17. Marcella
seventeen
Marcella
Three Weeks Later
Three weeks later, the storm outside matches the one I’ve kept buried.
Rain lashes the glass walls of the conference room we’ve occupied all day.
Gray light dulls everything but the tension in the room.
I have everything I need for a record-breaking settlement.
Relief should feel like a win.
Instead, I watch Seamus from the corner of my eye, trying to pretend today is routine. Standard. Nothing to make my pulse jump.
Ethan leans back in his chair, arms behind his head, a satisfied smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m telling you,” he points at Seamus with his thumb, “if I ever get sued, I want this guy to sit for my deposition.”
Seamus rolls his eyes, his expression casual in a way I haven’t seen since I met him.
“Glad I could impress the audience,” he says dryly.
I sip the last of my coffee—lukewarm now. Doesn’t matter. I need something to occupy my hands, I’m too keyed up.
I should be celebrating too. He nailed it. Steady, precise, and careful with every word. Not too rehearsed. Not too defensive. Enough righteous frustration when he talked about what happened to Miranda.
He didn’t even need to throw Caldwell under the bus outright. Anyone with a brain could ascertain who made the final decisions in the OR.
Best of all? Caldwell didn’t show up.
The egomaniac couldn’t be bothered. Instead, he let his attorney, Luther Young—with his smug, clinical questions—handle everything.
Seamus held his own and then some.
Ordinarily, after a deposition, I’d be gone right after. This afternoon I stayed to get more time with him by pretending to need a post-depo debrief.
Ignoring the fact I’ve spent the last few weeks picturing the way his hands would look as they skimmed my body. The way his blue eyes bored into mine when we kissed.
Hearing the desperate tone of his voice when he told me he masturbated thinking about me.
How I nearly cracked right open when he promised to prove I was beautiful.
Seamus hasn’t brought any of it up since.
Does he still feel the same way?
It’s hard to know. We’ve exchanged a few emails. Strictly professional. No innuendo. No flirting. Not even a winking emoji. I told myself it’s what I wanted. What I needed. We’re working together. He’s not my client, but I’m relying on him. On his memory. His insight. His testimony.
I wore my hair down today. Paired a new black wrap dress with a crisp, hot-pink blazer and heels an inch taller than I normally wear. I want to tell myself I dressed like this to intimidate Luther.
I know better.
Seamus shifts in his chair. My eyes immediately flick to him without permission. Fitted gray sweater. Black jeans. Silent confidence pours off him in waves. He still looks tired—yet significantly less stressed than he did a few weeks ago.
When he catches me eyeballing him, he smiles and I swear something lodges in my throat.
Stop it , I tell myself. Focus .
Ethan glances at his watch. “Alright. I’ve got to head out. Cy got us tickets to a concert at Neumos and we’re going to dinner first…”
He turns and leaves the room with a wave.
I shout after him. “Tell him thanks a million for stealing you away in the middle of a victory lap.”
Ethan looks over his shoulder. “You’ve got this without me.”
Silence settles again. Seamus’s eyes track me as I pretend to collect papers, to organize notes that are already neatly filed. Anything to keep from meeting his gaze.
My phone buzzes against the table, saving me.
Until I glance down at the screen. Mama.
My heart drops. She never calls me at work. I swipe to answer. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Marcella, it’s your father,” she blurts out, high and tight.
I freeze.
I see in my periphery concern instantly darkens Seamus’s expression.
“What about him?” I’m already grabbing my bag.
“He’s okay. He’s home. I guess he had one of those—what do they call it? A TIA? The doctor said it wasn’t a stroke, but it could’ve been. They said it was a warning. He needs to rest. See a specialist—”
“I’m on my way.” I jump up. “Are you with him?”
“It’s fine, mija —” she starts to protest. I don’t let her, reiterating my intention and hang up, heart hammering.
Seamus stands too. “I’ll drive you.”
“What?” Shocked, I shake my head. “No, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” He steps closer. “You’re upset. The road is going to be slick. Let me make sure you get there safely.”
