Lucas

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find Cadbury Crème Eggs in July?

Trinity Jones does, which is why she set me on this quest.

But she doesn’t know that if I want something badly enough I will make it happen. I once BASE jumped off a mountain in New Zealand to impress a girl (she banged the bloody instructor instead, but it was a good plan all the same).

An hour after dropping off Chase, I slip into her apartment quietly, just in case she’s sleeping. Placing my computer bag on the ground softly, I move into the living room to assess the lay of the land. She’s there where I left her, though she’s adjusted her head so it’s on a throw pillow and it’s easier for her to catch a few Zs. Most people look calmer when asleep. Not Trinity. The crimp between her eyes deepens with each inhale, her dreams apparently filled with worry.

I set the bag from Dunkin’ on the coffee table.

Without opening her eyes, she sniffs the air like a hunter for prey. When her eyelids flutter open, there’s no missing the appreciative once-over she gives me.

“Covering up won’t cure me.”

I could have stayed shirtless but had to make myself semidecent before I picked up her sandwich. No shirt, no service, etcetera. Stinkin’ rules. Now I’m wearing yellow and green striped board shorts—they’re slimming—and a black T-shirt with the slogan Keep Calm and Call Your Lawyer.

“Society demands it. Too many car crashes as I walked down the street.”

She smiles, despite her best efforts not to. It’s fun finding cracks in her façade, though it’s easier today given her weakened immune system.

“Ready to eat?”

“God, yes.” She sits up and I hand off the sandwich, then grab her empty mug.

“Another round?”

“Maybe water? I might try to nap more after this.”

She still sounds terrible and doesn’t look so great, but it’s a good sign that she wants to eat. I bring back water and a couple of DayQuil I bought at the store.

“No, thanks,” she says. “Don’t like putting chemicals into my body.”

“Should I tell you about the egg sandwich now or later?”

She scoffs. “Not bad chemicals.”

“Whiskey?”

“Natural chemicals.”

I take a seat at the end of the sofa, lifting her feet to slide in and settling them on my lap. I position them so they’re not resting on my dick and we can all pretend I’m not dying to jump her despite her illness.

I am a fucking saint.

She sits up slightly to eat her sandwich and drink her water, and we remain in easy silence watching Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood biting into what looks like a cheesecake.

“Thanks for bringing me breakfast and for…” She waves to fill in the rest. “No luck with the other?”

“Tampons in the bathroom.” I extract my phone from my pocket. Lay it down on the coffee table. Then I unpocket my find and place it beside the phone.

She stares at the Cadbury Crème Egg like it’s a bomb. “Only the one?”

“Don’t get greedy. I’ll keep the other one in reserve.”

“But how?”

“A gentleman doesn’t reveal his methods.” I can tell I’ve thrown her and I’m glad to do it. She needs to recognize that this path has one destination. Me and Trinity sittin’ in a tree. F-U-C…You get the idea.

“You want to eat it now or take a nap?”

“Nap first, treat later.” I nod, then remove myself from the sofa.

“Wait. Are you…leaving?”

“No. Just going to be in the kitchen working. I’ll pick up Chase in a couple of hours and then get out of your hair.”

She’s clearly fighting her pleasure at learning I’ll be sticking around. “And Chase? He was okay when you dropped him off?”

“Yeah. We had a little chat.”

“About?”

“Whether he should be playing footie. I see kids do that sometimes, trying to please their parents. It can be exhausting for them.”

She looks relieved that I brought it up. “I’ve been trying not to interfere, but I know he’s having a rough time connecting with his father. He does seem less miserable lately, though…I’m sorry if I came off as ungrateful. I’m just used to fending for myself and you’re—”

“The last person you want help from.”

That cute worry dent I want to kiss appears between her eyebrows. “Yes. I know you’re doing a job representing Brian, but I can’t separate that from who you are.”

I wonder about her antipathy to Brian. It seems a bit over-the-top. “What did he do to you?”

