8. Abigail
ABIGAIL
The bar hums with quiet conversation, full of familiar faces. These are people I’ve known for years. Colleagues who’ve seen me at my best and at my most exhausted. There’s a comfort in being among those who understand the grind, who know what it’s like to live case to case, deadline to deadline.
But lately, something feels different.
The same people I used to pull all-nighters with, who once lived for the rush of the courtroom, now swap stories about preschool drop-offs and weekend soccer games. They’re slowing down, taking fewer cases, and talking about “balance” like it’s the new benchmark for success.
And then there’s me. Still moving at full speed. Still chasing the next win. Still going home to silence.
I swirl my lukewarm chardonnay. The quiet ache in my chest feels sharper than usual tonight.
I’ve told myself I don’t need a man. I’ve told myself that so often it should feel like the truth by now.
But it doesn’t. Because no matter how many times I repeat it, there’s still this small, persistent part of me that wants more.
A partner. A family. Someone waiting at the end of the day, even if all they do is hold space beside me.
It feels like I waited too long. Even if I met someone tomorrow—fell in love, did everything right—it would still be years before children were even a possibility.
I’d be nearing forty. I can’t even blame bad luck.
I’ve made choices. Trusted the wrong people.
Ignored the red flags I didn’t want to see.
My track record with men isn’t just unfortunate.
It’s the result of my own patterns, my own mistakes.
I take another sip of wine and tell myself I’m fine.
But tonight, I don’t believe it. Not when all I see are family photos.
“Look at this one,” Brad says, holding up his phone with a grin. It’s a photo of his daughter on her first day of preschool. There’s a tenderness in his face I’ve never seen before.
I’m happy for him. I truly am.
Then he looks over my shoulder, and the smile slips from his face.
I turn to see what he’s looking at.
You have got to be kidding me.
“Will Carter. I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says smoothly, stepping between us and extending a hand to Brad.
Brad doesn’t need the introduction. Recognition flashes across his face, followed by something tighter. Unease. He knows exactly who Will is, and it shows.
“Brad Jacobs,” he replies. “And this is—”
“Abigail. We’re well acquainted,” Will cuts in, his arm sliding around my shoulder like it belongs there.
His thumb grazes the skin just above my collarbone, a touch so light it shouldn’t register, but somehow it does.
I catch a whiff of something clean and sharp.
Probably whatever cologne he forgot to water down.
Brad’s eyes flick to Will’s arm. He hesitates for half a second, then offers a tight nod and a quiet goodbye before disappearing into the crowd, clearly not interested in whatever this is turning into.
I shrug Will off, more forcefully than necessary.
What is he doing?
He pulled this same stunt last night with Collin, who avoided me for the rest of the evening.
Not that I was planning to sleep with him, he was much older than the type I usually go for, but I didn’t even get the chance to find out if there was something there.
Collin was actually smart and sweet during the brief conversation we had.
A little flirty, too. Until Will barged in and ruined it.
This stops now. I compose myself, forcing my expression into neutrality and leveling my tone. He won’t see how much he’s getting under my skin.
“What are the odds of running into you three times in as many days?” I ask.
“I’m starting to think you’re following me,” he replies.
He can’t be serious. He never used to show up at these things. Not once. But ever since the case, he’s suddenly everywhere.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. He steps in front of me, and I force myself to look at him. He’s not in a suit tonight. No tie. Just a white dress shirt, sleeves shoved up carelessly to his elbows with the collar open. He looks surprisingly normal out of a suit.
“I came to enjoy the view.” He takes me in.
I keep my expression neutral. “Then enjoy it from across the room.”
With that, I finish the last sip of my wine and turn toward the bar.
“I don’t like you talking to strange men,” he follows me.
“Then stop talking to me.”
“It makes me crazy,” he says.
The honesty in his voice stops me for a second, but I shake it off.
“Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not interested.”
“But you’re interested in that guy—”
“No,” I snap. “I’m not.”
“Good. You can do better.”
I turn to face him fully. “What, like you?”
He smirks. “You said it.”
Shit.
His smile curves slowly, like we’re sharing some private joke. Like we’re in on something.
It’s intense being in his orbit, having all his attention zeroed in on you. It’s too much.
I swallow hard. I can’t be around him right now. I’m not attracted to him. But maybe I have thought about what he said last night. The sex part. A few times. It’s hard not to. But that’s only because it’s been a while. That’s all. Not because of him.
And now he’s looking at me like that, standing way too close, and my brain just—
No. I need space.
“Can you just leave me alone,” I say. I continue to the bar, scanning for someone I know.
“I will,” he says. “When you agree to a date with me.”
“Why would I go on a date with you?”
“So you can get to know me. You’ll see I’m not half as terrible as you’ve decided I am.”
“That still leaves you solidly in the ‘terrible’ category.”
He grins, utterly unfazed. “Admit it. You’ve got a thing for me. Everyone does.” His hand sweeps toward the room. What the hell? No fewer than a dozen pairs of eyes lock onto us. All women. All glaring like I’ve just pocketed their grandmother’s silver.
“Not me,” I say, and it’s mostly true. Maybe I’m not completely immune to his charm. And maybe, maybe, there’s a tiny part of me that thinks he’s not entirely unfortunate-looking. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to let him make a fool of me. “Look. We are never happening—”
“Never’s a long time. But I can wait.”
That doesn’t make sense.
He sighs. “Let’s be real. You’ve been pretending not to see me all night. There’s only one reason you’d do that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Oh? Do tell.”
“You want my attention,” he says. “Well, you have it.”
“I didn’t even know you were here.”
