Chapter 6
SIX
Jenna
It’s official.
I’m working on the most complicated case of my career, partnered with a man who is international chaos in human form, and I’m camped out on my living room floor, eating greasy noodles from a takeout box, while trying to keep my files safe from soy sauce.
If you’d told me a few months ago this is where I’d be now, I would’ve sued you for wasting my time.
I type, or at least I try.
It’s anything but easy when you’re stuck cross-legged at a coffee table that’s way too low, hunched over a cheap laptop.
But we had no choice. After Livy polished off my entire stash of pretzels, she finally passed out in Colton’s arms. Even his massive biceps were shaking at some point.
So, I suggested we lay her on the couch.
She’d wake the second he tried sneaking back here, so we simply worked by her side.
I can’t blame her for being afraid of being left alone.
Every minute counts now that an emergency hearing could be scheduled at any moment.
Once that date is set, everything has to be airtight.
The report moved fast—faster than I expected.
Thank God we got ahead of it before the authorities removed Livy from the situation entirely.
CPS agreed to a temporary safety plan and allowed Colton to keep her until the emergency court hearing.
However, our application still needs to be submitted in writing, which is why we’ve been going through the facts for hours now—facts that are meant to prove that Colton is not the perpetrator, but Livy’s rescuer.
“You’re holding your chopsticks wrong,” I say without looking up.
“I’m not.”
I glance at him: there are two poor chopsticks splayed awkwardly between his way too long and massive fingers. “You are.”
“But it works.”
I study him, then the chopsticks, then him again—lounging against my couch, legs stretched out like some Greek god who forgot humility existed. Though I’ve started calling him the Siberian Disaster. The media goes with Siberian Express but mine feels more fitting.
He just casually sits there in sweatpants that probably cost more than my monthly rent and keeps looking at the papers I gave him with a mixture of awe and panic.
Occasionally, he picks up a document and reads a line aloud.
And that’s enough to make my cheeks burn.
He’s almost kind of cute when he’s trying to make sense of the legal jargon.
I force myself to stop staring at him. That’s awkward. “You’re unbearable.”
He flashes a crooked grin. “Still your favorite client.”
I snort and return to typing. “Keep dreaming.”
Favorite client. Absolutely not. No way. Definitely—damnit, Jenna, focus. I just deleted three words I misspelled.
“We need a bulletproof timeline,” I say. “No gaps. No contradictions. Judges live to tear you apart the moment you slip.”
“You won’t let that happen,” he murmurs, shoving a mouthful of noodles in. He has a really nice mouth.
I freeze. Wait. He didn’t ask that as a question. He stated it as fact. My stomach does an inconvenient flip. I used to daydream that the cool guys would notice me, just once. Ridiculous, I know—but teenage me would’ve killed for this.
“Only if you do exactly what I tell you,” I reply, trying to sound firm.
“I do.”
“Always?”
“I try.”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s not reassuring.”
He shrugs, stabs more noodles with his chopsticks, and keeps eating as if he hasn’t just wrecked my entire nervous system. Incredible.
I force my eyes back to the screen. It’s just because he’s good looking. That’s why. “Okay. Your career. We have to use it strategically.”
“How?”
“Stability. Income. Public image. You’re not a liability—you’re an asset. Understand?”
I look up to check if he’s following, but he’s got soy sauce at the corner of his mouth, completely unbothered, leaning back on my couch like he belongs there.
Before I can stop myself, I lean in and swipe it away with a napkin from the delivery service.
And just like that, the room goes still.
Even I feel it—like the air itself just tripped over what I did.
Oh. Shit. Shit. Shit.
That was… a thing.
A very noticeable, very unnecessary thing.
My hand lingers a second too long before I pull it back like it’s been caught doing something illegal. I sit back quickly, clearing my throat. “You had something on your face.”
His brows lift slightly. “Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting,” he says, like he doesn’t believe me at all. “And here I thought you were just looking for an excuse to touch me.”
My cheeks heat instantly. “I was not. I was correcting a hygiene issue.”
“Mhm. So… it’s your professional opinion that I needed face maintenance.”
“Absolutely.”
He hums, pretending to consider that. “Good to know my legal counsel also doubles as my personal caretaker.”
“I am not your caretaker.”
A pause and then his mouth quirks. “Shame. You seem very invested in my mouth.”
I grab my laptop again a little too fast and a little too aggressive. “Focus. We’re talking about your public image.”