“To me?” Her voice raises slightly. “He’s being a dick to my sister.”

“That’s their business, right? Why is it so personal to you?”

“My sister’s happiness is very personal. Is that so strange?”

I suppose not. I’m pretty damn protective of my own sister. But it niggles at me all the same.

“Take that nap. I’ll be in the kitchen, so give me a shout if you need anything.”

---

I know as soon as Max opens the email he’ll be calling me, so I’m already walking to the bathroom, creeping past a sleeping Trinity on the couch, when the phone rings.

“Yep?”

“Why am I messengering depositions to a strange address in Edgewater?”

I roll my eyes as I shut the bathroom door behind me. “As you already know who lives here, why don’t you just get it all out, Maxie?”

“What in the actual fuck are you doing? Do I need to cite the American Bar Association’s model rule on conflict of interest?”

“No, but I feel a boring speech coming on, so have at it.”

He intones like it’s Shakespeare. “Rule 1.7 states, and I’ll skip to the pertinent part: ‘A lawyer shall not represent a client if the representation involves a concurrent conflict of interest. A concurrent conflict of interest exists if: there is a significant risk that the representation of one or more clients will be materially limited by the lawyer’s responsibilities to another client, a former client or a third person, or by a personal interest of the lawyer.’ ”

“I know the rule. I’ve been following the ru—”

He cuts in. “Yet somehow you’re working today in the apartment of one Trinity Jones, sister of the respondent in a case where you are representing the petitioner. Tell me why this doesn’t fall under personal interest.”

“Because I haven’t had sex with her,” I whisper.

“But you want to.”

“Of course I want to! Dammit, I’m a walking ball of blue over here. This is complicated. I coach her nephew on my football team—”

“You mean soccer.”

“Max, if you interrupt me one more time, I’m going to hang up. Then I’m going to come into the office and shove ten Milano cookies and seventeen puzzle pieces down your throat.”

He sighs dramatically.

I start in with my explanation, the one I’ve crafted to justify every decision I’ve made since the day I first set eyes on Trinity. “Chase, the son of my client, needed a ride to his aunt’s house while both parents are out of town. The aunt is sick so I’m sticking around to run errands and pick up the kid—all done in service to my client, who is currently unable to fulfill his on-site parental duties. Now, tell me how this is in my personal interest when everything I’m doing benefits my client.”

“Don’t try to argue your way out of this with twisted logic, Wright. You wouldn’t be the first guy to invent some jumped-up excuse for why he should be screwing a woman who’s off-limits.”

“There is no relationship here. There won’t be as long as I’m representing Brian Carson.” The case is nowhere near finished so I’m pretty sure Trinity and I are going to miss our window. This makes me incredibly sad, not to mention sexually frustrated. For several weeks now I’ve been forced to beat the bishop twice a day. I’ve had offers, but all other women repulse me because they’re not Trinity.

Thing is, I like her. (Okay, more than like. Shut up.) I think she needs a friend. I can be that friend and not be derelict in my duty.

I’m sure of it.

“So do I need to come and pick up the depos myself or are you going to send them along like I asked?”

“Expect them within the hour. And Lucas?”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re so sure this isn’t a conflict then you should probably run it by your client.”

I know he’s right. I hate it but I know it.

Trinity

All morning, Lucas works in the breakfast nook in my kitchen. From my position on the sofa, I can see his long legs stretched out under the table. I can let my grasping gaze linger over his fingers as they tip-tap on his keyboard, all while imagining those fingers tracing sensual circles on my body and slipping into warm, tight, wet spots. My cold misery should make thoughts of sex with this guy—with any guy—unlikely, but I think Lucas Wright would tempt a dying crone for one last shot at ecstasy.

He also talks to himself, just like I do. Every now and then, I hear him muttering, “Fat chance, mate,” or, “Not on my watch, you muppet.” Then he’ll peek his head out of the nook, checking to see if he’s woken me.

