7. Caleb
Caleb
T he wind has bite to it, reminding us summer's well and truly over. Serena walks beside me, arms folded— pushing her breasts up again, Jesus —her shoes click-clacking a nervous Morse code along the uneven sidewalk.
We cross onto a quieter street, windblown wrappers flickering around the gutter. The silence is brittle, but she still finds a way to break it.
"I know this is asking a lot," she says, voice shaky, "but if you want to fire me as a client, I'll understand. I shouldn't have come to you, not after?—"
I stop so abruptly she nearly collides with me. Nearly presses that body against mine. The flickering streetlamp illuminates her face as I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from pulling her against me.
"You don't get to decide that," I say, gentler than I feel. "You hired me, and I'm not in the business of quitting."
I'm in the business of getting what I want. And what I want is you.
She searches my face, and for a second I see the woman who made me feel like I’d be invincible if only she’d be by my side.
"OK," she says softly.
A couple stumbles by, arguing in that polite-cruel way only lovers can. Serena watches them, then looks back at me with a mix of emotion in her eyes—risk, cost, possibility, hope.
She takes a shaky breath. "I got scared, Caleb. The night I stood you up. It wasn't anything you said or did. It was all me. I just... I got scared."
"Of what?"
"Of you. Of us. Of how much I wanted..." She shakes her head.
How much you wanted what? Me? Us? Just say it.
She sighs. "It doesn't matter now."
"It matters to me."
We stand in silence, faces inches apart, the flicker of the streetlamp the only witness. Behind her, the city seethes and glows, oblivious to both of us. I could reach out, tuck that hair behind her ear, draw her to me, claim her mouth the way I've been dying to all night.
But I don't. The rules are different now. For now.
Instead, I keep my hands in my pockets, my fingers curled into fists, and clear my throat. "You know, if you'd just told me you were bailing, I would've respected the hell out of it. Maybe even learned something."
She ducks her head, a faint smile ghosting across lips I want to taste.
"I was embarrassed," she says after a beat.
"You make everything seem so easy, and I make everything impossibly hard.
I thought..." She looks up at me, and it almost hurts to see all of her right there, raw and unprotected.
"I thought if you knew the real me—the person I am underneath all this…
" She gestures at herself loosely, and I track the movement, imagining my hands following the same path.
"This nonsense. Then you'd think I was pathetic. "
Her vulnerability sucker-punches my composure. I'm used to people who posture, not people who confess. My whole life has been an exercise in reading tells, rooting out motives, gaming every reaction. But standing here on a cracked patch of sidewalk with Serena, all the usual strategies seem cheap.
I don't want to fight against what-ifs. I want to worship her. I want to show her exactly how not-pathetic she is. I want to make her come so hard she forgets she ever doubted herself.
I step closer, close enough that I can feel her body heat, and this time I do tuck the errant strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger, tracing the shell, and she shivers.
"Serena," I say, voice low and rough. "You don't have a monopoly on fear or self-doubt." I risk a smile, trying for something boyish while my cock strains against my zipper. "But I appreciate the performance. Really, it was legendary."
She lets out a bright bubble of laughter. "God, you're an ass."
"But as your lawyer, I'll be your ass. Your scary, brilliant, absolutely dedicated legal ass."
She wipes her eyes. "Could've done without that image."
The moment hovers between us, alive and electric. I see it in her eyes—the want, the need, the same hunger eating me alive.
She doesn't lean in. Smart girl. For now.
Instead, she shivers and tugs her coat tighter. "Well, I'm glad we cleared the air. Now we can work together without this hanging over us. But I still need you to tell me how big of a mortgage I’ll need to afford you?"
I almost laugh. "Morgan, you can't afford me.”
“Why don’t you just tell me your hourly rate and I’ll be the judge of that.” She folds her arms across her chest, and I can’t even pretend I’m not looking at her cleavage this time.
“Unless you have a trust fund the size of the Illinois state deficit—which you don’t—your options are pro bono, or barter."
