Definitely not good for business.
Now, I’m browsing my notes on my couch hours after court ended—my faded University of Texas T-shirt and a very large glass of wine providing comfort after a long day. We’re still waiting on a subpoena for Lorenzo’s mistress to be approved, Ezra’s team blocking it at every turn, but I’m confident that it will happen. I feel it in my gut that none of Ezra’s silly defenses will work this time.
That gives me pause, remembering that they are more than likely not Ezra’s silly defenses. That there is a good chance that every lowball tactic he’s used has come straight from his father—or, well, Alexander. It’s all so much to wrap my head around. I catch myself thinking about his mother, something I have been doing a lot since that night at his place when he confessed everything, and there is a panging sense of regret that rings through me when I think of the quiet, lonely-looking woman I spoke with in Alexander’s library. When I think about how much she’s been through, how much Ezra has been through. I know that the chances of helping her when Ezra has most likely exhausted all possible avenues already are slim, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing I could anyway.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table by my couch, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I lean to snatch it up, my pulse quickening when I read the recently changed name.
Ezra: Are you busy right now?
I glance at my notes and my glass of wine, knowing it’s probably better that I say yes. That I should probably put a little space between Ezra and me while we’re still figuring this out. Except…I don’t want to.
Me: Not overwhelmingly. Just going over some notes.
His reply comes through immediately.
Ezra: Can I come over?
I bite my lip. It’s strange, the way my entire body perks up at the idea of seeing him, and if I analyze it for too long, I know that I will have to face the fact that it’s always reacted this way to Ezra. That it’s just the rest of me that’s finally catching up.
Me: Sure.
Ezra: Good. I’m outside your door.
I sit up straight to eye my closed apartment door, gaping at it for only a second before scrambling off my couch and rushing across the room to wrench it open. And he’s there, just like he said, dressed in jeans and a heathered Yankees T-shirt and leaning on my doorframe with his phone still in his hand.
“What if I’d said I was busy?”
He shrugs one shoulder, his mouth quirking. “Then I would have left.”
“This is all very Joe from You.”
“I don’t need to stalk you,” he teases, his eyes glinting. “You like having me around too much.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the flicker of a grin that forms. “Whatever. Come in then.”
He steps past me as I close and lock the door behind him; he moves in my space as if it belongs to him. He plops down on my couch with a sigh, turning his head to look at me from over the back and patting the cushion beside him. “Come on. I won’t bite.”
I move to join him slowly, sinking down into the couch cushion a good distance away from where he gestured, only for him to reach and pull me into his side.
“Nope,” he says. “None of that. We’re cuddling tonight.”
I frown even as I surreptitiously breathe in the scent of his cologne, which clings to his shirt. “Are we?”
“Yep.” His arm curls around my shoulders. “You’re going to tell me about your day.”
“You know about my day. I saw you five hours ago.”
“Well, tell me everything else.”
Seems like a silly exercise to me, but his thumb that has begun to trace the soft skin of my upper arm is distracting, and I find myself leaning further into him, getting comfortable.
“Nate and Vera cornered me in my office this morning,” I tell him.
“And how did that go?”
“About as well as I expected,” I snort. “Nate is already planning the wedding.”
“Wow, your friends must really want the best for you then.”
I poke him in the side, and he chuckles as he squirms away. “Vera thinks it’s a bad idea, I can tell.”
“Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
I hesitate, thinking. His thumb pauses in its slow back-and-forth on my skin, only resuming its path when I speak again.
“I think that I should think it’s a bad idea,” I admit.
He releases a breath. “But you don’t?”
“No.” My brow furrows. “Or maybe I do, but I’m just too tired to keep pretending I don’t want it anyway.”
“ ‘It’ being me, yeah?”
I can hear the smile in his voice without even looking at him. “I’m not feeding your ego. It’s already as huge as your cat.”
“Big as other things too,” he says slyly.
“That was awful,” I groan.
“I think we did okay today,” Ezra muses. “You didn’t ogle me very often, so that’s something.”
“I never ogled you.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
I purse my lips. “You’re imagining things.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Sour Patch.”
I can’t help the dry chuckle that escapes me, but when its echo fades, there is nothing left but that slow stroking of his thumb and our quiet breathing. It’s…almost comforting. It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to be close to anyone like this that I’d almost forgotten how good it can be. I’ve spent so many years post-Grant locking every vulnerable part of myself up tight, ensuring that no one could ever hurt me like that again, that I had truly come to believe that I was incapable of feeling this kind of easy comfort with another person.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Ezra says eventually, breaking the silence.
“I just…” I feel my cheeks heat, my voice lowering in embarrassment. “I can’t believe that I’m here with you.”
Ezra barks out a laugh. “Wow, thanks.”
“You know what I mean. Can you honestly say that you ever saw this becoming anything more?”
Ezra thinks about it for a moment, and then: “No, I didn’t.” Ridiculously, that almost makes me deflate, but then he continues, “But I hoped.”
I turn my face up to look at him, finding he has already turned my way so that I can meet his eyes. “You did?”
“I just always assumed you were too good for me,” he admits.
I snort at that. “Hardly. I’m a mess and a half.”
“Then I’d say we’re perfect for each other, don’t you think?”
My teeth worry at my lower lip, sensations bubbling up inside me that make me want to squirm. I can’t bring myself to answer that, so I take the coward’s way out.
“So what did you want to be before you changed your degree to law?”
He looks surprised by the question, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s never been asked it before, like he’s trying to remember the answer. “I’m not even sure I had a real plan,” he admits. “I was just happy to be out of Alexander’s house for the first time, if I’m being honest.”
“You never had a pipe dream as a kid?”
“Oh, I had plenty,” he laughs. “When I was eight I watched Patch Adams. Went through a doctor phase for a while. My mom even got me this kit, and I was constantly making her let me listen to her heartbeat.”
“You know,” I chuckle. “I think you might have actually made a good doctor.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, you’re too fucking stubborn not to be.”
“Pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?” He nudges his shoulder against mine. “What about you? Did you always want to be a lawyer?”
“For as long as I can remember,” I tell him. “My mom used to say I would argue with a fence post.”
“Now that I can see,” he chuffs.
I poke him in the side again. “It wasn’t until law school that I decided on divorce law though.”
“Because of your parents?”
