Penmates (The Mates #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

Jenna

BEFORE

Iwas sleeping well.

Which, in my life, should have been my first warning sign.

Something ruins it before my alarm has the chance to: right on cue, a loud groan crashes through the quiet, followed by aggressive, floorboard-abusing stomping, suggesting either a home invasion or, more likely, Matthew.

“I don’t have any boxers again.”

The moment he speaks, or shall I say grunts, my body reacts before my brain can catch up. Everything inside me tightens, heart racing like I’ve just realized I missed a court date for my most important client.

Except it’s not my boss standing over me.

It’s my boyfriend.

And instead of panic, guilt floods in. Damn it.

I knew I forgot something. The laundry. Again. Our stupid, damp laundry is still sitting in the machine, probably developing its own ecosystem by now. I meant to deal with it yesterday, but that day dissolved into e-mails and deadlines and a case that left my brain feeling like overcooked pasta.

“Great,” Matthew mutters. “Now I have to go to work without underwear. Thanks.”

I push myself up on my elbows just in time to watch him yank on his jeans with unnecessary force, like it’s all the denim’s fault. He shoots me a look. One that suggests I didn’t just forget his clothes, but that I actively sabotaged his entire existence.

And here’s the thing.

He has two hands.

Functional ones.

Hands that were, as far as I remember, not broken yesterday when he got home from work and spent the entire evening on the couch watching TV while I tried to remember what sunlight looked like. The thought slips into my mind, quiet, but annoyingly persistent.

I don’t say it out loud. Of course, I don’t. I almost never do because if I do, we’d argue for hours, and I don’t have the nerve right now. Not anymore.

Instead, the guilt settles heavier in my stomach, pressing down until it’s hard to breathe properly. My gaze drifts—traitorously—to the pile of clothes slumped beside my bed, then to the abandoned coffee cup on my nightstand. There’s a dark ring that dried stubbornly under it.

Evidence of my mess. Of not quite keeping up with a life that seems to require more from me than I have to give. The knot in my stomach tightens even faster.

I wonder when exactly everything started to feel this hard.

“Well, bye. This is going to be a great day at work without underwear,” I hear him mutter as he stomps past me and out the door. “Don’t forget dinner tonight. I’d get myself checked out if I forgot as much as you do. Next up, probably your head.”

I hear the door slam shut, and I flinch.

If I forgot as much as you do.

Yes, I forget a lot.

My keys. My phone.

I need an AirTag on everything.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe something’s wrong with me. Then, my alarm goes off, an annoying beep that sends shivers down my spine. Oh yeah, work. Now I have to hurry. For some reason, this is already the second time I’ve hit the snooze button.

I jolt awake and realize my blouse and pencil skirt aren’t ironed. My heart pounds like a train as I rush to get ready. Shit. Even micro-fighting with him turns my brain into mush.

A lawyer without a pressed suit. Impossible.

Work is the only functional part of my life—the place where I’m different: less forgetful, more self-assured. I can’t mess this up too…like I did my relationship and my home. I don’t know how other people manage it all. Maybe I’m a faulty model, meant to be cast aside.

A couple of minutes later, I smell something burning.

Oh, fucking fuck, my porridge.

I rush to the kitchen and realize it’s slightly burnt.

How could I have forgotten that again? I just went to the closet to get dressed and ironed and…

I sigh and scrape the least offensive portion of the porridge into a Tupperware container, carefully avoiding the charred, tragic bits that are welded to the bottom. Whatever. It’s fine. This is fine. I’m fine.

I barely have time to eat at work anyway. This will probably just sit on my desk, slowly congealing while I make increasingly questionable life choices.

I wrestle my long, red hair into something resembling order and swipe on enough makeup to convince the world I’m awake and, more importantly, that I’m the kind of tough, unshakable family attorney men secretly fear.

Not the one that gets screamed at and flinches because her boyfriend isn’t happy with his not so good girl.

A scornful laugh slips out. It’s ridiculous, really, how different I can be depending on which door I walk through.

At home, I’m reminded daily that I’m a disappointment.

At work, I rack up win after win.

They even call me the Iron Lady because I’ve never lost a case. Families hire me knowing I go into court without so much as a flicker of mercy.

And yet… I step into the bathroom and the chaos hits me.

