Chapter 7
SEVEN
Colton
Iguess I shouldn’t be surprised he still looks like a dirty weasel.
Matthew isn’t small, but well, I’m taller.
He stands in the doorway in a nerdy game shirt that’s seen better days, hair greasy once again and stuck to his forehead, lips pressed into a line so thin it’s almost not there.
He smells faintly of cigarettes and sour attitude.
I can tell he’s not used to walking into his own apartment and seeing another man.
Especially not one that takes up all the oxygen.
For a second, we just stare.
I’m not sure who hates this more: him or me. Or Jenna, whose hands are frozen behind her back, her mouth a tight, perfect red O. She doesn’t move. She’s as startled as I am. Even though she should be used to him coming home.
I tighten my grip around Livy, just out of instinct.
Matthew blinks first.
“What the hell is this?” He sounds like he’s just woken up from a nightmare where he’s lost his favorite video game, only instead of a reset button he gets me. Full HD. I’d love to grin, but I manage to hold it back.
I shouldn’t even be here. Hell, I was supposed to be gone by now. But even though we’re in her apartment my mind never crossed the possibility of her boyfriend showing up once. Stupid. Of course, he still exists. Not that we did something we shouldn’t. Still, this situation feels weird.
“Matthew, he—” Jenna starts, but he cuts her off.
“No, what is this? You let him into our apartment? Who the fuck is this guy?” He’s got his arms crossed now. It’s not surprising that he doesn’t know who I am. Of course, he’s not into sports.
“What—” he starts even louder, it’s almost shouting and that’s it for me.
My hands go up—one holding her, the other open, palm out. “No yelling,” I say. “She’s sleeping.”
Matthew laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I disturbing you? In my own house?” The edge in his voice could cut glass. “I didn’t realize we had overnight guests. I am so fucking sorry.”
What the heck. This guy is a fucking jerk.
I catch Jenna’s eye, my expression asking the question that’s screaming in my head: seriously, this guy?
Jenna’s cheeks turn red. “Matthew. Stop. It’s—he’s a client.” She says it like she has to convince herself first. “It’s just work.”
“Work?” Now he’s walking closer, almost tiptoeing around the mess of law books, shoes, Livy’s discarded blanket, the food packages, her Paw Patrol cup. “Since when does work involve random men in our living room? I thought you’d be working in a proper office.”
I feel heat creeping up my neck. For a second, I want to put Livy down and stand toe-to-toe with him, see if he still talks to her like that, but I don’t.
I just hold my daughter, let her sleep, because that’s the only thing I’m supposed to do right now.
Anything else would be overstepping. Even if I could rip his head off, even if he’s trying to make me feel like I’m the problem, I’m not taking the bait. I can’t. I’m just her client.
But then he raises his damn voice again. “You are—”
“Don’t. Yell,” I repeat.
He just ignores me, squares off with Jenna instead. “This is why you’re never home? Because you’re with him? Or are you babysitting for your clients now?”
“Matthew.” Now her voice is hard. “Enough.” She steps between us, only for him to sidestep and keep glaring at me. “We’re handling a crisis. It’s not a casual case.”
He barks a laugh. “Looks like it. Who is she?”
“She’s the crisis,” Jenna snaps, then softens her voice and turns to me. “Colton, please, you should—just—”
“Are you alright?” I ask and overstep again.
She’s right. I should go.
It’s late and Livy needs to sleep in her bed. But something about this guy just doesn’t sit right. Something tells me I shouldn’t leave her alone but… this is her home. He’s the one she chose to live with… I really should go. Why don’t I?
But the three of us just keep standing there, a triangle of tension.
Matthew’s chest rises and falls, his knuckles whitening against his arms. I can tell he wants to make this physical.
It’s like a sixth sense with men like him.
But I’m not budging an inch, not until I absolutely have to.
The guy barely comes up to my shoulders.
If he wants to throw down, he’d need a stepladder just to land a punch.
Livy stirs again, this time more. She blinks, eyes wide, and for a second, I think she might scream, but she just looks at me and then at Jenna, and then burrows deeper into my shoulder, hiding her face from Matthew.
“So, what the fuck are you still doing here? We’re waiting for you to leave in case you didn’t get that, moron.”
“Watch your mouth. I don’t go before she tells me she is safe.”
“Both of you. Enough.” Jenna’s eyes go to me first, then to Matthew. “This is my job, and you will not make it a scene. We had to move things here and that’s it. Colton, you really should go.”
