Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Jenna
The umbrella above our bistro table casts striped shadows across Isla’s face as she laughs at something I’ve said.
I don’t remember what. My mind is already three meetings ahead, dissecting strategy for next week’s hearing.
The days have been flying by. All I do is work, sleep, and repeat.
Midtown lunch spots are always a mistake.
Too loud, too crowded, too many lawyers from competing firms who might overhear something useful.
But Isla insisted, and saying no to her is like trying to redirect a hurricane with a paper fan.
But I missed her. Isla’s my only friend and even staying connected has become a challenge lately.
Even though I need her so much. Whenever we skip our weekly catch-up, it feels like a decade has passed since I last saw her.
I’m perfectly content without the buzz of a crowd around us.
I know I’m her go-to as well; her rock. We’ve been thick as thieves since our college days, and honestly, it feels like she’s more than just a friend—she’s practically family.
Sure, we’re polar opposites in many ways, but our shared interests weave us together like a well-crafted tapestry.
It’s uncanny how we often finish each other’s sentences.
I think we’re part of a hive mind of some sort.
“Earth to Jenna,” Isla says, waving a perfectly manicured hand in front of my face. Her nails are purple with white spring flowers this time. “You were saying something about Benjamin’s meltdown over the Miller brief?”
“Right, sorry.” I stir my iced tea. A taxi horn blares from the street, punctuating my thoughts. “He wanted three complete rewrites at midnight and I’m already so busy with Colton’s case.”
“Of course he did. He’s nice and all but sometimes he’s lost touch with reality.” She rolls her eyes with the perfect amount of sympathetic outrage. That’s Isla—always in my corner—even when I’m being ridiculous.
The server appears with our tuna salad wraps. I thank him with a smile that feels automatic. The same one I use for courthouse security guards and the barista next to my office who knows my order by heart. I’m a coffee addict. Sue me.
“Before I forget,” I say, once he’s gone.
“Thank you for the clothes. I came home to find my hallway looking like the stockroom at Saks.” I’m not even exaggerating.
She bombarded me with package after package of clothes.
Matthew huffed and puffed like a dragon, grumbling about having to step over the mountain of boxes.
But okay, it was definitely a lot—like, if there were an Olympic event for excessive shopping, Isla would take home the gold for sure.
Isla waves away my gratitude with a flick of her wrist. “You deserve nothing but the best, darling. Besides, you would still be wearing the same three suits on rotation if I didn’t intervene, and you’re famous now, baby. You can’t wear the same clothes even once.”
“They’re classic pieces,” I protest weakly. “Also, I’m not famous.”
“They’re boring. And the Iron Lady of New York family court shouldn’t be boring.” She takes a delicate bite of her wrap, somehow managing to keep her lipstick perfect. I’ve never figured out how she does that.
“That nickname needs to die.”
“It’s a compliment—embrace it.” Isla reaches for her phone. “Speaking of embracing things...”
There’s something in her voice that makes me pause mid-bite. I’ve known Isla since our first year of law school, and that tone never precedes anything good.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing.” She slides her phone across the table. “Just wondering when you became a social media darling.” She wiggles with her blonde eyebrows.
The screen shows an Instagram post. It’s a crisp, professional-looking photograph of me standing next to Colton outside the courthouse, sunlight catching his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down on me.
I’m mid-sentence, my hand gesturing as I explain something, looking every bit the commanding attorney, dressed in Isla’s clothes.
My stomach drops. Wow. The post has thousands of likes. “Where did you find this?”
“Everywhere, honey. It’s gone viral. Look at the comments.”
I scroll down, seeing hundreds:
Who’s the redhead with the Siberian Express?
New girlfriend alert!!!
That’s his lawyer you idiots
Lawyer or “lawyer”?
Is the lawyer in the room with us? This is more than a work relationship.
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “This is absurd. We were discussing trial strategy.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Isla takes her phone back, swiping to another image. “And were you also discussing trial strategy here?”
The second photo knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
It’s us. Colton, Livy, and me at the fun park, walking like we belong in the same frame. Livy is wedged between us, grinning wide enough to show the little gap in her teeth, and it’s so bright it almost hurts to look at. My head is tipped back, mid-laugh…
And Colton…
He’s smiling.
