Chapter 24
The next morning is a morning of revelations.
I wake up in Reese’s bed, with his arms wrapped around me. We’re spooning. That’s revelation number one: I’m spooning with Reese Summer, formerly known as Mr. Arrogant Asshole, commonly known as Mr. Hotness.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, clearly aware that I’m awake. I’m also naked, and he’s naked, and when he rolls me over and settles between my legs, kissing a path down my belly until one of my legs is over his shoulder, I have revelation number two: Sleepovers are underrated, especially since I shatter into complete, utter bliss. When Reese carries me to the shower, where we then have hot sex against the shower wall, revelation number three is a big one for me: I decide my dislike of mornings, which has been with me most of my life, has been cured.
Once we’re out of the shower, both of us wrapped in towels, we each claim a sink and I try to focus on my hair and makeup, but he’s shaving, and I’m kind of obsessed with watching. He catches me and winks. Revelation number four: While I’ve never really liked a wink from a man, I like it when Reese winks at me, which clearly proves that the source of a wink matters more than I once thought. Namely, that it’s delivered by Reese Summer.
Revelation number five: Reese has a lucky suit, a gray power suit with a matching gray silk tie, a detail I learn when he asks me to pick out a suit and tie for him, and I choose the lucky suit. “That one is for closing arguments,” he says. “Pick any other.”
I grab a blue pinstriped suit and a blue tie that matches the stripe. “Why is the gray one lucky?” I ask as I pull a black jacket over my long-sleeved turtleneck, that I’ve matched with my flared skirt.
“I won my first jury verdict in it,” he says. “And if I’m really lucky, as I was that day, the verdict is the same day as my closing.”
I step into a pair of black stiletto heels and when he’s fully dressed, except for his jacket, I knot his tie. “You’re skilled at this,” he says. “Whose tie have you been attending to?”
“Three brothers,” I say. “One of which, Gabe—the one who stopped by my place—still can’t tie a tie. I used to pre-knot them for him.”
He laughs. “I had a friend in law school like that. I couldn’t teach him. He bought a machine to do it for him. The guy could debate the hell out of you in the classroom, and he’s a damn good attorney now, but a tie brought him to his knees.”
I pat his tie. “All done.” I step back and watch him shrug into his jacket. “You need another lucky suit. I think you should actually buy a suit for every trial to be ‘the’ suit.”
“Why is that?” he asks, sticking a tie pin into place.
“Because then you can see your successes line your closet, and you know why I think that’s important.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not lucky. You’re good. You don’t need a suit for luck at all.”
He snags my hip and walks me to him. “Maybe I should make you my lucky charm.”
“You’d have to give up the suit then.”
“I’ll take you over the suit any day, sweetheart.”
I’m still smiling over that comment when we head to the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee. After which, I open my MacBook and read my new column while Reese answers emails. “Are you happy with it?” Reese asks, closing his computer.
“I am,” I say. “Are you?”
“You’re the one who counts.”
“I wanted you to read it last night before I sent it in.”
“And I told you, I don’t want to influence your writing.” He sticks his MacBook in his briefcase and gives me his full attention. “Read me your closing statement.”
I like that he wants to hear it. I like that he doesn’t want to influence me. The problem is that he didn’t and I’m not sure I want to read it to him. “Tonight,” I say. “I’ll read it to you tonight.”
“I don’t want to know what you wrote, do I?”
“I don’t want to influence you.”
“When have you ever held your tongue with me?”
“The morning before you walk into court. Reading it to you last night was different than reading it to you ten minutes before we have to leave for court.”
“Cat,” he prods. “Read me the closing. Influence the fuck out of me. If I need to hear what you wrote, I need to hear it.”
I inhale and breathe out. “All right.” I start reading: When a prosecutor spends all of three days presenting his case in a trial this massive, you have to ask: What is he afraid of? Why not call character assassins to the stand? Why not call the investigators to the stand, and how did they end up on the witness list for the defense, not the prosecution? Why not spend days or weeks with medical experts on the stand? I’m baffled and have only two conclusions I can draw: Either the prosecutor charged rashly, and planned to build a case later, one that simply didn’t exist, or he has a brilliant plan, perhaps a trap set for the defense, that has yet to be revealed. Until then, —Cat. I look at Reese. “Well?”
“A trap,” he says. “Why the hell would you let me walk into court and not bring that to my attention?”
“It was a random thought right before I hit send. I mean, what trap could he really have set?”
“One of the witnesses on my list is going to burn me. Maybe one of the investigators I’m calling today. And that burn will be deeper because I called them, not the prosecution. I’ll look ill-prepared.”
“You said it yourself. They have signed statements. Don’t back down.”
He taps his finger on the island. “You’ve validated my plan. Short and effective. I’m not calling anyone I don’t have to call.”
