A Favor Owed

Chapter One

Angela

I’m not who people think I am. That’s always been true, but now it’s literal as well as figurative. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a stranger to everyone who knows me. I’ve never had any real friends, and I always have something to hide. It’s exhausting.

Professor Camacho paces at the front of the large lecture hall, droning on about federal civil litigation.

The sound of the air conditioning is whooshing through the vents.

The carbs from my daily cheap lunch of spaghetti with broccoli are weighing me down.

The caffeine from my triple espresso is rapidly wearing off. I can barely keep my eyes open.

“Ms. Pines.”

Maybe I can fit in a quick nap before work tonight.

“Ms. Pines?”

Oh, no, that’s me. I’m not used to my new name yet. I look up quickly from my laptop and meet the eyes of my professor. She’s elegant, brilliant, and a first-rate kicker of law student ass. And she’s staring me down.

“What was the basis for the Supreme Court’s decision in International Shoe ?”

Oh God. I have no idea. Valentino makes a better espadrille than Gucci? I glance down at my notes on the case. I had written a phrase in bold capital letters that means nothing to me now. Could it possibly be the right answer?

I clear my throat.

“Ms. Pines?” she prompts. She always gives one prompt before thanking the hapless law student and turning to the next victim, marking the unresponsive one “unprepared” on her attendance sheet and instantly lowering their grade.

A message pops up on my screen from someone in my class named Brady McDaniels: Minimum contacts.

It’s the phrase I had written in my notes.

“Minimum contacts,” I say, my face flushing with anger. I quickly glance over my right shoulder. Brady throws me a smirk and a wink. I roll my eyes back to Professor Camacho.

“Thank you, Ms. Pines. And how does that approach differ from the Court’s analysis in Pennoyer ?”

I have it from here and easily answer the questions that follow.

I sigh with relief when she moves on to another student.

Well, now I’m awake. Jesus Christ, getting called on in a seventy-five-person lecture class in law school feels like a eucalyptus ice bath.

My undergraduate degree is in economics and prelaw, and yet I’ve never experienced anything like this.

I’m in a shark tank, and my law professors are bloodthirsty great whites.

When class is over, I stay behind until everyone has left.

Everyone except Brady McDaniels. I turn to face him.

He’s perched casually on the desk, all packed up, watching me.

I swallow. I noticed him on the very first day of law school orientation last week, and I’ve noticed him checking me out whenever I’m working at Finnegan’s.

He’s tall and lithe but powerfully built, with copper hair, a chiseled, fine-boned face made even more irresistible by a smattering of freckles across his nose, and light eyes the color of which is often obscured by his ball cap.

Looking up at him now in the quiet of the empty classroom, I realize they’re a pale moss green.

“I knew the answer,” I say defensively, pulling myself together. “It was bolded in my notes.”

He shrugs. “Just helping out.”

“I don’t need help,” I say.

“I didn’t want to see you get docked.”

“I don’t want any favors.”

“Why not?” he says, smiling like he finds me mildly amusing. “What’s wrong with a favor?”

Judging from his accent, he’s straight out of a working-class Irish neighborhood in the Bronx. A wave of homesickness, probably the hundredth that day alone, hits me hard.

“A favor done is a favor owed,” I say. Un favore fatto è un favore dovuto. It’s a favorite Italian phrase of my father’s.

“Wow,” he says with a look of wide-eyed surprise. “You’re a little intense. Okay, point taken. Lesson learned. No helping the girl with the turquoise eyes.”

I look down self-consciously. “Sorry,” I say. He’s right. I’m way too intense. It’s in my DNA. “You did something nice. I don’t know why I’m being so rude.” I do know, but it’s not a topic for polite conversation. In fact, it’s not a topic for any kind of conversation. My family never is.

“You want to make it up to me?”

I look at him sharply, my mouth poised to tell him where he can shove my apology.

“Before you rip my head off,” he interjects, “I meant by buying me a beer.”

I blanch. “Like, right now?”

He looks at his watch and then back at me. “It’s almost five o’clock in New York.”

“I’m not concerned about the time.”

“What’s the problem, then?” he asks. “You a little too out of my league?”

Now I’m confused in addition to flustered. “Out of your league? What are you talking about?”

And then those eyes travel down my body like I’m a statue. He’s taking in every inch of my five-foot-ten Pilates body and liking what he sees. I should feel objectified, but instead I feel lit up with a warm glow.