I keep my eyes closed. I like him here. The comfort of it. The safety of having a good man in the house. I don’t like to think on that too hard, so I just accept it as part of my illness and push it to my brain’s attic.

Chase’s classes get out at noon on Fridays. Lucas leaves to pick him up and I’m ashamed to say that the minute the door closes, I rush into the bathroom to wash my face and put on lip gloss. Oh, God, my hair! A dab of coconut oil and a good comb-through saves the day, leaving me looking about 20 percent less awful. Winning!

On their return, Lucas approaches me with a thermometer.

“What’s that for?” I’m already recoiling.

“Chase seems to think you’ll want to head into work tonight. I’m here to check your temperature so we can make a call on that.”

“We?” He takes advantage of my open mouth to slide the thermometer in.

“Close your mouth, love. You smell like summer, by the way.”

After ten seconds, he removes it and stares hard. As I feel feverish, I suspect the answer is one I don’t want to hear.

“One-oh-one. No work for you.”

“I have to go in—”

“And infect everyone you pour drinks for? Nope. It’s okay. Gideon’s fine with you not working tonight.”

I slide a look to Chase, who is reading a comic in the armchair opposite. “Did you give him my work number?”

My nephew looks mildly offended at my accusation. “Uh, no. I gave him Gideon’s number when we didn’t get an answer at the bar. Not open.”

I sit up straight. “You can’t just decide I’m not going into work.” But my case falls apart in a splutter of coughing.

Chase shrugs. “Can and did.”

What the hell is going on here? This is some sort of conspiracy of…caregiving.

“I need to call Gideon.” I grab my phone, noting that there are already a couple of text messages from him I must have missed while I was in the bathroom.

Don’t come in.

Followed by: I mean it.

Goddammit. A complete conspiracy!

“You owe me fifty bucks,” Chase says.

Lucas pulls out the money and hands it over to my scheming nephew. “He said you’d be difficult. I said you’d be immensely grateful and now I’m out fifty dollars, Ms. Jones.”

“I’m sure you can afford it, Mr. Billable Hours.”

We spend the rest of the day binge watching the baking show. I’m not ashamed to say I quickly develop a crush on Paul Hollywood, he of the master baking knowledge and just enough dickishness to compensate for the suspect goatee. Or maybe it’s the accent. I could get used to that British accent…

Lucas and Chase make chicken and pineapple quesadillas for dinner, and afterward we watch some German time travel thing, but I can’t focus on the subtitles, so I fall asleep.

The headlights blind me. Welcome. So welcome. I wave but the car won’t slow. I have to jump back to avoid being mowed down. My almost-savior speeds to the next intersection, and onward. Away.

“Nooo!”

I turn. He’s still there. He takes a step.

My eyes snap open. Lucas. He’s cupping my face and staring at me with such intent I almost sink into him. Attempting to get my bearings, I pull back.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

I’m back in my bed but the cover is on the floor. It’s just me with my T-shirt riding up and my black silk panties barely covering the assets. How—? When—? Vague memories of being carried here strain through the sieve that’s my brain.

“I-I’m cold.”

In a few seconds, the comforter is back where it belongs and the barrier is between us again, just as it should be. But hoo boy, it’s getting harder.

“What time is it? Where’s Chase?”

“It’s just after eleven and he’s in bed. Needs to get up early for the game tomorrow.”

The game. I’m so out of it that I completely forgot.

“I was just about to leave when I heard you getting stroppy.”

“Getting stroppy?”

He smiles. “Yeah, thrashing about. Being generally difficult, but you’re excused because you were sleeping and you’re ill. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Just a weird dream.” I search for a suitable lie. “I was forced to wear plaid and stripes to a wedding. Super disturbing.”

He remains silent, his disbelief a third person in the room.

“You should head out,” I mutter. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“Well, I’m really here for Chase.”

“That’s nice of you.”

He shrugs. “I’m a nice guy.”

I’m starting to agree. “Maybe you could stay awhile. Until I fall asleep anyway.”

His breath hitches at my pseudo invitation. “On the sofa?”

