Trinity

I’m waiting for the punch line, but Lucas either has really poor comedic timing or is completely serious. Shit, fuck, and a million other swear words climb up my throat.

“That can’t be right. Brian Carson? Partner in the IGC Restaurant Group? Prematurely balding, bit of a paunch, father-of-two Brian Carson?”

“One and the same.”

The teacup in my saucer has started to shake. Lucas relieves me of it and places it back on the tray, then hands me a second Milano cookie.

“Sugar’s good for shock.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I inhale that cookie, using the chewing motion to give me time to wrangle my emotions.

“But Max could still represent my sister, right?”

“Not in this. No one else at this firm can represent Emily Carson. That would be a conflict of interest.”

He hands me another cookie, and while I shove it into my mouth, I break down what he’s told me. When I called to make an appointment with Max, I didn’t give details, just that I wanted to talk about my divorce. It sounded better than saying I’m here because my sister is a special snowflake who needs her every move to be curated and vetted.

Of all the law firms in all the world…

I stand, because if I remain seated, I will finish that entire fucking plate of Milanos.

Lucas straightens and smooths some cookie crumbs from his thighs. The way his suit pants stretched taut around his thighs while he sat on the desk was a praise Jesus moment, for sure. The man is one incredibly fit specimen.

And Brian’s legal counsel.

“Unfortunately, it also means that you and I can’t be in any sort of relationship while I’m representing your brother-in-law.”

My heart plummets like a rock to the Chicago River twenty-five floors below us. “You think I care about that?”

“Don’t you?”

“Of course not! That’s not why I’m here. I came to see Max, remember?”

“I remember.” He says it quietly, like he’s referring to another memory, say, two nights ago when he told me I was about to embark on the ride of my life, with Hottie Brit as the driver.

“You were the one who started this,” I say, not even sure what I mean by this.

“So you’re mad I didn’t call.”

“I-I am not—mad! You think I’ve been waiting around for you to pick up the phone? Or I’m here to put my ass back on your radar? Or I care that this conflict-of-interest business kills this before it’s even started?”

So this litany makes it sound like I care. Considerably. Also, apparently I have my own definition of what this is and it involves lusty, sweaty nights tangling up sheets with the man before me.

“It’s not completely impossible, just tricky. I’d need to get my client’s written permission.”

“You mean if I wanted to—to—”

“Kiss me?”

My breathing locks up and I can feel color rising to my face. So much is inferred from that query and kissing is the least of it. “Brian would have to give his blessing?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, good thing I don’t want to kiss you.” Damn, I want to kiss him. Bad.

The mention—twice—of the word kiss lingers like temptation in the air. It’s all I can think about. It’s everything I want.

But then I remember that this guy just torpedoed me with terrible news, not about the doomed-before-we-begin thing, but about how Max and his firm are off the table. Even worse, they’re representing Brian. The man before me is working for the enemy.

The man before me is the enemy.

“How long have you been his lawyer?”

“I can’t answer that.”

I growl. “How long?”

His eyes darken to a midnight blue. I want him to look at me like that forever. “A few weeks. He wasn’t happy with his previous counsel and he decided a switch was in order.”

Emily said Brian had hired a shark. It appears I’m looking at him.

“And you’re pushing him to go for sole custody?”

“Trinity, I can’t discuss this with you. All dealings with my client are confidential.”

I open my mouth, in no doubt that I look like an oxygen-deprived trout. Confidential? I know that!

“He’s—he’s not a good person. He’s the kind of guy who steals lunches from the communal employee fridge, who aims for puddles in crosswalks. He’s one giant foreskin!”

His raised eyebrow makes me feel foolish. Sharks don’t care about their clients’ evil quotients or uncanny likenesses to dick jackets.

“Okay, whatever. I guess we’re done here.” I turn, practically stumbling toward the door. I have to get away. I need air and water and more Milano cookies.

A big hand emerges from behind me to touch the door, and I jerk in surprise. I know it belongs to Lucas, but I still jumped because apparently after The Incident, the slightest thing is enough to reduce me to a cowering bundle of nerves.

“Trinity. Wait.”

I can’t look at him. Why do I feel so betrayed? I barely know him, and except for that almost-kiss, there’s nothing between us. But the sheer impossibility of it makes me realize I might have wanted something after all. A curveball in the otherwise predictable trajectory of my life.

Damn Brian and Em—no, not Emily. This isn’t her fault, yet a little voice nags me. It’s never her fault. She’s done it again. Taken away something you want. Something that should be yours.

“I have to leave. You can’t help me so it’s best I go.” I say this to the door.

“Look at me, Trinity.”

My name sounds like a prayer on his lips. This is a terrible idea, but not doing it would assign it more significance than it deserves, so I turn my head. “Yes?”

It’s as awful as I expected. Worse. Deep, cobalt blue pools of compassion stare back at me and I want to drown in their depths. You know you’re in a bad way when you start thinking in clichés.

“I’m as disappointed as you are,” he says gravely.

“Well, I heard such good things about Max, but I can always find another lawyer.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

I shrug. “It was nothing. And you smelled like a brewery.”

“Surely perfume to a woman in your profession. Admit it, I brought the goods. The slight brush of my hand to your jaw, the focused lean-in, the promise of more.”

He’s doing it again, that charming self-awareness. My lungs have locked up. Useless, useless. “The hallmarks of a player.”

“Not a line, Trinity.”