Not the polite, controlled version he shows on commercials and ads. No, this one is soft. Easy. The kind of smile that looks like it was designed for a movie close-up.
Shit.
Yeah, this doesn’t look like work.
It should have been. That was the whole point. But if I’m being honest—really, brutally honest—it wasn’t. Not for a second.
And that makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
Things with Matthew are… bad. Worse than bad. But this—having a genuinely good time with another man—still feels wrong in a way I don’t know how to justify. I don’t like what it says about me.
I’m not unfaithful. I don’t do that. Ever.
But when Colton smiles at me like that, it feels like I am.
Which is ridiculous. He would never be interested in someone like me. There’s no version of reality where that happens, and I shouldn’t even be thinking about it.
And yet. I haven’t been sleeping well since the fun park.
The worst thing? I gave him my fucking private number afterward, because—unsurprisingly—we didn’t finish going over the notes from the hearing. I made some offhand comment about wasting time, and he just… told me to call him that night.
So, I did.
I called Colton King from my private phone.
One: I never call clients at those hours.
Two: I never call clients from my private phone.
I always call from my office. Anything else is unprofessional and since work is my everything, all of this feels so unfamiliar to me.
I don’t know what I’m doing but I should stop.
And then—because apparently, I’ve lost all sense of dignity—I check if he is online on Instagram.
I don’t text him. Obviously not.
I just look at his profile picture. At that stupid little green dot next to it.
And imagine things.
Him at home with Livy. What they are doing. What their evening looks like.
While I sit alone on my couch, binge-watching some show I couldn’t even focus on, I check if he is online… It feels absolutely childish. Well, I am childish.
“Since when are you taking clients to amusement parks?” Isla asks, her eyebrow arched with the precision of a surgeon again.
I take another long sip of iced tea, buying time. “It wasn’t planned. We had just finished a strategy session at his apartment, and Livy—”
“That’s his daughter?”
“Yes. She had been cooped up all day. She’s only six, Isla. And she looked at me with these eyes—she has his eyes—and…” Damn. I trail off, remembering how small her hand felt in mine as we walked through the park.
“Oh, I get it. They’re so beautiful that you melted and spent your day at the bumper cars instead of preparing for the next hearing? This doesn’t sound like you.”
“I couldn’t say no.”
Isla sets down her fork and studies me with the same intensity she uses to cross-examine her show’s guests. “You’re getting attached, Jen.”
How does she always manage to know? It’s as if she can read my mind.
She’s spot on, but I’m not ready to admit it just yet.
“No. I’m being thorough,” I try. “This case is different, Isla. You should see how that little girl looks at him. Like he’s her whole world.
And her mother...” I shake my head, remembering the photos in Colton’s file.
Livy with unwashed hair, a kitchen with nothing but condiments and vodka in the refrigerator. The way she acted in court.
“Different how? You’ve handled dozens of custody cases. They always have cute kids.”
“It’s just…different, okay?” I drop my voice to a hush, leaning in as if the other diners might suddenly sprout ears and start taking notes on my every word.
“I just feel like I need to do more to help than I did with others. When he looks at Livy... it’s like nothing else in the world exists. And she needs him. Really needs him.”
“And the fact that he’s hot as fuck and looks at you like you hung the moon has nothing to do with your sudden interest in family outings?”
“It’s not like that. He was awful to me in high school. You know that.”
“Please, high school was a lifetime ago.”
“Some things stick with you.” I touch my cheek absently, a phantom memory of blue ink that took days to fade. Blueface. “Besides, he’s a client.” I’m not sure if I’m saying this for her sake or mine.
“A very famous, very attractive client who apparently takes you to amusement parks.” There. That eyebrow wiggle again.
“For his daughter,” I repeat. “She’s been through so much, and that day... you should have seen her, Isla. She’s usually so quiet, so careful, like she’s afraid of taking up space. But at the park, she was just a normal kid for a few hours.”
Isla’s expression softens, which is never a good sign. “And how does Matthew feel about your little adventures with the hockey star and his ridiculously adorable daughter?”
She says his name like he’s public enemy number one.
At this point, I don’t even react anymore.