Matthew shakes his head. “Whatever, Jenna. If you want to bring work home, do what you want. Just maybe next time you can tell me you’re running a halfway house out of our apartment.”
He turns, heads for the kitchen, then stops and spins back. “And of course there’s no food. Thank you for making my day even better.”
I glance at Jenna. She’s pale. For a moment, I feel sorry for her. I almost ask him why she’s supposed to cook for him. She’s an attorney, not his maid.
Matthew snorts, then opens the fridge with more force than needed. “Who has an empty fridge, really,” he says, pulling out a beer. He cracks it, drinks, and stares me down over the rim.
“Colton, pleaseeee,” she pleads. My chest tightens at the sound.
“He won’t—are you sure you’re okay?” The words almost scrape out of my throat.
“Yes,” she says, grabbing Livy’s cup and almost shoving me toward the door with enough force that I have to brace against the frame.
Her fingers dig into my bicep and the moment she touches my skin, we glance at each other.
Just briefly. But in that half-second, I see everything I shouldn’t—her lips slightly parted, eyes wide with something beyond panic, a flush climbing her neck that makes me wonder how far down it goes.
I swallow hard and look away first. She lets go of me.
“I’ll e-mail you if I hear anything.” She hands me Livy’s cup.
Once the door is closed behind us, I walk straight to my car and try not to think about the words Matthew is spitting at her right now.
I should go back.
No, I shouldn’t go back.
I shift Livy’s weight in my arms and force myself to keep walking to the car, even as every muscle in my body seems to pull in the opposite direction.
It doesn’t even make sense. I’m just her client.
She’s not another person I need to save.
I only have to care for Livy and that’s it.
Jenna doesn’t even like me. And more importantly, she doesn’t need my help.
She’s the best family attorney in New York.
I don’t know a smarter woman than her. A man helping her is the last thing she needs.
Thirty heartbeats, maybe less.
That’s how long I sat on my beige couch after putting Livy to bed before I grabbed my phone and opened my e-mail app.
I clicked on “new e-mail” and selected Jenna Davis—but then I stopped.
The fact that I don’t even have her number should be enough to tell me not to type.
This is a professional relationship, not a personal one.
We’ve only been in contact for like a month, mostly via letters she’s sent me, each one starting with “Dear Mr. Dickhead.” She hates me and only took the case to help Livy.
So why the hell am I staring at my damn mail client?
I chuck my phone onto the couch and jump up like I’ve been stung by a tarantula.
Then I storm through my massive living room.
I live in a huge penthouse in the middle of New York.
It’s almost entirely open-plan with white pillars, glass walls, and pale furniture.
Everything’s sterile. It’s not what I chose.
It’s what my ex wanted. Hardly cozy, not at all what I’d choose for Livy.
When we divorced, I bought them a little house on the outskirts of the city, so she’d have something more homey.
Somewhere she could play without slippery floors, sharp corners, or dangerous terraces and infinity pool to worry about.
Somewhere with kids nearby. There are no kids here.
But my ex hates the house, said it was the biggest dump she’d ever seen.
I told her to get her own place then—she gets plenty of money from me every month.
Technically for Livy, but whatever. Who cares about the fine print?
I head to Livy’s room. It’s a pink paradise: dolls, an art corner, a bookshelf, teddy bears—but what she really needs, is nowhere to be found.
An intact family. Stability. I lean against the doorframe and watch her sleep.
Luckily, it’s off-season right now. Otherwise, I’d have to tell Coach he’d be without me for a while.
But I’d give up my entire career if it meant getting her life back on track.
That choice, at least, I don’t have to make yet.
I’ve got two more weeks until it’s August and training ramps up again, and until September I have zero stress—which definitely makes things easier right now. At least I have that.
Then my thoughts snap back to Jenna.
How that guy treats her. The other day he threw garbage at her, expects her to cook, shop, and probably clean too as if it’s still the 1960s. He should count himself lucky a dozen times over to have such an intelligent woman. And then I see that look again. The moment he walked in, she changed.
It was the same yesterday, too—when I saw her come out crying.
She was scared, and the wildest scenarios ran through my mind.
I shouldn’t worry about her, but I do. It’s almost like I have no hobbies other than worrying about others, but my mind won’t let me rest, and I know I have to check on her or I couldn’t sleep.
I’ve always been like that. I’ve got helper syndrome.
I dash back to the couch and open the e-mail app again, only this time I actually start typing. It’s ridiculous how rarely I write e-mails. How do you even start? Dear Ms. Davis. Are you okay?
Fucking ridiculous.