6. Will
WILL
Ilean against the bar, lazily swirling the beer someone shoved into my hand. I don’t even like beer, but it’s something to hold. The room is too loud, the drinks too warm, and the people too eager. This brand of desperate networking always makes my skin crawl.
I could leave. I should leave. I’ve shaken hands, smiled at all the right people. There’s nothing left here for me.
But I don’t.
Instead, I find myself watching her. Abigail.
Not obvious. Just a glance here and there. A second too long.
I’m not sure what it is. Curiosity, maybe. That’s probably all it is.
“Will! Just the man I wanted to see.”
I turn to face yet another starstruck junior from some forgettable firm.
His grin is wide, like he’s just hit the jackpot.
I offer a smile in return and shake his hand, his name already slipping from memory before he’s even finished saying it.
I’m good at this—at making people feel important—but no one remembers two-hundred names in a single night.
“Enjoying the event?” he asks.
“Oh, absolutely,” I reply, keeping the sarcasm out of my voice.
“I’ve studied your cases. The McCord injunction? Flawless work.” He says it like he’s the first genius to notice. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve heard some variation of that tonight.
I’m already looking past him. Call me an asshole, but there’s only so much forced admiration a person can take before it starts to sound like grating elevator music.
Salvation, if you can call it that, arrives in the form of Victoria Scarsguard from Lindon & Cole.
She’s a striking woman, and she knows it. Platinum-blonde bob, eyes sharp with dark liner, her tailored skirt suit hugs every angle of her body.
The last time we crossed paths, she came at me with the single-minded focus of a shark scenting blood.
Grasping hands, smeared lipstick, the works.
I’d peeled her off with difficulty, apparently bruising her ego in the process.
Sure, she’s attractive, but the desperation turns my stomach.
People take one look at me and assume I’m game for their cheap thrills.
They never consider I might find their panting advances about as exciting as a tax audit.
“Excuse us,” she says to the junior. Not a request. He retreats, and I feel a hint of guilt.
“You were impressive up there,” she says. “I almost agreed with you.”
“You should agree with me. I’m right.”
Her eyebrow arches, weighing whether to take the bait, but she lets it go.
“What was that really about? You have it out for Abigail?”
The mention of Abigail’s name sends a prickle down my spine. Against my better judgment, my eyes sweep the room until they land on that ridiculous pink outfit. Why is she dressed like she sells cosmetics door-to-door? It should be laughable. But somehow, on her, it works.
“I don’t have it out for anyone,” I say.
“Please. That speech was brutal.”
Brutal? That was me holding back. I was showing Abigail exactly who she’s up against. Making it clear this isn’t a game she’s going to win.
And yet there she is, across the room, completely unfazed. That maddening poise still flawless.
She should have been impressed. The way I was, when she made Pinnacle second-guess me. Not that I’d ever admit it.
I expected more.
I don’t get it. Half the room would crawl over broken glass just to get my attention, and she looks at me like I’m something she scraped off her heel.
Victoria leans in, her spicy perfume turning cloying this close.
“Then again, nobody noticed. Her speech was a total snooze fest.” She looks around the room, dismissive. “And what’s with her outfit?”
Her laugh grates on me, and a strange defensiveness flares in my chest, like she just insulted me.
Maybe it’s professional respect. People love to tear down those bold enough to step into the spotlight.
Funny how they never have the guts to stand in it themselves.
Abigail was a bit rehearsed, sure, but she sold it.
I’d never admit it out loud, but she made some solid points. Easy enough to dismantle, though.
“She did fine,” I say, using it as an excuse to look at her again.
She was just with a group, but now she’s talking alone with some silver-haired fossil, laughing at whatever ancient joke he’s telling. My pulse races, too fast for something so minor. It’s just small talk, polite. She’s working the room, doing exactly what everyone’s here to do.
But I can’t look away.
There’s something twisting under my ribs. Hot, tight, and completely unwelcome. Irritation, maybe. But it’s more than that.
