Chapter 4 Warren
FOUR
Warren
The words on the page blur together. I blink hard, and try to refocus.
"The parties hereby agree to establish a mutual co-parenting schedule wherein..."
My pen glides over the legal pad, the motion so practiced I barely need to watch the words form. Custody motions are my bread and butter. I've mastered the delicate art of dividing a child's life into percentages and visitation days.
"Kaley, add a clause about holiday rotations. Christmas Eve with mother, Christmas Day with father, alternating years."
My assistant nods from the doorway, disappearing with quiet efficiency. The office falls silent again, just the steady hum of my PC tower and the garbled mix of downtown Palm Beach outside my window.
I roll my neck, feeling vertebrae pop. Three cases today, two more tomorrow. A familiar rhythm that usually centers me.
But today...
Her fingertips trace down my chest, eyes half-lidded in the glow of dying embers.
I slam my coffee mug down onto my desk. Cold liquid sloshes over papers.
"Damn it."
Just over a week. It's been eight days since I left her bedroom with the sunrise, since I muttered that pathetic line about mistakes. Eight days of perfectly constructed normalcy while my skin seems three sizes too small.
I grab tissues and blot the spill mechanically.
A new client file awaits. I look at the nicely typed sticker on the tab. It almost seems too tidy for the ugly battle that resides inside the folder. The Brennans are fighting over who gets their eight-year-old on weekends.
More broken promises, more family lines redrawn. My specialty: helping people navigate the wreckage when love collapses.
"We're both adults," she whispers, hands in my hair. "This isn't wrong."
But it is wrong. The Harrelsons took me in when I had nothing. They welcomed me as family when my own blood cast me out. And how did I repay them? By taking their daughter to bed.
I drop my head into my hands, breathing deep through my nose. Control. Focus. This is what I do with my biological family. I compartmentalize. Carters have been doing it for generations. We are masters at putting our emotions in their proper box.
I straighten myself, reaching for another file. My voice comes out steady as I record notes.
"Client expresses concern about ex-spouse's new partner's influence. Recommend temporary supervised visitation pending further—"
Her breath catches when I push inside her. The way she arches beneath me, whispering my name.
My pen digs into the paper, tearing through.
Christ. What is wrong with me? I'm thirty-two years old, not some hormone-addled teenager. I've had relationships. Mature, adult relationships with clear beginnings and endings. Not this... whatever this is.
One night. A mistake, something we both agreed to forget.
So why does my body remember every detail? The taste of her skin. The sound she made when she came apart beneath me.
My phone screen lights up. I stare at it, heart inexplicably accelerating.
The name on my phone screen hits like a brick through glass: Janie.
My thumb freezes above the display. The notification shows just enough of her message to punch a hole straight through my carefully constructed wall.
Saw this coffee cup and thought of you. The barista even got your grumpy face right!
There's an image attached. I shouldn't open it. I absolutely shouldn't.
I open it.
A coffee cup with latte art of a grumpy face drawn in the foam. Below it, a napkin where someone has scribbled "Sir, are you sure you wouldn't prefer decaf?"
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. Years ago, at Blake's wedding, I'd gotten so wound up about the seating chart that Janie had drawn almost that exact face on a cocktail napkin. Your courtroom face, she'd called it.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. How easy it would be to fall into our old pattern. A quick quip. Something about Chicago baristas being too perceptive.
But that was before. Before I felt her skin under my hands. Before I heard her whisper my name against my neck.
I swallow hard, my throat constricting. This is how it starts. One harmless text. Then another. Then we're pretending nothing changed while everything has.
I lock the screen and place my phone face down.
What exactly did I lose that night? A friendship built over sixteen years. The trust of the only family that ever truly claimed me. The respect of my best friend if he ever found out.
All for what? Twenty minutes of pleasure? Passing out in her bed, only to be awakened to sneak out at dawn before anyone saw me?
The nausea rises like a tide. The memory of her body tangles with the knowledge of my betrayal. They can never be separated now.
Kaley taps on the doorframe. "Mr. Carter? Ms. Brennan just called. Paul Brennan is demanding overnight visits starting this weekend instead of waiting for the court date. What do you want me to say?"