Something breaks in me at the steadiness in his voice. At the idea of someone other than my immediate family looking out for me. I nod once. “Fine. We’re taking my car.”
I glance out the window. Outside, the rain comes down in sheets. Seattle at its most biblical.
We take the elevator to the garage and my Audi hums to life as Seamus settles into the driver’s seat, folding his large frame into the space with surprising ease.
I clutch my purse tightly in my hand, envisioning the worst and mentally chastising myself for blowing family time off for so many months.
We don’t speak as the car crawls through down I-5 rush hour traffic toward Tacoma.
I stare as the rain streaks down the passenger window in steady, hypnotic rivulets.
The wipers swoosh sheets of water from the windshield and I’m grateful to have Seamus focusing on the road while my mind jumps all over the place.
“She said it wasn’t a full stroke,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “She said he was up and talking.”
Seamus nods, glancing at me briefly. “Sounds about right. If it was a TIA, those usually resolve quickly. The biggest concern is what it means for his risk going forward.”
“You’re not helping me feel better,” I sigh.
“Sorry,” he says soothingly. “Let me see if I can ease your mind. We just went through this in my family with my da. The good news is, if caught early and treated, it can prevent a real stroke. Medications. Diet. Maybe surgery depending on what they find. Try not to worry. This kind of event is a warning not a death sentence. Far from it.”
I exhale through my nose, eyes scanning for the exit I know too well.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I acknowledge after a beat. “You didn’t have to.”
He shifts in his seat. “I wanted to make sure you got here safely so you could be with your family.”
“It’s…sudden. He’s not old. He’s active. Last week he was losing his mind about shrimp prices.” I manage a laugh, barely.
Traffic slows to a near halt. Brake lights stretch ahead in a glittering red snake. The sky’s pitch black though it’s barely five. Typical November.
Then, Seamus’s right hand pats my knee and rests there. “He’s gonna be okay.”
His simple touch—steady, warm, grounding—cracks something open inside me I’ve been holding together with stubborn pride and metaphorical paperclips for years.
Seamus’s hand on my knee isn’t sexual. It’s not overt. It’s comfort. It’s presence. It’s the unspoken understanding of a man who doesn’t expect me to be strong every second of the damn day.
For someone like me, who’s built an entire life pretending I don’t need this type of support… It’s devastating.
Heat spirals up my spine. Not desire—at least, not only desire. It’s something more dangerous. Terrifying.
I lean back and close my eyes. For a breath. For a moment.
Because right now, I need a small break.
The air between us is thick. Heavy. The kind of quiet making me hyperaware of everything—his presence, the way he smells faintly of cedar and spice. I feel him looking at me every so often, but stay exactly as I am. Afraid to break the spell.
“You haven’t said anything about the deposition.” His voice is soft. Curious.
I don’t move a muscle. State the truth. “You were perfect.”
“Seriously?” His eyes widen.
“Seriously.” I allow myself to steal a glance at him, and something clenches in my chest. “You were clear, confident. You didn’t take the bait. You kept the focus on Caldwell. I think Luther was caught off guard by what an excellent witness you were.”
He exhales and slouches slightly and doesn’t break contact with my knee. “So…what happens now?”
“I think they’ll make an offer,” I eke out. “A real one.”
“If they don’t?”
I grit my teeth. “Then we go to war.”
“Wow.” He chuckles under his breath. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
“You already did. You’re lucky I’m forgiving.” My lips curl into a smile.
The moment lands between us—soft, teasing. Underneath it, something heavier simmers.
It’s been five weeks since the night I confessed embarrassing truths I’ve never told anyone and heard things from him I still don’t know how to process.
He told me I was beautiful. That he couldn’t stop thinking about me.
That he fantasized about me and jerked off to me every night, after I told him I’d never been loved.
Not really. Not in the way I’ve always wanted.
Hell, he knows my deepest secret—I’ve spent most of my life feeling like a loser at love.