Clothes strewn across the floor; toothpaste smeared like a toddler went rogue. And just like that, the sharp pang in my stomach is back. The way Matthew looked at me this morning is all that I can see.

“Great,” says Benjamin, my boss, leaning against the door to my office. It’s the kind with many glass doors and open spaces where everyone can see each other and nothing at the same time. My office has milk glass but my door’s open most of the time. Ready for everyone to step in.

“If you keep this up, you’ll be a partner soon, Davis.”

I was promoted to junior partner last year and worked my way up from a summer associate. Like I said, work is good for me.

“You’re really flattering me today,” I sing-song and look at my e-mail inbox. Hundreds of messages. Gawd. That is the most annoying part of my job, but otherwise I just love it. I feel free at work. I’m appreciated there. And most importantly, I can make a difference.

“By the way, I’ve got another case for you,” Benjamin says, raising his eyebrows.

“I just wrapped up my last one a minute ago, Ben,” I reply, casually answering another e-mail.

“Yeah, but this one specifically wants you, and it’s such a high-profile case that it would be great publicity for us if we win it for him. And with you, we know it’ll work out.”

Now I’m all ears.

“High-profile? A celebrity?”

“Hockey player.”

I risk a glance up and am immediately met with the full force of Ben, his bushy eyebrows are doing entirely too much.

He has a sweet face, disarmingly so. The kind that makes it hard to take him seriously even when he’s right.

He’s kind of like if Winnie-the-Pooh grew up, developed a caffeine dependency, and somehow got stuck channeling Mr. Bean-level (Mr. Ben?) chaos on a daily basis.

I love Ben. I wouldn’t be here without him. But that doesn’t mean I have to take whatever case he throws my way. Not anymore.

“Oh, okay, I don’t really know much about athletes.

” And I don’t really care for them either.

My entire knowledge of sports comes courtesy of my best friend Isla.

A few years back, she launched a podcast called ‘The Dirty Jersey’ that skyrocketed in popularity, turning her into a minor celebrity in her own right.

Now, she can’t even stroll through the mall without being stopped for a selfie or a quick chat.

She’s not even a sports fan. Not really.

Nevertheless, she’s become the go-to gossip maven for women who swoon over athletes, and that’s what keeps her audience coming back for more.

So, I have zero interest in defending a professional.

“Well, he plays for the Falcons.”

Oh, that’s the NHL team here in New York, and I know one player really messed up—Riley Huntington, I think.

He’s been all over the news and Isla’s podcast. Still, I don’t get what any of that has to do with me.

I work with kids and families, not… whatever this is.

And as far as I know this Huntington boy is happily married to his figure skater wife now.

“Just take a look at it, okay?” Benjamin says, carefully placing the documents on my desk.

“Okay,” I say, hitting send on one last e-mail.

The whoosh of it leaving my outbox feels louder than it should.

“Perfect. We’re all having dinner together later—are you coming?” Ben says, still standing there, leaning against my desk.

“Not today.” A pause follows anyway… thin, stretched tight. “I’m having dinner with my… boyfriend.”

There it is.

That shift.

It’s subtle, but I feel it immediately, like the room inhales and forgets to exhale.

“Oh.” Ben tries for casual. It does not go well. He knows my relationship is…to say the least…nerve-wracking. Or he’s assuming it. I don’t usually talk much about my private life, but the fact that I spend most of my time here at work must say it all. “Uh… where?”

“At the Plaza.”

Silence again.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Processing. “Um,” he says, and now there’s something dangerously close to delight creeping into his voice. “That sounds like a proposal.”

My laugh is automatic. Defensive. A reflex more than a reaction. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

But the laugh wobbles on the way out, betraying me. Because the thought is already there. Has been there. Sitting quietly in the back of my mind for weeks, months, years, maybe. I’ve just been very good at not turning around to look at it directly.

Ben’s expression flickers, just for a second. “Don’t you want him to?” he asks, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

If I want to marry Matthew?

Well, we’ve been together for seven years now.

Seven years is long enough to know someone’s coffee order, their worst habits, the exact cadence of their stomps in a hallway. Long enough to build a life that looks suspiciously like permanence. Long enough to wonder why it still isn’t. Why he never proposed.

“I mean…” Ben studies me now in a way that feels a little too perceptive for nine in the morning. “The Plaza is kind of peak proposal territory.” He wiggles his eyebrows, like that somehow softens the statement.

It doesn’t.