I snap back to the present. "Tell her to document everything. Record the call if he contacts her directly. I’ll draft an emergency filing this afternoon."
Kaley blinks, then nods. "Already suggested the recording. She’s sending over his texts now. I’ll let her know you’ll draft the filing for the emergency hearing."
My tone softens. "Good. And Kaley—thanks. I mean it."
She gives me a quick smile before stepping out.
When the door clicks shut, I press my palms flat against the desk. Focus on the cool surface. The wood grain. Anything but the phone sitting like a time bomb beside my hand.
It dings again.
I reach for it, resolve already crumbling. It's a phone call, not a text. And this time, the screen shows a different name. It's Pope Carrigan, my past client and owner of CHG Concierge Hospital.
I swipe the screen. "Warren Carter."
"Warren. It’s Pope. Do you have a moment?" His voice is sharp, clipped, never one for small talk.
Pope Carrigan. I’d helped him fight for custody of his half-brother last year, a case that started as a temporary guardianship and ended with full adoption. Seven years old, shy as hell, clinging to Pope’s hand in the courtroom. That win was one of the reasons I do this work.
"Of course," I say, straightening in my chair. "What’s going on?"
"I'm calling to tell you you're joining my board."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"The CHG Foundation board. I need someone with integrity. Someone who won't just nod along with whatever I say because I sign their checks."
My fingers drum against the desk. This feels like a trap. The last thing I need is to tie myself to another powerful man's legacy.
"I appreciate the thought, but—"
"Let me cut through your objections, because I know you, Carter." Pope's voice has that edge, the one that bulldozes through boardrooms. "This isn't about your family name or connections. I've got plenty of blue bloods beating down my door for this spot."
I snort. "Then why not pick one of them?"
"Because they want the prestige. You don't give a shit about that."
He's not wrong. I press my fingertips into my temples. "Pope, I don't have power or money to contribute. I run a modest practice, not a dynasty. I'm not connected with the Carter family, or their connections."
"I've got money. I've got influence." His voice softens, just barely. "What I need is someone who remembers that hospitals should help people, not just shareholders. Someone who won't be afraid to tell me when I'm being a ruthless asshole."
The tension in my shoulders eases, just slightly. "So you want me to be your conscience?"
"I want you to help me build something that matters. CHG makes money. But this foundation will put some of that money to doing something good for Palm Beach. I want to come up with ways that we can do something for the community even though we are no longer a public hospital."
My stomach twists. It sounds good. Too good.
I lean back, narrowing my eyes at the ceiling. "What exactly does this mean for me? How many hours are we talking? What kind of meetings? Am I expected to raise money, wine and dine donors, put my name on checks?"
"You’ll be expected to attend quarterly board meetings and serve on one committee.
That’s the baseline. But when initiatives come up, grant reviews, hospital partnerships, new programs, I’ll want you in the room.
I’ve got plenty of donors and fundraisers.
What I don’t have is someone who’ll call bullshit when I need to hear it. "
"Quarterly," I repeat, testing the word. Not nothing. Not everything.
"What makes you think I'll be able to do that, Pope?"
"Because you walked away from everything to do what’s right. That’s exactly who I need. And I know you aren’t connected to your family anymore, but you’re still a Carter, and that carries a lot of clout in Palm Beach. Best of both worlds."
"Alright," I say finally. "I’ll hear the details. But I’m not committing yet."
"Fair enough." Pope doesn’t miss a beat. "My assistant will send the prospectus. The first meeting is on Thursday. Maybe plan to come regardless, meet the others, ask questions."
"I’ll take a look and let you know. How’s Lennon?"
Pope’s tone softens. "Settling in. Loves school, still hates broccoli. He’s thriving." A pause. "I’ll fill you in more Thursday morning, once you’ve had a chance to read."
"Sounds good, man. Take care."
The call ends as abruptly as it began. I set the phone down, shoulders stiff under an invisible weight.
I grab my takeout avocado toast and juice from Citrine. As I walk back to my truck, my phone beeps. I put my food and cup down and pull it out to see a text from Blake.
