Trinity

“I have wine!”

At the front door, I brandish the bottle of Pinot Noir in my sister’s face and wait for her to crack a smile. Rays of lip-curving sunshine are few and far between these days for Emily, so I cheer a mental touchdown when she lights up.

She holds the door back to let me in. “I just put Ari to bed and I’m ready for wine and whining.”

Oh, I’m so here for that. I’m also not opposed to the idea that her five-year-old is sleeping. Arianna is a demon disguised as a cherub-faced innocent, and I’m the only one who sees the evil lurking beneath.

“Where’s my favorite nephew?”

“In his room. Brooding.”

Uh-oh. Unlike his sister, Chase is usually a pretty good-natured kid. The separation has been tough on everyone.

I hand off the wine. “Open this, Ems. I’ll pop up to say hi.”

First I take a look inside Arianna’s room. She’s expelling fluttery breaths, and as adorable (looking) as that sounds, I know better.

I knock on Chase’s door. “Hey, put your pecker away. I’m coming in!”

A huff that’s half laugh, half acknowledgment comes back. Popping my head around the door, I find him lying on the bed reading a comic book. My sensitive sommelier nose adjusts to the boy funk. Chase’s room is probably typical for any fourteen-year-old kid who likes both the Marvel and DC universes (I know, weird) and has an artistic-sporty vibe. Hunky Spanish soccer players battle for wall space with half-naked lady rappers.

“Hey, Aunt Trin.”

“Hey, Whiskey Chaser, what’s up?”

“Just doing homework.” There’s an open laptop with what looks like a Word document on it. He should be enjoying his break, but he had a less-than-stellar last few months in the school year and has to make up for it this summer.

“Comic book report?”

That yields a grin. He really has the best smile that flashes at you so suddenly that when it’s gone you wonder if you imagined it. His dad’s, Brian’s, smile. A light dusting of freckles over pale skin dots his cheeks. His copper-brown hair is standing on end as if his homework has been making him tear it out.

“Just taking a break before I get back to it. I have to analyze FDR’s relationship with Winston Churchill.”

“Ooh, I got this one. Fuddy-duddy white dudes talking a lot about, uh, cigars.”

He makes a play of typing something on the laptop. “The extra piece I needed!”

“Shut it, ya cheeky boy.” I take a seat on the bed. “Seen your dad lately?”

The air chills. “He came to soccer practice last week. Took me out for a chocolate malt after. Like I’m six.”

“Hey, I’m thirty-four and you won’t see me saying no to chocolate malts.”

He shrugs. “It’s just weird. I mean, he doesn’t even…” The words peter out.

“He doesn’t even what?”

“Nothing.” His fingers trace the cover of the magazine. It’s Wonder Woman, looking like she’s ready to kick villainous ass.

“Anything else going on?”

Another shrug. We used to talk more, but he’s at that awkward age where he doesn’t want to be too friendly. His parents’ situation isn’t helping and I’m trying to be supportive, yet not interfere. Interference—or running it—is generally my jam.

“Want to catch a movie on Saturday? New Ant-Man’s out.” I hold my breath, worried he’ll push me away.

“Most underrated superhero.”

“He is quite small,” I confirm, and that makes us both laugh.

“It’d have to be the afternoon. I have a soccer match on Saturday morning, not that I’ll get much time on. Been playing like crap lately.”

Chase used to be a whiz on the field, but I suspect he’s going through a phase of bored resistance.

“Maybe I’ll come see. Any hot single dads there?”

He rolls his eyes. “More like desperate married moms who have it bad for Coach.”

“Then I’m definitely there.” I pinch his cheek because I know he hates it and head back down to see my sister. She’s in the living room with a serrated steak knife, a torn-open package of Dubliner cheese, and a box of Ritz.

“Classy,” I say, and we both giggle.

Emily—or Ems as I like to call her when she’s not pissing me off—is a blond, petite porcelain doll who, now that she’s hit thirty-two and is going through hell with Brian, is starting to show her age. (For the record, I found my first gray hair at sixteen and it’s been the greatest cover-up in hair science ever since.) We couldn’t be more different: me with my big-boned sturdiness, brown skin, and rebellious hair, her looking like a cross between Baby Spice and Disney Princess.

That’s right: different dads.