“I don’t want you to get sick.”

“I won’t get sick.”

He waits. And waits. I suspect he could wait me out forever.

My fingers are possessed by a spirit. I watch in horror as they creep toward the edge of the comforter and peel it back a dangerous inch.

Foxy fast, he stands and rips off his shirt, as if he’s afraid I’ll change my mind. And he’s not far wrong, only I’m thinking my mind will be changed to pro-Lucas, a state of existence where this man takes me places I’ve only imagined existing.

“You have tattoos.” They look old for someone so young, a few of them stretched out. Some look like astrological signs—a bull, a fish, a crab. And now I’m hungry.

“Mostly from when I was a kid. Traveling with crusty hippies and New Agers.”

I pull back the comforter without thinking, the last barrier to him joining me. A silent but clear invitation. This is crazy, but I need his heat. I crave his energy.

He pulls down his jeans and kicks off his shoes and socks. Then he’s in the bed.

With me.

“Just until I’m asleep,” I say to give him an out. Myself, too.

“Right.”

“Is the front door locked?”

“Locked it when I came home with Chase.”

Home. “Could you check?”

Avidly, I watch how the black cotton of his boxer briefs perfectly cups his ass cheeks, how the muscles bunch as he leaves to pander to my insecurity. I might be ill, but I’m most certainly not dead. He’s back in ninety seconds. “All safe.”

None of us are safe.

He slips under the comforter. I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

“I’m not sure what we’re doing here.”

“I’m just taking care of everyone,” he says, his voice rough. “Clients, sons of clients, enemies of clients.”

It’s more than that. So much more, but if I question it, I’ll chicken out. I need to let the mantle of suspicion slip. I’m not looking for anything more than friendship (lie, lie), and while Lucas is the worst candidate because of his representation of Brian, he might be the best because of his representation of me. These last twenty-four hours, he’s been here for me. Technically, for Chase, though we both know my nephew is the handy-dandy construct that’s facilitating what’s happening between us (sorry, Chase).

My fingers brush across the tattoo on his pec I noticed earlier, which I now realize is a Hogwarts sorting hat. How did I miss that? “Who’s Lizzie?”

His shoulders stiffen. “My twin sister. She lives in London.”

“You must be close?”

“Yeah, we are. Mind readers. The whole twin telepathy bit. I visit a couple of times a month to see her.”

You know when someone dispenses information in quick bursts, like they want to parse it out on a need-to-know basis? That’s what Lucas is doing. He doesn’t want to talk about Lizzie because she’s a source of pain. He’s not ready to give up that hurt, and maybe I’m not ready to take it on in a meaningful way.

He smiles but the implication is clear. We won’t be talking about it. We each have roles and mine is to entertain.

I know all about roles. We lock ourselves into them because the prospect of breaking our chains terrifies us. Comfort lies in the familiar, security in the cage.

“You still cold?” he asks.

I nod.

“Turn over.”

I do, let him envelop me in a human spoon, take all the heat and kindness he wants to give me. There’s a bit of drama surrounding my hair (so much of it, Lucas whines) and a threat to separate us with pillows if I don’t stop squirming against his groin—he’s hard, I don’t take it personally—but then we settle in like this is what we’ve always done.

“How’d you get into the whiskey business?” His breath is warm against my neck, and not facing him makes it feel both more and less intimate.

“My granddad, my mom’s father. He was a big whiskey drinker and I remember sitting on his knee while he sipped and smoked a cigar. Mahogany. Leather. Cologne. All these things knit together in my mind, creating these memories, crafting a world. It was a time in my life when I felt…safe, I suppose. Whole and not judged. The first time I tried whiskey—a Glenmorangie—it was like coming home. You know that feeling when something fills your nostrils and makes your heart burst?”

“I do.”

“What does it for you?”

A beat passes, then another, a stretch that makes me question whether he heard me.

“Books,” he finally says. “Library books.” He chuckles against my neck. “Stolen library books.”

