Chapter 1
Lochlan Westcott
I hate Tuesday.
More specifically, Tuesday afternoons are the worst.
We’re past Monday, not quite to midweek, and nowhere close to the weekend. I’ve never liked Tuesdays, and today is no exception.
“I laid the facts out in black and white. A delay granted at the last minute is utterly ludicrous.” As if it can relieve the frustration congested in my chest, I grip the phone tighter ready to crush it.
“It’s a setback, Loch,” my dad says, “not the end.”
I didn’t bother calling my driver, Brady, and telling him to bring the car around.
I called my dad as soon as I pushed through the courthouse doors instead, choosing to walk back to the office.
I had no choice since he’d been messaging me for the past hour, wanting to know the outcome of the case.
Walking toward the offices with my briefcase in one hand and the phone in the other, I press it to my ear like my dad does.
Fuck.
My younger brother’s right. Noah called it last Christmas; I am turning into our father. Who holds their phone to their ear anymore? Dad. That’s who. But currently, finding an earbud is the least of my problems.
“The judge is open to an appeal, but there are stipulations—” I say.
“You know this before the case has been decided?” I tense from the suspicion infiltrating his tone, making me wonder if I’ve fucked up.
I’m secure in every part of my life, except when it comes to getting my dad’s approval. “I know the judge . . . well.”
There’s a distinctive pause, one that sucks the air out of the conversation entirely.
Fuck.
“How well?” my dad asks. I hear the question he’s really asking without saying a word. He’s one of the East Coast's most sought-after corporate litigation attorneys. I was never able to slip one by him—not as a kid or even a grown fucking man running the Manhattan branch of the family law firm.
“Well enough,” I reply, hoping to move this to a different topic than the woman who threatened to rule in the plaintiff’s favor simply because I forgot—read that as on purpose—to call her for a second date.
I had good reason.
First, showing up at my apartment unannounced and without an invite with nothing but a gavel under her robe (don’t ask where she had tucked it) and trying to seduce me by repeatedly calling me bailiff didn’t work in Judy’s favor.
And yes, she insisted I call her Judge Judy. That was another big no from me.
As she tugged at the front of my towel to loosen it, I thought of the woman waiting in my bed for me to return. I’m certain she wouldn’t have appreciated me inviting a guest to join us. Though maybe it was a missed opportunity.
Not wanting her to fuck me over, non-sexually speaking, on my next case she’s presiding over, I tried to play nice. . . As nice as I could, considering the uncomfortable and precarious situation. I told her my docket was full, but I’d slot into her next opening I had.
Judge Judy loves dirty talk.
What can I say? I’m not into role-play, but I’ll do it to save my ass in court.
“What are the stipulations?” He asks exactly what I preferred he not.
“She’s stringing this along to keep me front and center. The judge has . . .” I can’t believe I’m discussing this with my dad. “She has fantasies I refuse to fulfill.”
A grumble travels across the line and then a sigh.
I’m sure he’s rubbing his temples and shaking his head.
“The trouble you boys cause . . .” He doesn’t bother finishing.
Among Harbor, Noah, and myself, we were called everything from the three musketeers to little troublemaking shits.
We make our sister, the baby of the bunch, look like an angel.
She’s not perfect, but we don’t snitch on our siblings.
In this case, though, I reply, “Can’t help that we got our old man’s looks.”
“Nice try, kid.”
“It was worth a shot.”
“I have to admit,” he starts with a chuckle underlying the tone he’s trying so hard to hide, “that not only have I never had a case dependent on if I would go on a date but I also never found myself at the judge’s mercy.
I’m not getting into your sex life, but if it continues to affect the firm, we’ll need to put some rules in place.
That’s not something I’ve ever had to discuss with Smith.
” There’s a good reason he would never have to discuss that with Smith, but let’s just say, at least Smith is a good attorney.
“This needs to get wrapped up,” he adds.
“There’s no denying the facts. My client—”
“My client,” he corrects. “All clients of Westcott Law are ultimately mine and should be represented as such.”
I stop on the sidewalk, more annoyed than before.
Not wanting to get into this with him right now, I take a deep breath and continue like I wasn’t interrupted, “The Reinhold Group holds the patents and copyrights, and filed everything two years before the defendant’s brand existed.