“Right,” he says, leaning back further, completely at ease now. “My public image is more like… ‘guy who kidnapped his kid.’ How exactly are you planning to turn that into something charming?”
“We’ll reverse it… we just have to frame it right.”
“Frame,” he repeats dryly.
“Yeah. You’re a hero. There was lack of supervision. Documented neglect. You’re not the abductor—you’re the rescuer. We’ll argue you had no choice but to save your daughter.”
He looks at me. Really looks at me. No mockery this time—just intense focus. “You’re good at this,” he says.
I stare. A beat. Then I type as if I heard nothing. “Doesn’t surprise me and it shouldn’t surprise you either.”
I act like I’ve got this, but my fingers hit the wrong keys. Great. I delete. Breathe. Focus.
“And you?” he asks after a moment.
“What about me?”
“Why did you become like this?”
I blink. “‘Like this’?”
“Controlled. Successful. A little scary.”
I snort. “A little scary?” It’s then that I notice that I’m just stupidly repeating his words.
He quirks one corner of his mouth. “Okay. Very.”
I should ignore him. But I don’t. “Discipline,” I say. “And the ability not to get distracted.”
“Never?”
“…Rarely,” I lie.
He gives me a small nod, like I’ve just confirmed something crucial. Whatever that means.
“Tell me about when you first came to the US.” I type nonsense just to look busy—I’m usually not this nervous. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
I type.
“Alone in another country,” I murmur. “No safety net. Major pressure.”
“It was fine.”
I lock eyes with him—his silver-blue gaze so utterly unwavering.
It feels like someone dropped a piece of winter sky into his face. But really, who has eyes like that? I’d probably believe him instantly if he told me he was a werewolf from Mystic Falls.
“You know, you don’t have to impress me. I’m just recording the facts,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He holds my stare a moment too long. “It wasn’t always fine.”
Then Livy rustles behind us and neither of us moves.
She murmurs in her sleep. Without thinking, Colton scoots closer.
I pretend not to watch—but I can’t help it.
I follow his strong, veiny hand as it drifts to her tiny back, settling there to soothe her.
My chest tightens annoyingly. It’s not painful—just…
annoying. He notices my gaze and his silver eyes meet mine again.
And suddenly the world feels like it’s paused. Like it’s just—us.
I blink first. Of course I do. “We’re losing time,” I say, scrambling at the keyboard. It comes out gibberish, but at least I’m typing.
“Then stop staring at me,” he murmurs.
I jerk upright. “Excuse me? I wasn’t staring.” Oh, I was staring.
“You were.”
“No.”
He gives me a faint grin. “Not complaining.”
My heart does a ridiculous little leap. God, Jenna, this is so unprofessional. I shouldn’t have taken this case.
I glue my eyes back to the screen as if my life depends on it. “If you say something like that again,” I murmur. “I’ll make you write the petition yourself.”
“Okay, I’ll shut my mouth. Keep staring. It’s for free.”
I snort but can’t stop the tiny twitch at my mouth’s corner.
He’s funny—I didn’t see that coming. Quiet on one hand, sharp-witted on the other.
I’m starting to think the Colton I knew in high school got abducted by the government, and because even they couldn’t stand him, they replaced him with…
whatever this version is. Okay maybe I watch too many movies and tv-shows.
I keep working.
He does, too—in his own way.
And eventually, without noticing, we’ve inched closer.
Just enough that our shoulders brush, and this time they stay touching as we list witnesses, compile evidence against his ex, and prepare for fucking Goldblatt’s counterarguments.
To be honest, that idiot of a lawyer doesn’t have a single solid argument, but I’ll prepare for it anyway—just in case he suddenly discovers one in a moment of divine intervention.
After pages of work, we drift off track again… because suddenly, it doesn’t feel like work anymore.
“So, what did you do after high school?” he asks.
“Colton King,” I say in an absurdly playful voice. “Since when did you get so chatty?”
“I’m not, but maybe you got me interested.”
“I’m starting to believe I never really knew you, did I,” I reply, propping myself on an elbow.
“Well, I never knew you either,” he says. And he’s right. I didn’t really even know myself back then. College was when I finally dared to open up and just be me.
That’s when I notice the clock on my stove blinks 1 a.m. in neon blue, refusing to be ignored, as if the universe itself is giving me a heads up: Hey, it’s getting late. You’re forgetting something again. Also, you haven’t cleaned the microwave in three weeks.
We’ve been at it for five hours. Honestly, I thought we’d finish in three, but here we are, still talking.