“You’re a gorgeous girl, Angie Pines,” he says when his eyes are back on mine, like he’s commenting on the weather.

I shake my head to snap myself out of it and start to leave. “It’s Angela,” I say, “and now you’re fishing for compliments.” He knows perfectly well he’s perfected the Hot but Innocent Boy Next Door look. Those damn freckles.

He follows me down the aisle steps of the classroom and out the door. “Nope, just stating a fact. You gonna get me that beer now, Angela ?”

“Fine,” I say grudgingly. This boy is New York to the core, from his thick Bronx accent to the Yankees cap that he puts on as we walk down the hall. I want to drink him in like he’s a coffee from my favorite bagel shop, but I also want to run away and hide.

“Is Finnegan’s okay?” I ask. It’s close to school, and more importantly, I can get free drinks there and be around people I know.

“You’re asking an Irish boy if an Irish bar is okay for a beer?” he says, cocking that cocky eyebrow at me again. “Yeah, Finnegan’s is great.”

We walk out of the cool marble entryway of the University of Dos Torres Law School and into the bright California sunshine.

Dos Torres is a sleepy artists’ town smack in the middle of Nowheresville, far from Los Angeles, far from San Francisco, and far from everything I’ve ever known.

It’s also just a little too far inland to benefit from an ocean breeze.

I could have gone to law school in Malibu, but I thought that would’ve been too obvious.

I applied last-minute to the University of Dos Torres Law School.

The university was initially confused about why I would choose their mid-tier law school over top-ranked Columbia, but they accepted my explanation that I wanted to work with underserved communities in rural California and offered me a full scholarship based on my grades and LSAT score. The truth is a lot more complicated.

I start sweating immediately despite my sheer, pale-pink blouse and ankle-length jeggings, my latest thrift-store finds.

It’s hot and dusty, the vestiges of an August heat wave fueled by relentless Diablo winds.

Figures the first time I’m living without central air, and I land in the middle of the hottest weather to hit this area in fifty years.

We walk down the main street of Dos Torres, a quiet boulevard lined with mid-century modern ranch houses interspersed with quaint shops and cafes.

Every home has a drought-resistant garden decorated with local artists’ works.

A few trees provide some shade, but mostly it’s cacti and dry shrubs.

Escaping indoors is the only way to avoid the heat.

Just about every guy we pass says, “What’s up?” or otherwise greets Brady as we walk the two blocks to the bar. Girls of every shape, size, and color simper, “Hey, Brady,” and give him toothy grins, while eyeing me with looks ranging from mild curiosity to outright jealousy.

“Did you go to undergrad here?” I ask.

“Nah,” he says. “NYU.”

Great. Mr. Popularity has made friends with the entire campus in a single week.

“What about you?” he asks. “Where did you go?”

“Columbia,” I lie, trying to stay as close to the truth as possible.

“How did you end up here?” he asks.

“Full ride,” I say. My LSAT score and undergraduate grades had gained me acceptance to some of the best law schools in the country, but they didn’t come with full scholarships and I’m done with owing anything to anyone.

We enter the dark, cool bar.

“Angela!” Cliff, the owner and bartender, raises a hand in greeting. “Brady! What’s up?”

“Hi, Cliff,” I say, heading to a booth.

Brady sprawls out across from me in the booth, puts his cap on the seat next to him, and runs his hand through his short, wavy hair.

“Hey, sweetie,” Kelsey, one of the waitresses, greets me when she comes by to take our order. She takes one look at my companion, and her hip juts out as if he’s pulled a string. “Hi, Brady.”

“Hey, Kelse.”

Kelse? Kelse? He’s on a shortened-first-name basis with my coworker?

“What can I get you two?” she asks, turning her head slightly to shoot me a questioning look that has nothing to do with my drink order.

I lift one shoulder as stealthily as possible, trying to convey that I have no idea what I’m doing here with this guy, but whatever it is, it’s not important.

“The usual,” I say.

“Sambuca on the rocks with three beans,” she says. “Guinness for you, Brady?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Kelsey leaves to get our drinks, and Brady looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Only an Italian girl would drink sambuca in a place called Finnegan’s,” he says.

I feel a twinge of panic and wish my hair was down so I could hide the flush spreading across my face. But it’s in two French braids that I pinned up to avoid heatstroke. “I read about it once in a travel magazine,” I say, the lie coming to me easily. “I tried it in college and fell in love.”

“Not Italian, then?”