Chapter 24 #2
And that’s it. That’s the end of me, apparently.
I shift back in my chair a little too fast, and it scrapes loudly across the marble floor. Great. Subtle.
“But what I don’t quite get is… you work late all the time. How are you supposed to take care of Livy and… do all of this?” Colton nods at my paperwork.
“I already talked to Ben,” I say, trying to sound like I didn’t just almost embarrass myself into another dimension. “Your case and the fact that we’re apparently all over the news is helping the firm a lot. We’ve never had this many clients.”
He frowns slightly.
“I’m only working on your case right now,” I add. “Once things calm down, I’ll take on more again. But for now… it’s fine.”
It still feels strange, saying it out loud.
I’m used to having too much on my plate. Too many cases. Too many hours. Work bleeding into everything until there’s no space left for anything else.
I never questioned it.
What else was I supposed to do? There wasn’t anything waiting for me at home. Being busy meant not thinking. Not noticing how quiet everything else was.
But now…
Now there’s a kid who needs someone. Needs me.
And somehow, my life doesn’t revolve entirely around work.
It’s unfamiliar.
A little terrifying.
But also—
Maybe not bad.
“Can I ask you something?” Colton suddenly says.
I nod, wary but curious.
“Do you still think a lot about high school? About... what happened?”
The question lands like a stone in still water. Of course, I think about it. Those memories shaped me in ways I’m still discovering. Hardened me into someone determined never to be vulnerable in front of others again.
“Sometimes,” I admit.
“I was terrible to you,” he says, no qualification, no excuses. Just simple acknowledgment.
I look down at my hands. “Yes, you were.”
“I didn’t understand half of what I was saying back then. My English was so bad.” He shakes his head. “Not that it’s an excuse. I repeated what the others said, wanting to be more than just a foreigner. I just... I was lost too.”
“We were kids,” I finally say, though the words feel weird. I hated him for such a long, long time. Each time I saw his ads, those big stupid pictures of him in the subway or in front of the stadium, in the city. I was so full of hatred and now… it all kind of vanished into thin air.
“Kids can be cruel,” he agrees. “But what I did... the names, not helping you... I think about it more than you know.”
I look up, surprised by the raw regret in his voice.
“After Livy was born,” he continues, “I started thinking about what I would do if someone treated her the way my former team treated all those kids. And I couldn’t stomach it.” He meets my gaze directly. “I’m sorry, Jenna. Truly sorry. I should have noticed.”
His apology lingers between us. Part of me wants to brush it off, keep things distant and professional like I always do. But there’s another part of me—the quieter one, the one that still remembers—that doesn’t want to ignore it.
“Thank you for saying that,” I say.
Somehow, during our conversation, the space between us has diminished.
I don’t remember either of us moving, yet we’re closer now, and this time I didn’t move back.
And that’s when I notice details I’ve been trying not to see.
The faint scar along his jawline from an old injury perhaps, the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the way his expression has softened from when we first reconnected.
“You’re different than I expected,” he says quietly.
“So are you,” I admit.
His eyes drop to my lips for just a moment, but long enough for me to notice. Long enough for heat to curl low in my stomach. The air between us feels charged suddenly, heavy with possibility.
I don’t move away. I should, but I don’t.
Colton leans forward slightly, his breathing shallow. I can smell his soap—something clean and faintly woodsy and beneath that, something uniquely him. My pulse quickens. This is monumentally stupid. He’s my client. He’s Colton King, for God’s sake. Our situation is already complicated enough.
And yet I still don’t move.
We’re close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough that it would take almost nothing to close the distance.
Then, abruptly, he pulls back. Blinks rapidly, like someone coming out of a trance.
“I should—” he starts and clears his throat once more. “It’s late. You must be tired.”
And the moment shatters. I straighten in my chair. “Right. Yes. I should finish this paperwork anyway and head to bed.” Yeah, some Netflix shows are waiting for me.
He stands up, kind of awkward and uncertain now. “There are extra blankets in the hall closet. And towels, for morning. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” He hesitates. “Good—good night, Jenna.”
“Good night,” I echo and… wave.
Okay, Stop.
I urge the ground to swallow me.
Did I really just wave goodbye at him?
In his own house?
Sometimes I can’t believe myself.
I’ve made a lot of stupid mistakes in my career.
Missed deadlines. Forgotten client names.
Once, I even cited the wrong precedent in front of Judge Montgomery, who has the memory of an elephant and the forgiveness of a scorned tax auditor.
But walking into Colton King’s bathroom while he’s jerking off?
That’s definitely making the highlight. And the worst part isn’t even the boundary violation or the ethics questions or the fact that I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again without seeing.
.. his dick. No. The worst part is that I’m still staring at it. Like a total creep.
As if my mind wants to take a fucking photo of him.
Of him standing in that shower, separated from me by nothing but clear glass. Naked. Completely, utterly naked. Water cascading down his body. One hand braced against the tile wall. The other wrapped around his way too big, erected cock.
Everything about him is big. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Muscled thighs that speak to years of professional athletics.
I’ve seen naked men before. But damn there’s naked, and then there’s.
.. this. I knew the moment I saw it that I wouldn’t ever forget that picture.
The water that cascaded down those ridges of muscle.
That steam rising around him like some kind of mythological god just emerged from the mist in front of me.
And the expression on his face…eyes closed, lips parted, completely lost in pleasure while I’m standing there like a freaking voyeur.
My cheeks burn. I should go. I should have left immediately.
But my feet feel bolted to the floor, and my eyes—those stupid little traitors—just keep drinking him in. The scar on his left forearm. The blond, wet buzzcut plastered to his head. The way his hand moves, slow and deliberate and… fuck…he opens his eyes.
For one excruciating moment, our gazes lock. His eyes widen with shock, then narrow with something I can’t identify. Not anger. Not exactly embarrassment either. Something... darker. More primal. And for one moment I wish I could just step in and… help him?
“Sorry!” I squeak, actually squeak, like a mouse caught in a trap. “Wrong door! So sorry!”
I slam the door shut and stumble backward, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. What just happened? What did I just do?
I practically run back down the hallway, my face burning hotter than the surface of the sun. I reach the kitchen and grip the countertop, trying to steady my breathing. My hands are shaking. Why are my hands shaking?
It was an accident.
Yeah, just a simple mistake.
People walk into bathrooms accidentally all the time.
I just need to be professional about this. Act like it never happened. I can do that. I’m good at compartmentalizing.
But my silly mind keeps replaying the image. Those water droplets clinging to his shoulders. I’m jealous of those droplets. The flex of muscle as he—
No. Stop it.
I force myself to think about case law. Of poor abandoned baby kittens.
Of Starbucks running out of pumpkin spice.
About precedents. About anything other than the fact that I just saw my client—my high-school-bully-turned-professional-athlete client—naked and.
.. jerking-off. I grab a glass and fill it with juice.
But when I drink it, I almost vomit. Fucking shit!
I accidentally grabbed the vinegar instead of the apple juice.
Shit. I need to go. I just put the glass in the sink, still heaving because pure vinegar tastes abhorrent and when I hear the bathroom door open, I bolt out of the door, forgetting everything except my own brain that just got damaged for a lifetime.