Chapter 5
Chase
Ashley looked up from her desk, then popped her gum so loud it sounded like a gunshot.
“They’re in the conference room,” she said, her voice somewhere between sympathy and panic. “With the Johnsons. You were supposed to sit in on this meeting.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Another aggressive gum pop. “Good luck.”
I’d been working at Morrison but something about him—the red hair, the freckles, the casual posture—made my brain loop back to that moment on the sidewalk.
To a crooked smile and lilting brogue.
“Mr. McCarthy?” I said, checking the file and trying to look professional.
“That’s me.” He had a Southern accent, not Irish. Florida born and raised, probably. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“Of course.” I sat down across from him and opened the file, forcing myself to focus on the intake form. “So I understand you’re looking to file for divorce?”
“Yeah. My husband and I, we’ve been trying to make it work, but . . .” He shrugged. “Sometimes it just doesn’t, you know?”
“I understand. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
“Thanks. That’s kind of you to say.”
We talked for twenty minutes about assets and timelines and whether his husband would contest the divorce (probably not, they’d already discussed it and were trying to keep things amicable). I took notes, asked the right questions, and gave him the information he needed about next steps.
“—does that make sense?”
I blinked and realized Mr. McCarthy was looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?”
“I asked if you handle these kinds of cases often. Amicable divorces.”
“Oh, yes. We do.” I smiled, trying to look competent and not like I’d just been daydreaming about a stranger. “The Morrisons prefer cases like yours. It makes the process much smoother for everyone involved.”
“Good. That’s good.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Chase, please. And you’re welcome.” I shook his hand and walked him out to the reception area where Ashley was typing a thousand words per minute while chomping like her gum owed her money.
After Mr. McCarthy left, I returned to my office and sat down at my desk.
I had a motion to draft, discovery documents to review, and an endless list of client calls to return. Instead, I found myself staring at the wall and thinking about the way someone’s fingers had felt against mine for half a second on a Monday morning.
I pulled out my phone and pecked out a text to my best friend, Diego.
Me: Hypothetically, if you ran into someone on the street and had a moment, would it be weird to hope you ran into them again?
Three dots appeared.
Diego: Who is she?
Me: Not a she.
Diego: WHO IS HE?
Me: Nobody. Forget I asked.
Diego: Too late. I’m invested. Details. Now.
Me: There are no details. I literally crashed into someone this morning and now I can’t stop thinking about it.
Diego: Where?
Me: Ybor.
Diego: Was he hot?
Me: . . . yes.
Diego: Then yes, it would be reasonable to hope you run into him again. Also, you should go back there.
Me: I can’t just lurk around Ybor hoping to bump into a stranger.
Diego: Why not?
Me: Because that’s creepy?
Diego: It’s only creepy if you make it creepy. Just happen to be in the area. Casually.
Me: I have to work.
Diego: You always have to work. Take a lunch break. Go get a coffee. Live a little.
I stared at the text, then put my phone away.
Diego was right about one thing—I always had to work—but he was wrong about the other thing.
I couldn’t just stroll through Ybor on the off chance I’d run into a random redhead again.
That was ridiculous. Tampa was a city of a gazillion people.
The odds of seeing the same person twice by accident were basically zero.
I opened the Henderson file and forced myself to focus on the deposition prep I should have done last week.
I had work to do.
Everything else had to wait.