14. Will
WILL
The Pinnacle Health team grows with every meeting. It’s been a month since that first sit-down with Abigail, and now six of them fill the conference room—three new faces, three familiar, all wearing the same tight-lipped, skeptical expressions.
After a round of introductions, I cut in before the small talk can take root.
Silence thickens the room. Martin Green’s jaw tightens. The woman beside him leans in. “We’re consulting independent experts to reassess the MRIs.”
I bite back a scoff. Any idiot can see the snapped vertebrae, the nerve damage that screams from those scans.
“That’ll only hurt our credibility. The injuries are irrefutable. The man’s paralyzed. We’re not going to find footage of him running a marathon.” I meet each of their gazes. “Raise the offer. Settle this before the media spins it into a PR disaster.”
What I don’t say: Abigail’s restraint surprises me. If it were me, that story would’ve leaked already. Photos of the client in a wheelchair, some tearful clip of his wife. A well-timed media play would’ve pushed us to fold. But she’s held back. I bet he’s refusing the spotlight.
“We’d consider 2.5,” Martin says.
“They opened at four. They’ll expect high threes.” I snap the file shut. “They’ll reject 2.5 without blinking.”
Probably 2.7 too, but it’s a start. Right now, this isn’t a negotiation. It’s a standoff. If we nudge forward, maybe Abigail will too. Maybe she’ll reveal her real number.
“We can’t gamble on a judge’s mood,” I add. “Keep it out of court.”
Martin’s smile is paper-thin. “We hired you because you excel in court.”
“I’m not a magician. I can only work with the facts.”
“Our ceiling is 2.5,” he says, rising from his seat. The rest of the team follows, like well-trained shadows. “Get it done.”
The door clicks shut behind them.
I drum my fingers on the table. 2.5. A joke. Abigail will laugh me out of the room.
But orders are orders.
I type a quick email:
Miss Reed,
I met with Pinnacle this morning. They’re not budging from 2.5.
I suggest you take it.
Kind Regards,
Will Carter
Carter & Ross
The case is the only thing standing between us.
Once it’s over, she’ll be mine. I don’t doubt that, not for a second.
I’ve spent every night this week at her place.
She scoffs at the idea of sneaking around, yet still won’t be seen with me in public.
I don’t mind. Behind closed doors, she’s different.
It’s the little things that get me. The way she rolls her eyes when I tease her but leans into my touch anyway.
The way she laughs at something dumb I say.
Late at night, when the rest of the world disappears, her walls come down.
And I get to see her. The version no one else gets.
Sharp, yes. Stubborn, always. But soft too.
Gentle in ways she doesn’t even realize.
She listens like my words matter. She challenges me like she believes I’m better than I am. She makes me want to be better.
I’d be lying if I said the physical part doesn’t wreck me.
The way she arches under my hands. The way she comes apart on my tongue.
It takes everything not to pin her to the nearest surface and claim her.
But I won’t. Not until she’s ready. Not until she’s just as gone for me as I am for her.
It’ll be worth every second of this torture.
When she doesn’t reply to the email straight away, I call her. Mostly just to hear her voice.
She answers, and my pulse ticks up.
“Miss Reed, did you get my email?”
“I did. Can you guess my reply?”
“Had to ask,” I say. Then, lighter, “Now that business is done, what are you doing this weekend?”
“I’ll be away.”
“Doing what?”
“Helping Judy run a booth for her foundation. Some fashion event.”
“Does she need another volunteer?”
“No,” she says flatly.
“So how am I supposed to see you?”
“You’re not.”
I pause. Just a second.
“How about this. You tell Judy something came up, and I fly us to Cabo for the weekend.”
“I’d never bail on a friend.”
I exhale. I guess I can’t fault her for loyalty.
“I’ll miss you,” I say.
“I’m sure you’ll survive.”
“Tell me you’ll miss me,” I say, softer now.
There’s a beat. Then—
“I’ll miss you,” she says. Quiet. Almost reluctant. But I hear the smile in her voice.
“You’ll call me?”
“I might. If I’m not too tired.”
“I don’t like this,” I admit. “You belong with me.”
Another pause. Longer this time. I can feel her pulling back. Retreating into the walls she keeps so carefully intact.
“I have to go,” she says. Then the line goes dead before I can say anything else.
It’s the case. I know it is.
Without it hanging over us, she’d stop fighting this. She’d let herself fall.
I’m sure of it
Why the hell did I agree to this?
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m trudging up the steps of a house in the Hills, already regretting every decision that brought me here.
The drive took forty-three minutes. A winding, narrow road clinging to the hillside like an afterthought.
And this place isn’t even at the top. The higher you go, the more you pay, and the more likely you are to scrape your car against an unforgiving slope.