Since then…radio silence. Emails, brief and businesslike. Dry. Because it had to be.
Didn’t stop the dreams, though. If anything, they’ve become more vivid.
We reach the exit and I direct him all the way to the driveway of my parents’ house. He barely manages to throw the car into park before I’m out the door and running up the walkway. He’s not far behind.
When I burst into the house, familiar smells envelop me. Garlic. Wood polish. A hint of my mom’s perfume—orange blossom and vanilla.
“Chellie!” My mother’s voice rings out when she peeps out at us from the kitchen. “He’s resting. He says he’s fine. I made him tea and chicken soup. He’s so grumpy .”
Her eyes flick to Seamus behind me.
“Oh.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel. “You brought a handsome young man.”
“This is Seamus,” I say. “He’s a…colleague helping me with my case. I was upset and he offered to drive me here.”
Seamus smiles and steps forward, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Delgado.”
“Call me Ana.” She assesses him. “You’re very tall.”
He laughs. “So I’ve been told.”
“He’s a doctor—in his residency,” I add, and her eyebrows shoot up.
She blatantly looks him up and down. “No wonder we haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Mama!” I’m mortified.
Seamus stifles a grin.
My father’s voice cuts from the living room. “Ana, who’s here?”
I rush to him before he can get up from the couch, crouching at his side. His face is pale, drawn. His eyes are as sharp as a knife.
“Hi, Papa.” A tear leaks from the corner of my eye.
He brushes his fingers over my hair. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I lean my head on his chest.
He kisses my head. “I’m fine.”
“You need to take care of yourself. I won’t survive if you’re not around. What did they tell you?” I love my dad so much, this is such a wake-up call to spend more time with the people who are most important to me.
He sighs. “Give me my bourbon and let me die in peace.”
“Luis,” my mother scolds.
Seamus steps forward, hands in his pockets. “If it’s okay, I can take a look at your discharge papers. I’m happy to answer any questions you might have.”
“And you are?” My father lifts a brow then looks to me.
“Chellie’s boyfriend. He’s a doctor.” My mother’s voice further humiliates me.
I’m about to correct her when Seamus sits on the ottoman across from him. “Yes, sir.”
“You look like you should still be in school.” He scrunches his lips together.
“Papa.” I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified.
“Technically, I am. Fourth year neurosurgery resident.” Seamus chuckles. “Fair enough on the age thing. I get it a lot.”
My mother hands Seamus a manila envelope, and he scans the pages quickly. “Your blood pressure was high. They’ll want to monitor you for a while. They probably started you on aspirin?”
“Yep,” my dad confirms.
“Did they talk to you about follow-ups? Maybe a carotid ultrasound?” Seamus glances up from the paperwork.
Papa nods. “I’m scheduled for the Monday after Thanksgiving.”
Seamus explains the risks, how his father has recovered from a stroke, the signs to watch for, and the urgency of follow-up care in a way so thorough and calming, my parents actually listen.
He seems to walk on water.
We stay and visit for about an hour before my dad nods off. On the way out the door, my mom hugs both of us goodbye and shoves two Tupperware containers of flan into his hands.
“Take it,” she insists. “Thank you.”
As we walk back out into the dark, wet night, Seamus nudges me with his elbow. “See? I win over moms.”
“You’re impossible.” I try to keep stoic, but my heart is swooning.
When we settle back in the car, with him at the wheel, he turns to me. “How are you doing?”
“Tired. It could’ve been worse. Thank you.” I breathe out a sigh of relief.
He stares out the windshield for a beat. “I meant what I said, by the way. About how I feel about you. It’s only gotten stronger.”
Gravity shifts.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I know we set boundaries and—”
“ Seamus ,” I interrupt before he can finish. “Let’s get through the settlement.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then leans back in his seat and whispers, almost to himself. “Okay. No promises when…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
He doesn’t need to.
Once this thing with Caldwell is done, I don’t think anything will hold us back.
I’m terrified of what happens next.