His eyes search my face like he’s reading something beneath the surface. I pick up a hint of irritation, and then he drops it.
“Look, you like me.” He shrugs, casual, cocky. “It’s not a big deal. You can’t help it. We might as well—”
“What?” I cut in. “We might as well what?”
For the first time, I think Will’s actually stumped. He pauses. I arch an eyebrow. He wets his lips.
“We’ll go to dinner,” he says eventually.
Right. So the blatant sex pitch didn’t land, and now he’s pivoting to small talk and appetizers.
I shouldn’t have let myself think about it.
Just the thought of his body on mine sends my pulse racing, hammering in my chest like a warning.
And then my eyes drop to his forearms. Tanned, lean, veined.
The kind of forearms that look like they do things.
I look away.
I need to get out of here.
“You win. I’m leaving,” I say, squaring my shoulders as I head for the door. Naturally, he follows, but he can’t follow me home.
“Can I give you a ride home?” he asks as we step outside.
The night air is humid, suffocating, clinging to my skin. The cab stand is deserted. Of course it is.
“Go back inside,” I snap.
“Why would I do that?” His voice is quieter now, stripped of its usual teasing. “I only came to see you. And I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
He pulls out a set of keys, and unlocks a sleek silver Aston Martin.
“I’d rather walk,” I say, taking a step away from him.
“Then I’ll walk with you.”
“For goodness sake—” I start, but he steps in, closing the distance. He’s close now. Too close.
“Get in the car.” He says it like I’m the one being difficult. And maybe I am.
I glance up and down the street. Empty. No cab. No escape. Just him.
I look back at him and all I see is danger. He hasn’t even tried, and I’m already imagining things I shouldn’t. I’m already seeing his hands on me, his mouth, his body pressing against mine. He’s wearing me down and barely lifting a finger.
I’m pathetic.
But I remind myself. It’s not him. I’m just in a drought.
I mean, I was open to sleeping with a sixty-year-old last night. That alone is enough to snap me back to reality.
I’m not attracted to Will. I’m just desperate. And even then, not desperate enough to sleep with him.
“You know what, a ride would be great.” I yank the car door open and slide inside.
Like him, Will’s car is immaculate. Hand-stitched leather, polished carbon fiber. The seats hug like they were moulded just for him and they probably were. I do well enough for myself, but not Aston Martin well. Luxury was always Mom and Celia’s thing, but as the engine purrs to life, I get it.
“The Heights. Nice area,” Will comments when I give him my address. I wonder when would someone like him ever set foot there? As we pull away, I stare out the window, watching the city blur into streaks of orange and white. Then his hand lands on my thigh.
For a second, I don’t move. Not because I like it, but because I forgot what it feels like to be touched like that. Wanted like that.
That’s all it is. Biology. Loneliness.
I shove his hand away. He just grins, unfazed, fingers drumming the steering wheel like we’re sharing some private joke.
“You just don’t quit, do you?” I ask.
“Never. I always win. Always get what I want.”
“Not this time.”
He smirks again. His confidence would be impressive if it weren’t so ridiculous.
We spend the drive arguing over whether pizza or tacos are the superior post bar snack. He claims nothing beats greasy pepperoni after a night out. I argue that tacos are the only right answer. For a moment, he seems almost normal.
As we pull up in front of my house, Will leans in slightly, his shoulder grazing mine as he takes in the scene, as if he’s trying to commit every detail to memory.
My home is a modest, single-story brick house with neatly trimmed hedges, a white picket fence that’s been begging for a fresh coat of paint since fall. It’s nothing like the sleek, luxurious penthouse I imagine he’s used to. And that’s fine. Let him see it. Let him feel the distance between us.
“Charming,” he says. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“I’m good.” I reach for the door handle, but manners get the better of me. “I appreciate the ride.”
He doesn’t skip a beat. “I think we should make out.”
I snort. “I think you should see a neurologist.”
“Come on. You kiss me, you’ll be begging me to come inside.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile slips before I can stop it. I hate that. I hate that he can get that out of me.
“You’re—”
“Sexy,” he supplies.
“Delusional.” And then, to my horror, we’re smiling at each other.
Not a polite smile. Not a forced one. A real one. And I feel a flutter in my chest.
Oh no.
“I’m not kissing you,” I say, sharp. Trying to reel myself back in. “Goodnight.”
“See you soon,” he says, like it’s already decided.
“I hope not.”
I step out, shutting the door behind me a little harder than necessary. I walk to the porch without looking back, though I know he’s still there. Engine idling. Watching. He doesn’t leave until I’m safely inside.
It shouldn’t feel like anything. But it does.
See you soon.
If this turns into a habit—him appearing out of nowhere, pestering me—I swear I’ll…well, I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s not like I have experience with this. I don’t have a brother or father to put him in his place. And my rejection? Meaningless, apparently.
Ignoring him is the only play I’ve got left.
And look how fast this happened. Just yesterday, I couldn’t stand him. Now I’m checking out his forearms. Accepting rides home. Smiling at him. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
My cell vibrates, muffled by the leather of my purse. When I dig it out, the screen glows with a message.
Will: Miss you already.
A smile tugs at my lips, my chest fluttering, but I shake my head. Nope. Not falling for it. Not letting myself be flattered. I steel my expression, forcing neutrality before I answer.
Abigail: How did you get this number?
Will: Agree to a date and I’ll tell you.
I stab the lock button and shove my phone deep into my bag. Who gave him my number? Probably someone at the mixer. It buzzes again but I refuse to look.
What does he even want? I’m not nice to him. This is just a game.
And I’m not playing.