Mine died when Mom was six months pregnant, a boating accident at twenty-five. She married Evan, one of my dad’s friends, right after I was born, and Emily was dropped off by the stork eighteen months later. Evan and my mom packed it in when I was eleven years old. He was a good stepdad, but his first love was always Emily. I get that. It hurt a little, but I’ve gotten over it.

Once it was just us three girls, we would have the odd “uncle” stop by to try us on for size, but nobody who stuck around. Mom was pretty encouraging of us to “be our own person,” which was code for I’m going out on a date and you need to babysit your sister, Trinity. To say I feel protective over Emily is a massive understatement. There might be less than two years between us, but I practically raised her. All my efforts as a teen went to ensuring she was safe, that homework was checked, bullies were crushed, boys were vetted. Sure, Mom was there on the periphery, but I was running the Jones household with an iron fist.

Then my mom and stepdad died in a car accident during a rare interlude when they’d decided to give it another shot. I was nineteen, Emily was seventeen, and it left us raw and a little bit wrecked.

Emily hands off a glass of wine. “How’s His Highness?”

“Grouchy. Having to do schoolwork when it’s summer is the worst.”

“Well, he has to catch up.” She takes a slug of wine from a glass that is already half empty. “I know this last year has been hell on him, but it’s been hell on us all.”

“True.” I take her by the glass-free hand and lead her to the sofa. “What’s the latest?”

“He just switched lawyers because—oh, I don’t know why. Now he has some shark who’s telling him to push for sole custody!”

I jerk my head back. “What? But I thought we—you were going for shared custody. Brian works long hours and takes all those business trips. How the hell is he going to be there for them?”

“I don’t know. My lawyer says it’s just mind games. Tactics to keep us guessing so I’ll be grateful when he hands me a pittance. Brian’s worried I’ll spend all his money on”—she gestures dramatically to the coffee table—“cheese!”

We both start laughing, because Brian is a notorious penny-pincher. He runs a restaurant investment group that owns twelve high-end establishments in the Chicagoland area. The man is doing very well, but God forbid he spend any of that on his family.

I look around at the perfect living room in their perfect Lincoln Park town house, which is sparkling clean, not because Emily likes to stay on top of it, but because they have a housekeeper who lives off site and comes in to make meals and generally tend to their every need. It’s a different world.

“He wants us to move somewhere cheaper, like Uptown or Edgewater.” She whispers the neighborhood names like they’re shantytowns and saying them louder would conjure up hobo clowns. “My Pilates class is right around the corner from here. Where am I going to go in Edgewater?”

Jesus. “Well, I live there. We recently got running water and electricity. We even have a farmers’ market!”

She smiles ruefully. “I’m sorry. I’m just so pissed at him. This is my children’s home and he wants to sell it out from under us. As if they haven’t been through enough upheaval.”

I top off her wine, then take a sip of my own. We sit in silence, thinking on how life can get so fucked up that you don’t even realize it’s happening until you’re waist deep in shit.

“My lawyer said I should get a job.”

Emily has—or had—a nanny for Ari until she came home one day and found Brian giving the nineteen-year-old Danish au pair a gold star on her performance review. If you know what I mean. Even with the nanny, she never worked, so getting a job is a scary proposition for her. She met Brian when she was seventeen, was knocked up within three months, and married within six. She’s smart and funny and kind, but she’s not the most prepared to be out on her own.

I blame myself. I should have insisted she go to college. Brian wasn’t as wealthy then as he is now, but they could have found a way. I would have helped despite the fact I despised—despise—Brian with the heat of a thousand suns.

But we can’t change the past, only the future. Ems needs to restart her life.

“Getting a job isn’t such a terrible idea, is it?”

“Of course not. It’s just—what can I do?” She shoves her wineglass forward. “The bar where you work, maybe?”

“That’s a night job. You need to be here in the evenings.”

She blinks. “I do?”

“For the kids.”

“Right.” She deflates right in front of me.

I throw an arm around her. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out! Now tell me what your lawyer said about Foreskin going for sole custody.”

She smiles grimly at my nickname for Brian. “That fathers’ rights are all the rage. It used to be the mom was practically guaranteed to get sole custody, but the courts are completely woke up now.”

“Woke up?”

“Yeah, woke up…” She squints. “Woken? It’s something Chase said in between grunts and shoving cereal into his mouth this morning.”

“Woke. You mean woke.”