We shouldn’t even be in court. It’s a settled case already. ”
“The plaintiff claims they found a loophole. It holds no weight from what I’ve read.”
“They’re stalling since they have no evidence to back it up.”
What a fucking mess.
“If you’re not back on the docket for tomorrow, you need to find out what’s going on. We shouldn’t be playing games in court when the facts support our side. Wrap this disaster up, Loch. Make the Reinholds happy, and let’s move on.”
After realizing I’m still blocking others in the middle of the sidewalk, I start walking again. “I will.”
“I know you can get a favorable outcome. You always do, but don’t sleep on this, Loch. Time is money, and we have millions on the line, so close this case.”
Sleep?
What’s that?
Getting sleep is foreign to me these days. I should be accustomed to the endless hours at the office with the weekly rotation through the courthouse, but I’m not. I’m exhausted. That’s not something I voice, not ever. I won’t risk losing the trust he’s placed in me.
I’ve done everything I can to prove my dad can count on me, but here I am, still working round the clock like I started yesterday.
I don’t consider myself a perfectionist, but I have tendencies.
It comes with the territory of expectation—what I expect of myself and the weight of expectation from my family.
“I’ll button up the case.” Aiming for the coffee shop on the corner, I reply, “I won’t let you down.”
I’m about to hang up when he adds, “You never do, son.”
I pause because emotions don’t win cases. Evidence wins the case. Nobody forced me into the family business, but I headed straight for law school as if my path was determined long before I was born. Maybe it was.
Feels like it.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I disconnect and shove it into my pocket, knowing my plans are shot for the night. I’ll be drinking caffeine instead of whiskey. Eating something delivered instead of keeping a reservation I booked more than three months ago.
The worst of it is that I’ll be buried in files tonight instead of my date.
I open the door to the coffee shop, discovering I’m not the only one in need of caffeine this afternoon. I take a spot at the back of the line and pull up the schedule app, once again reminded that I need to cancel my date with . . . Christine.
Fuck. Christine’s always a good time.
I type: My apologies, but I need to postpone dinner to another time. Court ran late, and things didn’t go as planned. I have a mountain of work ahead of me. Rain check?
I move with the line, noticing a blonde at the front of it.
You’d think she was explaining the plot of a murder mystery instead of placing a coffee order by how she swung her hands around.
She’s definitely what I like to call a hand talker, or someone who can’t carry on a conversation without looking like they’re competing in a mime competition.
From this vantage point, it’s hard to tell if she’s upset, demanding, or just expressive.
All I know is the line’s not moving because of her, and I don’t have time to wait for Miss Handsy to get her point across.
“Is it so hard to place a coffee order?” I grumble under my breath.
My chest rises with a deep inhale. I’m working on my patience since I seemed to have been born without that trait.
At least that’s what my family says. I don’t blame them.
As the eldest of four, my shoulders bore the brunt of responsibility and leadership; typical eldest sibling syndrome, I suppose.
That’s when she says, “I don’t have time for this . . .” My thoughts on my growing impatience drown out the rest.
Join the damn club. If she doesn’t hurry this up, I’ll be forced to leave without that coffee, and I can’t be held accountable for what I say or do without caffeine.
Dropping my gaze back to my phone, I start going through emails. I delegate three and reply to one before I reach the front of the line and place my order. Finally. Moving out of the way, I wait along with the others, who look as needy as I am for their afternoon fix.
The crowd thins as orders are called out, eventually leaving Miss Handsy and me standing front and center at the end of the coffee bar.
Lovely . . .
Of course, that doesn’t explain why I’m still standing here when my order—a basic Kona bean double espresso with the slightest hit of coconut milk—hasn’t been called out.
I check the time, then look up at the counter. The line has started to build again, but the baristas have been running to fill orders, so the delay is not from a lack of effort.
“What is taking so long?” Her voice matches the cadence of her tapping foot.
Both echo off the concrete floors, leading me to her impressive heels.
My gaze slides up, noticing her even more impressive shapely legs.
That’s when I look up and see the woman who the world apparently revolves around . . . at least in her own mind.
Great face.
Sexy body.
Full lips that I could definitely keep busy.
She might be animated when she speaks, but the blonde is hot in an uptight, Upper East Side kind of way.
Her hair is pulled tight to the back of her head and tucked neatly in a round knot.