I don’t believe him. Neither do I care, because even a surface attraction from a surface guy is better than nothing. “Stop this. You just said it can’t happen.”

“Yes, I did. But the thing about divorce proceedings, Trinity”—he inclines his head so our foreheads are almost touching, his breath a ghost of a whisper against my lips—“is that they eventually come to an end.”

But I want it now, I almost whine. I want the mouth and the clever hands and the sly, knowing laughs. I want the flutter in my chest and the heat between my thighs. I want the woo. And I want it in the not-too-distant future.

I am one greedy wench.

“We’ll see if I’m still available,” I say with appropriate hauteur.

“Brilliant. I won’t be dating anyone else either while we wait.”

This guy cannot be for real. “I’m not hanging around waiting for my sister to sign her divorce papers just so I can get laid!”

He nods. “No, you’re not.”

“Exactly. I’m not.”

“Getting laid doesn’t really describe it, Trinity.”

It will be so much more. That’s what he means. That’s what I’m willing to wait for, apparently.

He opens the door, a smirk on his lips I’d like to slap into the middle of next week. “Enjoy that slow burn,” he says.

“Enjoy your blue balls,” I shoot back.

I smile thinly at a surprised Sadie and head off to start my day.

Lucas

Any asshole can father a child. Any idiot can provide the genetic material to create an embryo. I’ve advocated on behalf of plenty of guys who should have wrapped it before they tapped it because, in all honesty, they are not qualified to play daddy.

But I usually place myself in a client’s shoes. If I had a mini-me running around out there, nothing would keep me from being a major part of my kid’s life. Now some of the men I represent are douches. They’ve cheated on their wives, hidden assets in offshore accounts, have shady dealings in their past and present, and while they might be out-and-out assholes, it’s important to remember this: Being an asshole and being a good dad are not mutually exclusive.

I truly believe that most fathers want the best for their children. Stable, loving environments are best for kids, just as nurturing relationships with parents and guardians are also preferable. If both parents want to be involved and are making a decent effort, then the gender of the parent should not be discounted. However, we still live in a world where motherhood is viewed as mandatory and fatherhood as voluntary. My take is that a mother’s bond is not any more special than a father’s.

So while some dads are assholes, they’re still dads, and I’m here to fight for them.

I know, I know. I sound like one of those late-night commercials for a shady ambulance chaser. We’re family here at X, Y, and Z, Esquire. Let me fight for yours. Cue awkward photo of attorneys plus whichever staff were forced to stare directly into a camera that day.

I tell you all this because Trinity’s news that Brian is a dick, or more accurately—and hilariously—one giant foreskin, isn’t exactly a bombshell.

The guy cheated on his wife with Freja, his nineteen-year-old Danish au pair.

At our first meeting, he slipped me a twenty (yup) and asked about the best ways to ensure his wife doesn’t get a penny from him.

He also turned up at my office one day wearing a Coldplay T-shirt.

So, yeah, asshole.

But he still has rights, and I plan to help him be the best dad he can be. We can rebuild him. We have the technology.

Today I’ve called Brian to discuss the house. His wife—Trinity’s sister, and man does that chap my dick—doesn’t want to sell.

“Of course she doesn’t, Brian. No one wants the upheaval of a home move, but your finances won’t really support that mortgage and whatever you need for your new household. Unless you have some stash you’re not telling me about.”

“I told you everything. But she says it’s tough on the kids.”

“This whole situation is tough on them, but you have to provide.” More than financially but I’m not here to judge. At least, not yet. “However, there’s no reason why she can’t contribute to the household finances as well. And part of that contribution is downsizing to something more reasonable.”

I can practically hear his smiling sneer over the phone. “I knew you were the right guy for me. We’re gonna crush her.”

Clients who feel they might have a weak leg to stand on often give off this vibe of blowhard bluster. I’m not here to crush anyone. My job is to ensure that everyone gets what’s fair and the kids come out of it unscathed. The little blighters invariably get the short end of the stick, and I’m determined that they shouldn’t suffer any more than necessary.

My gaze wanders to the jigsaw puzzle in my office, thoughts of the past—of Lizzie—ever present.

“I’ll put a call into your wife’s lawyer and get the ball rolling. But I have to ask: How much of a hard-ass do you want to be on this?” The paperwork includes details on Emily Carson’s work history, as in nada. It’s going to be tough for a woman with no marketable skills to make headway finding a job. “Her lawyer will argue that she stayed out of the workforce to raise your children.”

“Raise them? The nannies raised them. Hell, her sister spent more time with them than Emily did. Especially Chase.”

I perk up at the mention of Trinity. “Really?”

“Yeah, she’s always been there. Butting in. Giving unsolicited advice, making my son soft. My kids!”

So not a whole lot of love there. And I don’t especially appreciate Brian’s “making my son soft” comment. As far as I can tell, Chase is a great kid.

Brian continues. “Does she expect me to support her for the rest of her life?”

“No. Just until she remarries.”

“Well, no one’s going to take on a chick with two kids.”

You’d better hope someone will, Brian, because your denial-of-alimony claim is not a slam dunk.

“Let me see what I can do.” I click off, thinking of Trinity.

I should leave her alone, yet I’m drawn to her. To her tough shell hiding that soft center where her sister is concerned. I admire the hell out of a woman who steps up like that. Who puts family first, probably because I’ve tried and failed as a son and a brother.

We’re always drawn to our opposites, magnet to metal. I need to play this carefully, because there’s a really good chance that my attraction to Trinity Jones could make me screw up.