“That’s what I said!”

I chuckle because we’re so, so different. I’ve always loved it, but lately I wish she was more like me. More self-aware. For so long, she’s lived in this Lincoln Park yummy-mummy bubble, everything in her life taken care of.

Brian’s leaving has made her just a little bit woke.

“Maybe I should get another lawyer. The one I have always sounds so bored with me when we talk. Like my problems don’t mean anything to her. I don’t think she’s doing all she could. I have to keep this house!”

“You need a shark.” I think of that murder of divorce lawyers in the bar two nights ago. I haven’t heard from Hottie Brit’s friend yet about setting up the networking event for female lawyers. Neither have I heard from HB himself.

“Once we start this I’ll be going all in.”

The kiss that never happened is imprinted like a stencil on my brain. He was right about what I thought of him: too young, too flighty, too smooth. And the fact that he knew enough to peg my thoughts on the topic makes him much more interesting. A bit of a conundrum, that.

“I know a divorce lawyer, a customer at the bar. Max Henderson.”

“Where have I heard that name?” Emily cocks her head. “Oh, he helped Magda with her divorce a couple of years ago. She said he’s gorgeous and very, very good. I called his office when all this started and he wasn’t taking on clients.”

“That was six months ago. Maybe I could run it by him when I see him again.”

“Maybe sooner.” She turns on the doe eyes and I roll my not-doe eyes in return before caving like a cheap suitcase. She knows I’ll do anything for her.

“I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”

Lucas

I love where I work. The 333 West Wacker building overlooks the Chicago River, its green-mirrored shine reflecting the beauty of the Riverwalk onto its face. The offices of Wright, Lincoln, and Henderson are on the twenty-fifth floor, and we’re expanding this year, taking on two more associates.

The business of human misery is good.

It’s not all union dissolution, but it’s the majority of our work. If I were still living in the UK, there wouldn’t be this much action, but Americans are notoriously litigious. No one wants to discuss anything. Lawyer up is invariably the first option. I should be glad, but sometimes I just want to tell my sad and angry clients to have a cup of tea and call me in the morning.

I walk into our office building, salute Mac, the security guy, and find an open lift. It’s just after eight and amazingly not busy. As the doors close someone calls out.

“Wait, please wait!”

I keep the doors open because I’m nothing if not a gentleman, but my good manners are about to be tested, because in walks temptation herself, Trinity Jones.

“Oh, hi!” She blinks and looks out into the building foyer as if maybe she should get into a different car.

The doors close on her escape route and I ask the immortal question: “Which floor?”

“Twenty five.”

We both look at the numbers panel where twenty-five is already selected.

Now my firm doesn’t have the entire floor—yet. We share it with a boutique brokerage firm and a venture capitalist outfit where the guys order in cases of Grey Goose like they’ve got stock in it. I could ask Trinity if she’s repping GG, but I’m guessing she’s here to see me. Besides, I’d much rather drink her in. She’s wearing a cream dress with little red flowers on it, its neckline what my mum would call peasant style. It shows her collarbone in all its kissable glory. Her hair is a hullabaloo, a minitantrum on her head.

“Humidity, one. Trinity, zero.” Chuckling at her own joke, she thumbs at her head, and I laugh along with her. Then I touch my breast pocket where I placed her business card this morning. Her golden-brown eyes dart there. She swallows, then licks her lips.

Am I wearing the same jacket as two nights ago? No, I am not. I have merely switched the card to each new jacket I don. And if you’re wondering if this is normal, rational behavior, I can safely assure you that no, it is not.

The card had sat next to her skin, the warmth of her tits keeping it toasty, and the mere thought of that was enough to keep me half hard for the last two days. I was supposed to give it to my friend Aubrey, but instead I shot her an email with the details so I could keep the card—Trinity Jones: Whiskey Woman.

How brilliant is that? I like this woman, enough that I didn’t call her.

This might appear counterproductive, but I meant what I said. She’s seen Lucas the clown, and God knows that joker’s okay for a laugh, but Ms. Jones needs more than a good-time Charlie. She needs a guy who’s worthy of her.

I’m delaying things while I work out how to conjure up that guy.

The lift makes a smooth and fast ascent. When the door opens onto my floor, I let her go ahead of me. She looks right toward the other offices, then turns left toward mine, and I walk behind her as she pushes through the glass door.