Burgers on the grill tonight. Dad's asking for you. You around?
I stare at the screen. Blake. My best friend. The brother I never had. The man whose sister I...
I push the thought away and respond.
Wouldn't miss it. What time?
6:30. Dad's bringing his famous potato salad. Bring beer.
On it.
I drop the phone in the console, appetite gone. Two weeks since the going-away party, and the knot in my gut hasn’t loosened. Every time Blake texts, the guilt crawls higher. I want to believe it’ll fade, but the hope itself makes me sick.
The rest of the day crawls. I stare at contracts I don’t read, return calls I don’t remember. By the time I shut down my computer, the sun’s already sinking behind the high-rises, washing the office in gold.
I tell myself a cookout will help. Something normal, familiar. Brotherly. But the closer I get, the worse it feels.
The Harrelson backyard smells like summer, even though it's almost Labor Day.
Charcoal smoke, fresh-cut grass, and the citronella candles Cile always puts out to ward off mosquitoes fill the air. Tyler and Emma tear across the lawn, sparklers leaving golden trails in the twilight. Their squeals punctuate the drone of cicadas.
"You're burning the edges, son," Hank says, peering over Blake's shoulder at the grill.
Blake waves his spatula dramatically. "It's caramelization, Dad. There's a difference."
"There sure is. One's called cooking, the other's called ruining." Hank winks at me.
I laugh, the sound easier than anything I've heard all day. "Some things never change."
"Uncle Warren!" Emma skids to a stop in front of me. "Can I braid your hair? Please?"
"Have at it, kiddo." I bend down so she can reach, her small fingers combing through the hair at my temple.
Tyler appears, breathless. "Uncle Warren, guess what? Joey Thompson tried to take my juice box, but I said no way, José!"
"And then what happened?" I ask seriously.
"Then we played aliens versus zombies, and I was the alien king!"
I nod gravely. "A diplomatic resolution. You've got a future in negotiations."
Blake sets a platter of burgers on the table. "Food's up! And Dad, not a single one is burned."
"I'll be the judge of that." Hank loads his plate.
Cile passes me a beer from one of the two six-packs I brought, condensation cool against my palm. "Janie called earlier. She said the hospital orientation was brutal, but she found a friend already. Sent me a picture of the two of them at lunch."
My throat closes up. "Chicago won’t know what hit it."
"Did she text you that coffee cup?" Blake asks, dropping into the chair beside me. "The one with the grumpy face on it? She sent it to the family group chat."
I freeze, the bottle slick in my hand. "Yeah, she, uh—That was funny."
"She sounds happy," Blake says, pride brightening his face. "My little sister, already running with the big dogs."
The vise around my chest tightens. I force a smile that feels like broken glass. "She’ll crush it up there."
Cile nods. "We’re all so proud of her."
Every casual mention of Janie feels like a knife I shoved in myself. I've betrayed them in the worst possible way.
Emma tugs on my hair. "Done! You look pretty."
I touch the crooked braid. "Thanks, Em. I feel prettier already."
The evening unfolds with easy laughter and familiar stories. This is what family is. This is what I risked for one reckless night.
Later, I’m alone in the cab of my truck, driving too fast down A1A. One hand loose on the wheel, the other braced against the open window. Salt air whips through the car, tangling the little braids Emma worked into my hair earlier.
The phone in my pocket is like lead. Janie’s text from days ago still sits unanswered. A stupid coffee joke about latte art, harmless on the surface, lethal underneath, has turned into something it never was, and I'm sure she didn't intend.
My grip on the wheel tightens until my knuckles ache.
By the time I hit the condo, the silence between us is louder than the ocean outside. I strip down, collapse onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling. The phone glows on the nightstand, daring me.
One reply. That’s all it would take to cross the line again.
I roll to my side, hand hovering, then snatching back like the glass is hot. My chest is hollow and tight all at once.
This silence is supposed to protect us. To protect Blake. To keep me from wanting what I can’t have.
Instead, it’s just proof of how badly I already want her.