonde hair and that fine-boned face. I’d recognize those slender curves of hers among hundreds or even thousands of women by touch alone, even covered in a tight skirt suit as they are now. Because for almost nine years, touching her was what I lived and breathed for.

If I didn’t see her for a century, I’d still remember everything about her in vivid detail. I’d recall her smell, her voice, and the feel of her skin beneath my hands. And I’d be able to picture all the subtle changes in her expression, the almost unrecognizable signs of her thoughts and feelings that only I can interpret. Because I know her.

I know her. Her name is Paige Waters. She’s still the most stunning woman I’ve ever met.

She’s my wife.