My heart booms triple time. I’m wondering when she’s just going to fess up to her reason for being here.

No sign of Casey, our receptionist, so I have to do the dirty work myself. “Who are you here to see?” I ask Trinity’s hair.

“Max.”

Max? Before I can enquire further, a pretty African American woman in her forties appears. Sadie is our office manager, though it’s more like office mother. She spends her days telling us off. Enjoys the hell out of it, too.

“Ms. Jones?”

“Yes, hi, I’m Trinity. I have an appointment with Max.” She sounds nervous.

Sadie smiles to put her at ease. “He just called to say he’s running late, but I can set you up in the conference room with—”

“Tea. We’ll have tea in my office,” I say before Sadie can finish.

Two sets of dark eyes turn on me. Sadie squints, which is code for explain yourself.

“Ms. Jones and I have already met,” I reply, putting both authority and Britishness into my speech, though I feel a bit silly talking like this to Sadie. She’s never going to let me live it down. “I’m happy to entertain her until Max gets here.”

To Trinity, I gesture to a door: “My office is through there.”

She’s not buying it. Instead she looks to Sadie for confirmation that this is okay. I also look to Sadie with “the look,” one that begs her to help me out.

The woman who holds my future sex life in her hands dangles me on the hook for an extralong second before finally relenting. “I’ll bring the tea through in a moment.”

As soon as Trinity’s in my office and out of earshot, Sadie grabs me by the lapels and growls, “What are you up to?”

“So suspicious.”

“She seems—”

“Out of my league?”

Sadie smiles, a don’t-bullshit-me tilt to her head. Because I’m a couple of years younger than Max and Grant, she lavishes me with more of her eagle-eyed scrutiny. She’s also a notorious gossip, which is fine because I’m a notorious gossip myself.

“That girl will chew you up, baby.”

“I can only hope!” I drop a kiss on her head, step back, and smooth my lapels. “How do I look, Mom?”

“Away with you. And I’ll be interrupting in about seven minutes with tea. No shenanigans.”

“Seven minutes? Challenge accepted!”

I should tell her that she needn’t worry. Not because I’m one of those man-ho players with a different woman warming my bed every night. Sure, I do okay, but that’s not the issue here. The problem is that most women can’t handle my energy. I’m pretty high on life a good chunk of the time, which is great for short term, but scares the crap out of most potential mates. As much as it pains me to admit it, I’m like my mother in this respect—but where she channeled it into crazy shite, like dragging us all over the UK to hippie music festivals or to Spain to pick grapes, I’ve funneled my energy into being the best at bloody everything. And while I can make a play for Trinity and have a little fun, I’m fairly certain she’ll tire of me quickly and won’t be sticking around past breakfast.

Leaving Sadie chuckling, I walk into my office and shut the door.

Trinity is patrolling the walls, checking my diplomas. “How old are you?”

“Twenty eight.”

“Damn. So you were…twenty when you got your law degree from Oxford?”

I smile. “Yes, but the system is different there. You read law at the undergraduate level. Then I did a postgrad here and passed the bar exam.”

“Read law?”

“That’s what we say to describe getting a degree.”

“We?”

“The British, love.”

She snorts. “But you must have started college at, what, sixteen? So you’re some sort of smarty-pants prodigy overachiever?”

“Is there any other kind?”

She shakes her head, half annoyed, half amused, and walks over to the window. The view is spectacular, yet she makes no comment, clearly determined to remain unimpressed. Her circuit takes her to the jigsaw puzzle I have set up on a drafting table on the west side of the office.

“Harry Potter,” she mutters, a reference to the puzzle’s subject matter.

“The kids like it.”

Her brow creases slightly at the mention of kids, perhaps. I like to keep the little buggers entertained while I chat with Mommy or Daddy about how much they hate their significant other. And sometimes working the puzzle helps me unravel a few knots of my own.

I gesture to the sofa on the other side of the room. “Have a seat.”

Ignoring that, she sits in the less comfortable chair opposite my desk and crosses her legs. The dress rides up a touch, showcasing a flash of smooth, shapely thigh. I take a seat on my desk, ensuring she has a good view of Hot Guy in Suit.

We’re both givers.

She peers up at me through her dark lashes. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“Lawyer-client confidentiality?”

