Anna
The house in front of me is beautiful.
It’s absolutely, positively, perfectly stunning.
It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen and there’s no way this is a legitimate law firm. No, it looks like the kind of house you go to if you want to talk with a fortune teller or if you have a ton of money and want to spend it on B&Bs.
This isn’t the type of place someone like me belongs.
This isn’t the type of place I should be going to.
Still, as I look at the card in my hand, I realize there’s no way I have any other choice. This is the place. This is the time. This is the guy. Joyce wouldn’t steer me wrong, and right now, I don’t think anyone else could possibly help me. Time is running out, and I need to figure out a way to make all of this go away.
I need to figure out a way to make everything okay.
The Victorian mansion in front of me is enormous. It looms large and dark in the bright sunshine. Everything about it looks like it’s from a fairytale. The paint is perfect and even the attached gardens are blooming with flowers. There shouldn’t still be flowers. It’s autumn.
Those flowers should be dead by now, but somehow, they’re still fighting.
Just like me.
I stand in front of the house, staring, trying to decide if I should go inside. It’s not like this is really an embarrassing problem. I’m not a criminal, after all. I’m not here because I made a poor choice.
I’m here because I was born into a shitty family.
And it’s not like that’s something I can help, but it is something I can fight against.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
When I called Joyce yesterday, it was mostly to vent. I knew she worked with lawyers, but I didn’t expect she’d be able to get me an appointment with one of them. I certainly didn’t expect a last minute appointment.
Still, she pulled through for me and now I owe her. Hardcore. Joyce is the sweetest, fiercest woman I’ve ever met. I wish I was more like her. Hell, right now, I wish I was more like anyone else in the world but myself.
I can’t believe my mother did this to me.
Hell, as much as I love my father, I can’t believe he did this to me. I was only 16 when he died. I was just a kid, and I know he had high hopes for me, but he screwed me with this damn clause.
What screwed me even more was not knowing about the stupid thing until now.
Now, I’m pretty sure it’s too late. I’m pretty sure it’s too late to do anything but kiss my trust fund goodbye because I know I’m never going to see it. I know I’m never going to be able to access it and that stings. It stings that the one thing my father left me is going to slip through my fingers because of some stupid, outdated clause.
Fuck.
“Are you selling something?” I look up and realize there’s a man on the porch. He’s standing there watching me.
“How long have you been watching me?” I glare at him. Fuck him. Fuck this guy. Fuck this place.
“Long enough to know you’re being super creepy.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I have no real reason to be pissed at this random stranger. For all I know, he’s here for the same reason I am: to get legal help. Still, I find him completely obnoxious, and I don’t like him interrupting my private thoughts. Those are for me.
And my attorney, I suppose, once I meet the dude.
“You’re just staring at the building,” he says, completely unbothered that I’m getting irritated with him.
“I have a meeting,” I tell him.
“Is that right?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to be here.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “But I don’t think your meeting is in the driveway, or even on the front porch.”
I should say something snarky back, something mean, but right now, I’m just staring at this guy. He’s a shifter for sure. No one looks that lean, that graceful, without being some sort of cat. He’s a tiger, I bet. Yeah. I absolutely, positively believe this guy is a tiger.
And he’s a sexy one.
I’ve been with my share of shifters. Oh, I don’t have a weird kink or anything like that, but growing up in a town like Bradshaw, you get to know people for who they really are, and what they really are is shifters.
I swallow hard, trying not to think about what it would be like to be on top of him. I shouldn’t be picturing his hard, lean chest beneath my palms. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about the way I’d sink down onto his cock like it had been mine forever. I should be imagining what this guy whispers when he’s balls deep inside of someone. I shouldn’t be wishing that someone was me.
Suddenly, his eyebrow lifts, and he looks at me in surprise. Fuck. Yep. He’s definitely a shifter. If he’s smelling my arousal from that far away, he’s definitely a damn cat. Fucking shifters.
I growl and march up the stairs to the house. I ring the bell, ignoring him completely. I just need to talk to my lawyer and then I can go. I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do to get out of this mess, and then I’ll leave.
“It’s an office building, sweetheart,” he’s suddenly right next to me, leaning against the building. His shirt is way too tight for him. It’s showing off all of his muscles, and I can smell his cologne from here. He crosses his arms over his chest, further showing off his hard chest, and it’s all I can do to keep from throwing myself at him.
“I know,” I say, but my voice comes out in a whisper. Yeah, this guy knows I’m completely horny, completely turned on right now, and he’s going to tease me, taunt me.
I’m not letting him get away with that, though.
Shifter or not, I’m here for legal aid and that’s it. That’s all I came for. Not dick. I definitely didn’t come here for dick. Even though I’m sure he knows how to use his and yeah, I get the feeling that he’s very, very good at it.
No.
I shake my head.
I’m not here for dick.
The man leans in close to me. His breath is hot on my ear as he whispers to me.
“You don’t need to ring the doorbell, love.”
On impulse, I reach down and palm his cock. He’s hard, but his body stills instantly. Yeah, he wasn’t expecting that. Oh, I want to slide my hand up and down his length right now, but I don’t. Instead, I just hold him, gripping him, but I don’t look at him.
“How else was I supposed to get you over here so I could touch you?” I whisper, and then I let go of him suddenly and walk inside.
Once I close the door behind me, I let out a deep breath.
“Stressful morning?” Joyce is walking down the hall toward me. She looks different in her work clothes. Professional. She looks like a woman on a mission and something tells me that when she’s in the office, nobody fucks with Joyce.
“You could say that,” I say. I want to hug her, but she looks so pretty and put-together. This isn’t the Joyce I know from Saturdays. This isn’t the silly girl I know who likes to drink a little too much and then get binge-watch romantic comedies.
No, this is a businesswoman, a shark.
This is Joyce Lawson, and she’s fucking incredible.
Joyce stops in front of me and smiles.
“Don’t think you’re getting away without hugging me,” she smirks, and instantly, I’m in her arms. I hold Joyce tightly, like she’s a damn lifeline, and she hugs me back. “Everything is going to be okay, Anna. Oliver Lyon is incredible.”
“I know,” I say. I read the bio on the law firm’s website. Casa, Fee, and Lyon are three of the best lawyers in town. I’d guess they’re all shifters, too. How else do you explain the “Casa Feline” joke in the name of their firm? I’d bet my money on Joyce coming up with that one. She had to have. She’s too clever. “House of Cat” my foot. I’ll bet the guys don’t even realize the joke.
“Let’s get you to his office,” she says. “He just stepped out to make a couple of phone calls, but he should be back in soon.”
“Of course.”
I follow her down a narrow hallway and past a couple of doors. Then she pushes open the door to the cleanest, most pristine looking office I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Is this the right place?” I ask.
“Yeah, I know. He doesn’t do personal. That’s not his style.”
“Apparently. It looks like he chose a room out of a catalog and just had it installed as-is.”
“We can’t all be creative types,” a familiar voice says, and suddenly, my stomach drops. I grimace, but force myself to turn around. Sure enough, the man from the porch is standing in the doorway, and he’s looking very, very comfortable with himself.
It can’t be him.
“You’re back,” Joyce says with a smile. “Anna, this is Oliver Lyon: your lawyer.”