Not a strand is out of place. Red lips, just a hint of color to her cheeks, and eye makeup on the more subtle side make her blue eyes brighter despite the dim lighting of the coffee bar.
“Sure is taking a long time. You must have a very complex order.”
“Me?” I balk from the mere suggestion that I’m the problem and move my eyes forward, mentally willing my coffee to appear on that counter in front of me. Now. But I’m intrigued by her enough to give her a second glance. Naturally.
Women have always been a weakness. My Achilles’ heel. It’s caused some issues in the past. Most notably, why I’m facing a scorned ex with a vendetta presiding over my trial as we speak. My tendency to love ’em and leave ’em precedes me. I’ve lived my life unapologetically single.
It takes a lot to get my attention, and she’s managed to do it twice for different reasons—annoying and sexy.
“And why would you think that?”
“Because you’re still standing here.”
A camel-colored wool coat drapes over a fitted silk shirt that hangs around her slim torso.
The skirt matches the coat and hugs the flow of her hips, going lower to just above her knees.
It gives off high-society vibes that I’m not typically into.
I have no patience or room in my life for socialites. No matter how attractive they are.
“I think you’re confusing our orders,” I reply, dipping my gaze to my phone and clicking it on while chuckling humorlessly. “I’m the least complex person—” Fuck. She’s good with the games. I shoot her a glare. “Clever.”
“You think?” She grins in pride and shrugs casually. “You said it. Not me.”
I’m attempting to dedicate myself to this email I currently have open, but am stopped when I hear, “You sure are bothered for someone who tries so hard to act like you’re not.
” Her hand swings out in front of her. “They’re clearly busy.
Maybe next time you shouldn’t drop in during rush hour and expect to be served first. Learn how to have some patience. ”
“I know what you’re doing.” It’s tempting to roll my eyes, but that’s not a habit I’m getting into.
“What am I doing?”
“Fucking with my head, that’s what.”
Faux offense strikes her features. “My. My. The language. And that mouth . . .”
“My mouth can do many things, and I’ve heard zero complaints, especially when it comes to serving others first.”
The pampered princess arches an eyebrow. “The only thing I can think of when it comes to your mouth is how foul it is. It’s not just patience you’re lacking.”
“Listen, lady.” Leaning closer, I lower my voice and say, “One thing my mouth has never been called is foul. Magical. Talented—”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh right. And here I thought you might have the moxie not to fall back on the obvious.”
“The obvious being?”
“Sex.” She rolls her eyes again as if the first time wasn’t maddening enough. “You know what? I believe you.”
“You believe what?”
Her expression sours. “That your coffee order is complex. As for you, you’re a simple guy.”
What the fuck?
As if I didn’t deal with enough in court today, I get the displeasure of arguing with her in a freaking coffee shop. Crossing her arms over her chest, she smirks like she’s getting the last laugh.
I don’t think so. “Look, I’m done playing this game.
” I angle toward her. “It’s a double espresso with a dash of milk, if you must know.
Nothing is complex about it. I believe it was you who placed a 12-step coffee order and wasted more of everyone’s time digging out exact change. Who pays in cash these days? No one.”
“Ooh, I seemed to have hit a button. Who knew chatting about coffee would be such a sore spot for you?” Her tone drips in sarcasm as she continues, “And the part about being mad that someone paid in cash? Heaven forbid. I didn’t know money had become so passé in your kingdom. My apologies, your majesty.”
A barista holds up a paper cup, grabbing everyone’s attention. “Kona coffee, double espresso, with a hit of coconut milk?” The guy looks at the cup as we wait with bated breath, and then he adds, “Mr. Westcott?”
Thank fuck.
But then I hear the barista call, “Macchiato with white cream, double brewed, light on the almond milk and a splash of caramel. One-sixty internal temp.”
Damn, that’s quite the complicated order. I stop in my tracks and look back. Her expression falls as embarrassment shapes her features. This time, I cock my brow, tasting sweet victory.
Catching my eyes on her, she says, “Go ahead. Say what you want to say and get it out of your system.”
“You’re three layers too deep in coffee demands and a real pain in the ass to every barista in town and mine. Have a nice day, Mrs.—”
“That’s Ms. to you.”
“My apologies. Ms. Complex.”
The barista then adds, “For Tuesday.”
Tuesday . . .
Go fucking figure.
I knew I hated Tuesdays.