“Well, no. Technically whatever you discuss with Max is the same as discussing with the firm. But I won’t pry if you’d prefer.”

Clearly torn, she examines her nails. Uncrosses her legs. Recrosses them. This sexy sequence sends blood shooting to my groin.

Finally, she barks, “It’s not for me. It’s for my sister. She’s in the middle of a divorce and he’s being a dick.”

Ah, the circle of life. “Divorces tend to bring out the worst in people.”

“Yes!” Visibly upset, she shoots up, hands fisted on hips, eyes to the floor. “I hate to see her like this and what it’s doing to the kids….” She shakes her head, unable to finish her thought.

Standing, I move in and place my hands on her arms. Her skin is hot to the touch, feverish, even, and makes my fingertips sizzle. Hating that her gaze is dipped and not meeting mine, I touch a finger to her chin and raise her focus to me. Those golden-brown eyes flame, set aglow by our proximity.

“Trinity, love, it’s okay. You’ve come to the right place. We’ve got a lot of experience dealing with this. Now, how come she’s not here today?”

“I thought I’d help her out by doing a little research. She’s my baby sister and I usually vet things for her. Old habits, I suppose. Also, she’s got a—a class.”

“A class?”

“Pilates.” She steps away from me and takes her seat again. “I know you think that’s weird, but her life has been totally upended this last year, so I’m trying to help her maintain some sense of normality. Balance. I don’t want to have her switch lawyers until I’m sure it’s a good idea.”

Sounds like Ms. Jones has a few control issues. I file that away.

“So, she already has legal counsel?”

“Yes, but I don’t think they’re doing enough. Apparently Brian’s lawyer is a shark, so I think we need a bigger shark.” She looks me up and down, and I see her appreciation for my form reflected in her eyes. Some people think that sitting while the other party stands gives the upright party too much power. Not Trinity. She recognizes that her current position affords her the best view. I look pretty fine from the gutter.

“Would you call Max a shark?”

“He’s excellent at his job.”

An awkward pause overtakes us. I can tell she’s a little embarrassed that she’s not asking me outright to represent her sister. That’s okay. I presented a certain image on our first meeting and it’s stuck with her. Besides, Max would probably be better for this because his client list is mostly female. I lean more toward men—in my practice of the law, that is.

I have good reasons.

The door opens—no knocking, mind—and in comes Sadie with a tray. She takes a gander at our positions, gives a small yet knowing huh, and sets the tray down on the desk.

“Any sign of Max?” I ask.

“Why? Do you care?” Practically sung back at me, of course.

“Thanks, Sadie, that’ll be all.”

She smiles at Trinity. “I don’t think you need any help, but I’m right outside if this one gets fresh.”

“Thanks, Sadie!” I repeat over Trinity’s husky chuckle.

Once we’re alone again, I take a moment to pour tea, doctor it up per her request, and hand it off with a double-chocolate Milano perched jauntily on the saucer. I sip my own, closing my eyes in pleasure. You can take the boy out of Britland, but you can’t take Britland out of the boy.

We’ve each downed a cookie in comfortable silence—except for a breathy, slightly orgasmic noise from Trinity—when I restart the interrogation. “Tell me more about your sister.”

Her face lights up, the worry of a moment ago faded for now. “She’s eighteen months younger than me and we’ve always been close. Our mom was a bit—neglectful, I suppose. She was usually on the lookout for a new man and all her energy went to that, which left me to be the grown-up. I made a lot of the decisions where Emily is concerned and I suppose I can’t help continuing to watch over her.” There’s that brow crimp again as her mind wanders to the past and a time when something went wrong. A decision she regrets where her sister is concerned. “My mom died in a car accident when Emily was seventeen and I became her guardian. She’s been sort of sheltered, which is probably my fault…”

She’s still speaking, but I’ve stopped listening. A chill has descended over my skin.

“Trinity,” I interrupt.

She blinks at the sharpness of my tone. “Yes?”

“What’s Emily’s full name?”

“Emily Anne Carson.”

The chill becomes a freeze, but I need to ask. “And her husband?”

“Brian. Brian Carson. Why?”

Fuck. “Trinity, we can’t talk about this anymore.”

“About what?”

“The divorce proceedings between Emily and Brian Carson.”

Confusion blights her expression. “What’s going on?”

“Our firm is already representing Brian Carson in this matter. Brian’s my client.”