Jealousy? Is that seriously what this is? I’ve never been the jealous type. Never had to be. I don’t usually care enough. But right now, I’m wondering what the penalty is for strangling a senior citizen.
She leans in slightly, tilts her head just so, then throws it back in another effortless, radiant laugh. And he’s hooked. Smiling at her like she’s the only person in the room.
I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.
I try to brush it off. Tell myself it’s nothing. That it doesn’t matter. So why do my hands form fists? Why is my jaw tight? I can feel the heat of it in every inch of me.
Then he reaches for her hand. Just takes it, wraps his fingers around hers like he has a right.
It hits me like a brick to the head. I like her.
Shit.
“Look, last time—” Victoria says.
“It’s fine,” I cut in.
The old bastard’s lifting Abigail’s hand, like he’s about to kiss it.
“Will?” Victoria pushes.
“What?”
“I said maybe last time I came on too strong.” She slides her hand around my arm. “We could take things slower—”
But I’m already moving. Shrugging her off as the man leans down, lips hovering way too close to Abigail’s skin.
“Excuse me.”
I cut through the crowd toward Abigail, every step stoking the fire in my chest. People shift aside, sensing the mood or just getting out of my way.
When I reach them, she stiffens. Her smile vanishes. She pulls her hand away from the old man.
“Mr. Carter,” the man says, trying to sound important. This is her type? He’s pushing sixty, face blotched from booze, gut pressing against his knockoff suit. “May I say—”
“Who the hell are you?” I cut in.
“Collin Masters.” He offers a clammy handshake. I take it and squeeze, just enough to watch his eyelids flutter.
“Such a pleasure,” he wheezes, the words falling apart in his mouth.
“How do you know Abigail?” I ask.
“That’s none of your—” she starts, but he interrupts.
“Judy’s playing matchmaker,” he says with a smirk, then winks at her like they’ve shared something. Like hell.
I step in. Close enough to make him flinch. He stumbles back.
“Give us a minute.”
He slinks off like a kicked dog. Pathetic. If someone tried that on me, I wouldn’t have moved an inch.
“What do you want this time?” Abigail snaps.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
What do I want?
The answer comes faster than I expect. I don’t want him talking to her.
I don’t want any guy talking to her. But it’s too soon for this.
We’ve barely exchanged a word, and yet, the feeling is almost instinctual.
It’s like something inside me is already claiming her, even though I know I shouldn’t feel this way.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake it off, but I can’t.
Normally, I avoid other lawyers. It’s always complicated.
She holds my gaze, eyes sharp beneath smoky eyeshadow and liner. I can’t even pin down their color. Hazel, maybe? Brown? Green? Possibly all three. My pulse hammers in my throat.
“Look,” I say, rubbing my mouth. I should walk away.
Be smart. We’re on opposite sides of a case, and this is a distraction I can’t afford.
But there’s this pull, this need I can’t shake.
Maybe if I just let myself have it, just once, I can put it to rest. One night, no strings, and I can get back to what matters.
“Come to my place tonight.”
Her reply is instant. “What for?” No raised brow. No scoff. No irritation.
She wants me to say it. Fine.
I close the space between us. Her perfume hits. It’s citrusy and bright, and my pulse spikes being this close to her. I drop my voice and lean in.
“Because I want you. And I think you want me too.”
I pull back, watching it land. I’ve seen it before. Breath hitching, pupils dilating, that subtle shift when they realize they’ve won the Will Carter lottery.
But she doesn’t even blink. No reaction. Just that same unreadable stare.
“Even if I were blind, deaf, and desperate,” she says, slow and clinical, “you’d be the last person I’d want.” She gives me a look like I crawled out from under a rock, then turns and disappears into the crowd. Head high, utterly unbothered.
I smile as she walks away, and damn if that doesn’t make it worse. She’s got this way of cutting me down that makes me want her even more.
If she thinks I’ll give up that easily, she doesn’t know me. But she will.