“See why I didn’t want to tell you this morning?”
“I don’t rattle, Cat. If you have an opinion, share it.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Good.” He glances at his watch. “If we go now, we have time to stop at the coffee shop.”
“Let’s not. I saw Dan there. You don’t need that kind of distraction before the trial.”
“I won’t be distracted, sweetheart, but I have a feeling he will be, and after your closing, that won’t break my heart. I vote for coffee.”
“You’re looking for trouble,” I accuse.
“That’s the name of the game during a trial.”
“We can get coffee but not there. Pick another place.” I grab my briefcase, stuff my purse inside with my MacBook, and head for the door.
Reese joins me, but he doesn’t reach for the door. “Let’s get coffee at our place, Cat.”
“Fine, but let’s set some groundwork. The days you are heading up a high-profile trial, or really any trial, you will get your way eighty percent of the time. The days you are not, I get my way eighty percent of the time.”
“I can live with that. Do you need a coat? Do you have one with you?”
“I brought one, but I don’t want to deal with it in court. I’ll be fine. I’m ready.”
He doesn’t move. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a key. “For you.”
My lips part. “What is that?”
“You’re staying here,” he says, taking my hand and closing it around the key. “You should have a way to come and go.”
“Reese—”
He leans in and kisses me. “It’s yours, Cat.” He brushes hair from my face. “And don’t go getting spooked on me.”
“I’m not. I’m just—surprised.”
“Then you must not get it yet.”
“Get what?”
“I play for keeps, sweetheart. And I’m keeping you.” He motions to the door. “Come on. Let’s go win a trial.”
He says those words like we’re in this together, and we are. I’m in this with him. I’m holding his key in my hand. He opens the door and we step into the hallway. While he locks up, I stick the key in the zipper pocket of my briefcase and we head to the elevator. Once we’re inside, both our phones buzz with a text. He laughs at his and shows it to me.
I read it: Don’t be a loser, pretty boy. No one likes a loser.
I arch a brow at him. “My sister,” he says.
“She’s brutal, but funny,” I comment.
“Yes, she is.” He sends her a quick message, and I show him my text message that reads: We need to talk. I’ve talked to the publisher on your behalf because I care how this ends for you.
“Your agent,” he says.
“My ex-agent.”
The elevator opens, and we start our walk toward the exit. “Call her while we walk.”
“I’ll call her tonight. You need to focus on you and the trial, not my agent drama.”
“Cat. This is your career.”
“This trial is my career. I’ll call her.” It hits me that he’s the only man, of the many in my life, that actually presses on matters that concern me. We stop at a stoplight and I turn to him. “I promise. And thank you for pushing. I know it’s because you want to look out for me.”
“I owe you. Your input on this trial has been invaluable.”
The light turns and he motions us forward. A few steps past the intersection and we arrive at the coffee shop, and avoid talking about the trial while we wait in line. Instead, we talk about his parents. “Tell me more about the ranch your parents own.”
“They have stallions. Do you ride?”
“No,” I say. “But I’ve always wanted to.”
“I’ll take you up there. We’ll figure out when and do it.”
He wants to take me to his parents. “You want to take me to your parents?”
His eyes soften. “Yes, Cat, I do. Just be prepared for a cranky married couple. And my brother, who rivals my sister in attitude.”
“I’m used to brothers.”
“You’ll like my sister.”
“Does she work at the ranch?” I ask.
“No. She’s an interior designer, but she only lives an hour from the ranch. She’ll show up if I show up.”
It’s our turn at the register, and it’s not long until we have our coffee and we’re finishing the short walk to the courthouse. I stop him a block away. “You don’t need to walk in with me, Reese. Mr. Hotness gossip isn’t what you need right now.”
“Cat—”
I push to my toes, lean into him, and kiss him. “Please. Go on without me. And go Team Summer. Kick ass.”
“Are you Team Summer, Cat?”
“You had me the minute you cut in line and earned your temporary Mr. Arrogant Asshole title.”
He laughs and kisses me again. “I’ll see you for lunch unless some hell breaks loose.”
“See you at lunch.”
“Call your agent,” he says, and starts walking.
“Ex-agent!” I call after him, but he’s right. I need to call Liz.
I glance at my watch, and it’s actually early. I have time to call her. I walk onward to the courthouse, and since the picketers have already started, I round the corner and sit on a bench. I punch the autodial for Liz and the moment is rather anticlimactic, since I get her voice mail. I text her: I’m headed into court. I’ll try and call you at lunch. I disconnect, place my phone on vibrate, and head inside. A few minutes later, I’ve claimed my spot in the courtroom and pull out my notebook, not sure if I did the right or wrong thing when I wrote that closing statement and read it to him.