She blinks, then cracks a smile. "Barter? Are you in the market for stress cookies or overly zesty lemon bars?"
"I don't want your stress cookies, Serena."
Her brow furrows. "Then what do you want?"
"I want this. Dinner with you. Time with you. That's my fee."
I want you in my bed. Screaming my name. Want to fuck you until you forget you ever thought about running.
The words land like a gauntlet thrown down. Her face goes through a series of expressions—confusion, understanding, and then panic.
"No." The word comes out flat, final.
"No?"
"Absolutely not. That's not happening."
Frustration claws at my chest, black and sharp, twisting into pure possession. "Why not?"
"Because we're not suited for each other, Caleb.
I like you, yes. But there's a reason we didn't happen.
You… I…" She presses her lips together, and as pissed as I am, all I want is to bite them until they're swollen.
"There's too much at stake. We have friends in common, we come from completely different worlds?—"
"Bullshit." The word cuts through her rambling. "You already let things affect our friends. Layla and Bennett have been walking on eggshells around both of us for months. And Logan and Audrey go completely silent if anyone so much as mentions your name around me."
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it.
"So what's the real reason?" I press, stepping closer, backing her against the brick wall behind her.
She looks up, face suddenly completely open as her bottom lip quivers.
"I'm fucking terrified,” she admits, voice so quiet the wind nearly swallows it.
"I tanked it the first time. You know I did.
You were—" She stops, jaw clenching like she wishes she could just grit her teeth and grind the whole last six months into dust. "You were…
too much for me. Everything I wanted, but far more than I could handle.
It scared the hell out of me. It still does.
" She shakes her head. "So no, Caleb. I can't give you what you want.
I'll pay your hourly rate like any other client. Put me on a payment plan or something."
I study her for a long moment, taking in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way she's pressed back against the wall like she needs the support, the way her eyes keep dropping to my mouth.
Because despite her attempt to sound resolute, I know a bluff when I see one. I've lived in courtrooms my entire adult life. Nobody is as good at pretending not to care as the person who cares too much.
So I don't step back. I close the few inches between us, bracing one hand on the wall beside her head, close enough to see the lighter flecks in her eyes.
Close enough that I can smell her perfume and the hint of Szechuan pepper clinging to her breath.
Close enough that if she tilted her head up just a fraction, our lips would touch. It makes me want to devour her whole.
"This isn't a negotiation. My terms are non-negotiable."
Her eyes widen, throat working as she swallows. "You can't be serious."
"Serious as a heart attack." I shift back slightly, though every instinct screams to press closer. "When this is over, if you still feel the same—fine. But until then, you're not allowed to lie about why you're here. Or what we both want."
Because I can see how badly you want this. Can practically smell it on you.
She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. Eyes dark, pupils blown, pulse hammering.
I check my watch. "It's getting late."
She blinks, thrown. "Caleb?—"
"Come on." My hand on her lower back feels the heat through thin fabric. "I'll drive you home."
The ride is silent except for the engine and city sounds. She stares out the window, hands folded tight, wheels turning.
Good. Think about me. About us. Everything you've been running from.
At her building, she's out before I can reach her door.
"Thanks for dinner," she says, speed-walking away.
"Tomorrow night," I call. "Client meeting. You're coming."
She stops, turns. "A client meeting?"
"Wear something nice. Six o'clock."
"This is insane."
"These are my terms."
She worries her lip with her teeth. "Fine. But just until the case is over. Every hour equals an hour paid."
"Agreed." Victory and hunger mix in my chest. "Every hour counts."
She nods sharp, business-like, but her hands tremble with her keys. "This doesn't mean... we're not... This isn't me falling at your feet."
"Of course not." I lean against my car. "Wouldn't dream of it."
She shoots me a paint-stripping look. "You know what I mean."
"I know exactly what you mean." And I know how long it'll take to make you forget you said it.
"Goodnight, Caleb."
"See you in my dreams," I mutter as she disappears inside.