Maybe the views are worth it for some people.
Not for me. I like the convenience of the city.
Max is waiting just inside the door, visibly relieved when he sees me. His navy suit is sharp enough to impress a client, but his tie’s crooked and his citrusy cologne hits hard.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says.
“I said I would.” I take the glossy pamphlet he thrusts at me.
He called in a panic this morning. His boss breathing down his neck, desperate for a sale. His latest pivot into real estate is going about as well as his last few career stints. Not because he’s bad at anything, but because he never sticks around long enough to find out.
His logic today? A few warm bodies at the open house might make the place feel in demand. I asked why he didn’t rope in his friends.
“They don’t look the part,” he’d said. They aren’t old or serious looking like me. Lucky me. At least we don’t look enough alike for anyone to guess we’re brothers. Max has lighter hair, blue eyes, and a slimmer face.
“No one else showed,” he says, raking a hand through his gelled hair. “Michelle’s gonna kill me.”
“There’s someone—” I trail off as a deep green vintage Jaguar pulls into the driveway.
Dean.
We both watch as he steps out, sunglasses hiding what I’m certain are bloodshot eyes. He’s in a suit, somehow, despite whatever hangover he’s working through. Broad-shouldered, a little taller than me, with that effortless swagger that follows him everywhere. Then the passenger door opens.
A blonde climbs out in a silver mini-dress. No makeup, tousled hair, yesterday’s outfit. She looks like she maybe showered, but definitely didn’t change from last night.
“What the fuck,” Max hisses.
Dean strolls up, all easy grin and nightclub charm, and introduces the woman as Thea.
“You’re supposed to look like a serious buyer,” Max snaps, smacking a brochure into his chest. “Will understood the assignment. Grandpa clothes, suburban-dad energy. You look like you’re here to scout a party house.”
Dean smirks and lowers his sunglasses to glance inside the place. “Could be a party house,” he says. Then, wincing, “Too much natural light, though.”
“Look—” Max starts, but the crunch of tires cuts him off.
A white SUV pulls up.
A real client.
“Just go inside,” Max says. “Pretend you don’t know each other.”
Inside, the living room is flooded with sunlight.
It’s the kind of space you could sink into and lose a Sunday.
Soft throws on the couch. Books on the shelves that actually look read.
It feels like a home, not just a house. I drift down the hall.
First door: a little girl’s room. Pink frills, stuffed animals, a playhouse big enough to hide in.
Next: a boy’s room. Superhero posters, Legos scattered like landmines.
Then another boy’s room. Then another girl’s.
Four kids? Jesus.
The master bedroom is tasteful, spacious. But it’s the backyard that catches me. Tall hedges wrap the yard in quiet privacy. A pool glints under the sun. There’s a fire pit, an outdoor dining setup, even a cubby house in the corner. It’s peaceful. No horns. No hum. Just air. Just quiet.
I stop near Dean, close enough to hear him tell Thea the place could use a hot tub, his hand drifting lazily down her back.
Then the sliding door opens behind us, and the family steps outside with us.
The dad lifts his daughter onto his shoulders, and she squeals with laughter, clutching his hair like handlebars. The mom follows behind them, one hand resting on his back.
I glance at Dean. He’s hungover. Wrapped up in someone he probably won’t remember next week. I’ve lived that life. It’s easy. No complications. No weight. You move in, move on, no one gets too close.
Then I look at the family. There’s a different kind of rhythm to them. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it’s solid. Real.
Something sharp flickers in my chest.
Not envy, exactly. Not regret. Just this ache for a life I didn’t think was meant for me.
Until I met her.
And suddenly, I want it. All of it.
We linger on the patio after the family drives off. Thea checks her nails while Dean flips through the brochure, the pool sparkling in his sunglasses.
“You invite Henry?” I ask as Max slumps into the chair beside me.
Max scoffs, loosening his tie. “Yeah, right. Like Mr. Important would schlepp all the way up here for an open house.”
I don’t entirely agree. Henry definitely thinks the sun rises and sets on him, but when it comes to family, he’s usually the first one to show up.
“He’s got a Carter charity thing tonight,” Dean chimes in. Of course. Family comes second, right after business.
“So?” I nod toward the now-empty driveway. “They interested?”
Max groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “No. Michelle’s going to skin me alive.”
“Michelle?”
“Michelle Pierce,” he says like the name should mean something. “Pierce Realty.”
Dean and I exchange a glance. Doesn’t ring a bell.
I kick a pebble off the patio. “Got anything closer to the city?”
Max perks up like a man spotting dry land after days lost at sea. “You’re seriously looking?”
“Maybe.”
Before he can launch into a sales pitch, Dean stands and stretches.
“Lunch first,” he says. “I need steak and a martini before I pretend to care about square footage.”