It’s a half-hour later when Reese walks into the courtroom, and he’s relaxed, confident, charismatic. The room expands with his energy. If he’s rattled, it doesn’t show. It’s not long before the trial is underway, and Reese sticks to his plan. He calls the investigator. A man named Kevin Smith who is in his mid-forties, an air of confidence about him, with gray streaks at his temple and speckled through his dark hair. He’s good looking. If he’s articulate and smart, he’s dangerous.
“Detective Smith,” Reese says. “I have here,” he holds up a document, “your written statement. Please read the last paragraph to the court.”
Detective Smith shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. Reese walks to him and hands him the document. The detective picks it up and reads from the paper. “In closing, Nelson Ward knew the victim. He had frequent communication with her, but there is no physical evidence to point to him as the person responsible for the murder of Jennifer Wright and her unborn child.” The detective sets down the document.
“There was no evidence to point to him as the person responsible for the murder,” Reese repeats. “And yet my client is on trial today. Did you have new evidence presented after you wrote that statement?”
“None that I’m aware of,” Smith says.
“I’m finished with the witness,” Reese says, walking back to his table and sitting down.
Dan stands up but stays behind his desk. “How many hours of behavioral studies, psychology classes, and special training have you had, detective?”
“Hundreds.”
“In your expert opinion, based on your interviews—”
“Objection,” Reese says without even standing, and smartly before Dan is able to connect his client with the word “murder” in that question. “The word ‘opinion,’” Reese continues, “calls for conclusions not based on evidence.”
“Sustained,” the judge says, eyeing Dan. “Move on, counselor.”
“I’m done with the witness,” Dan states, sitting back down, which is a huge win for Reese. If there is a surprise coming, it’s not here.
Reese stands up, clearly not done yet. “Redirect, your honor?” After the judge’s nod, Reese continues, “Detective, how many times in your career have you thought someone was guilty and discovered they were not?”
“A number of times.”
Dan stands up. “Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial.”
I smirk. He should have said that before the detective answered the question.
“Sustained,” the judge says.
“Understood,” Reese says. “I won’t ask the detective how many times he was wrong.”
“Counselor,” the judge chides.
“My apologies, judge. I’ll move on.” He eyes the detective. “Did you have enough evidence to convict my client?”
“As I stated—”
“Yes or no,” Reese presses.
“No.”
“In other words, your opinion, no matter what it might be, was not enough to convict my client.”
“No. It was not.”
“And right now, all you have to offer myself and this jury as evidence is your opinion.”
The detective’s face tightens. “Correct.”
Reese sits down. “No further questions.”
Reese calls a second detective next, and the morning is his. He owns it. Come lunchtime, I head out of the courthouse, eager to meet up with Reese and talk about the morning. The sun is high, warming the day, and with my boots, turtleneck and jacket, it’s perfect, like Reese’s performance this morning. I’m just walking down the steps when my phone buzzes. I pull out my phone and find three missed calls, all from my publisher. This can’t be good. I dial them back as I walk, assuming it’s my editor trying to reach me, since I didn’t actually listen to the messages like I should have.
“Melanie,” I say when she answers. “You called? I’ve been in court.”
“Yes. I called. Liz says that you two parted ways.”
“Yes. We did. It happened yesterday. I was going to let you know, but the courtroom has to be my focus this morning.”
“I understand, but that’s why I called you directly. A representative for Reese Summer called our office this morning.”
I stop walking, an instant knot in my belly. “What? Why?”
“Reese Summer says that he will not write a book, but he won’t talk to anyone else who might, except you.”
My God. What has he done?
“Are you there, Cat?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
“We’re prepared to make you a five-hundred-thousand-dollar offer.”
My jaw drops to the ground. “Can you repeat that?”
“Five hundred thousand dollars.”
I don’t let myself react. “Liz is still the agent on record for my option. I’ll need to talk with her, coordinate my new representation, and get back with you.”
“When?”
“By Monday.”
“It’s already Monday. Wednesday.”
“I’ll try. I make no promises. If you want to pay me that kind of money to write about this trial, I can’t miss it.”
“Fine. Monday.”
We disconnect and I start walking, trying to calm down. It’s a huge offer, but it’s not an offer for me. It’s for Reese. I can’t accept it. He’s effectively made my career about him. It’s not even my money. I remind myself that he was trying to protect me. I know he was, but it’s a big red flag. Every man in my life has tried to protect me by taking control. And you don’t just take control of my career. I’m angry. I’m hurt. I’m grateful. How do I feel all of those things at one time?
He’s taking over my life. I’m losing my independence. And part of me doesn’t care with this man. What is wrong with me?
I arrive at the food trucks and pass them right by, walking to the benches I normally sit on with Reese. “Cat.”
I rotate to find him walking toward me, all loose-legged swagger and confidence that I can’t dare rattle right now, right before he returns to court. I don’t know what I’m going to say or do.