“Um, the point of the library is that you don’t have to steal them, dummy.”

“I know, but when I was a kid, we traveled a lot and I wanted to have something to carry with me. Something to read when my mum was off doing her thing.”

“What was her thing?”

“Men. Weed. The night sky above our heads. She didn’t want to be tied down.”

I can feel his tension surrounding me, taut as a rubber band. I relax, hoping it can help him soften against me. Let him feel some reciprocity for the care he’s given me today.

“Sounds tough.”

“I survived. The Boy Who Lived.” There’s bitterness there, painting the words with something that sounds like a combination of grief and anger.

“Why is that familiar?”

“It’s the first chapter title in the first Harry Potter.”

“Ah, your favorite.”

He hesitates for a moment, and when he speaks, I suspect it’s not what he originally wanted to say. “Yes. My favorite.”

“Tell me about all the traveling when you were a kid.”

“Not as glamorous as it sounds. I prefer being settled in one place. Stability is preferable to adventure, I find.”

I might have agreed with that once, but here with Lucas I’m not so sure. Each new moment with him is an adventure, and I can see myself getting hooked on Lucas-fueled adrenaline. “I’ve always wanted to travel. Planned a distillery tour to Scotland once to see where my babies come from.”

“What stopped you?”

Emily got pregnant with Ari and she needed me to be around. “Life got in the way.”

“Yeah, that happens.”

Maybe because I feel secure for the first time in forever, or maybe because he’s convenient—yes, let’s go with the last one—I’m overcome with the urge to share more.

“Some guy jumped me on the street a few months ago,” I say. “A block from here.”

Pause. “Took care of him with Trinity ninja moves, I assume.”

“Of course.” I chuckle through the pain, but it devolves into a sob.

His hold tightens, yet somehow it makes me breathe easier.

“No—nothing happened. Not really. A car came along and he ran off, but…”

“But what, love?”

“It spooked me, is all. City living, right?”

“Sure, but now you don’t feel safe and you’re mad because you used to feel safe.”

Trust the shark lawyer to cut to the heart of it. It’s not just that—I used to feel a lot of things. Adventurous, desirable, my own person. Now I feel like a shadow in service to this version of me I’ve created to get through it all. The best sister, the great aunt, the good friend. A bit player in the story of my life.

“Did you report it to the police?”

“Yes. They weren’t all that helpful, almost as if they blamed me for being outside in the dark.”

I didn’t tell the guys. They’d be sympathetic of course, but I wasn’t in the mood for the speech from Pete about how I needed to be more careful. Ever since he’s known me when we met in freshman year at college, I’ve given off an air of invincibility. I’ve always had to be the strong one, even when I didn’t feel like it.

“What did your sister think?”

“Didn’t tell her.” Immediately I launch into a defense of Emily. “She’s got so much going on, worrying about where she’ll be living in a few months.” I know it’s a dig at him, but it’s my way of deflecting. I can own it—in my head. “It’s also left me questioning my instincts.”

“With me.”

“Among other things. You’re here and I like that you’re here, but normally, I wouldn’t.” I turn over. He needs to hear this face-to-face. “Normally I’d find you abhorrent.” I speak these words to his perfect cheekbones and his supermodel lips and his strong brow and twinkling cobalt eyes. “But my current situation has left—”

“You weak and at my mercy?”

“Yes. I don’t want to be taken advantage of.”

He nods, thinking it through. “I’m the one in danger, Trinity. What’s happening here between us is potentially detrimental to both my balls and my career. I’m not afraid to be honest and tell you that I want you. You can sneeze in my face, set impossible quests, play the grouch, and use your sister as an excuse—I’ll still come back because I already know this is worth it. And as soon as you know it, we can make it happen.”

His words stir my blood. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m completely sane.”

This bubble we’ve created will burst soon. He’ll go back to being on Brian’s side and I’ll go back to…wherever I’ve gone these last few months. For now, I’ll hold on to the heat.

I’ll hold on to Lucas.