21. The Passion
EVA
Thursday night the sea air is cool as the yacht cuts through the Atlantic, the twinkling lights from St. Sebastian bouncing off the ripples. I’m dressed in a gown so froufrou I feel like I should be dining on the Titanic.
Paige switched up my table arrangement and had Foster placed next to me at the wedding party table, which is at the front of the deck and away from the other guests. I don’t appreciate the change, but then again, I did promise to talk to Foster. Which is exactly what I’m doing now as he leans in, his smile crisp. “You look breathtaking tonight, Eva.”
“Thanks.” I fiddle with the napkin on my lap, feeling out of place. Paige and Zach are making the rounds greeting everyone, and Foster and my dad head knee-deep into a discussion about new rulings and regulations. Blah. So I turn to Kat and say, “So what are your plans for entering the food industry?”
She smiles shyly and bats a hand. “Oh, I’d never dare venture into running my own business—I’m not as brave as you are. I’m just working on getting a permit to donate my time and services to various charity events.”
Well, that sounds honorable. Maybe I haven’t given Kat enough credit. “I’m not sure what I did was brave or foolish, but I appreciate the compliment. And what you’re doing sounds wonderful.”
She proceeds to tell me about her plans for her favorite charities, and usually, I’d be very interested. But after finding out about Zach possibly having a daughter along with what happened with West last night, my brain is like a jumbled ball of Christmas lights.
When my father takes Kat to the balcony, Foster gestures at the view with his wineglass. “The ocean is really showing off for us tonight.”
“It really is,” I say, though it feels like a backdrop to someone else’s romantic evening.
Foster’s hand brushes mine as he points to a particularly ostentatious building in the distance. “Architecturally significant,” he says with easy confidence. “Designed by Albert Zurich, a man who went to Harvard with my great grandfather.”
“Really?” I say, ordering myself to be interested.
“Yes.” He grins, taking my hand in his as he nods in another direction. “He also designed that bridge. Originally, it was supposed to be a decorative statement as well. But because they needed to finish it quickly to get traffic flowing to the island, they had to go basic.”
“Wow, that’s so interesting,” I say, because it is. Or it should be. But time to dig deeper. “So, Foster, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“This thing between us. I guess I want to be sure. Our fathers aren’t the only reason you’re here getting to know me, are they?”
He meets my gaze. “I make my own decisions, Eva. Fact is, you’re what I’m looking for.”
“And what is that?”
“You’re smart, beautiful, interesting, and you come from a good family.” He brushes a wisp of hair off my face.
“Thank you.” I smile. “I needed to know.” His words should make my heart leap, but they don’t. It’s like he’s checking off a list, so I keep probing. “Okay, so spill it,” I demand playfully, swirling the wine in my glass—a Pinot Noir with an attitude. “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever had to do for a case?”
Foster, looking every bit the dapper lawyer in his tailored suit, leans back in his chair, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He knows he’s got the floor now, and I’m all ears.
“As you know,” he says, his voice smooth. “Sometimes it’s about the details that no one else thinks to look at.”
I nod, taking a sip of my wine. The truth is, I hunger for these little nuggets of wisdom. Ever since the food business fiasco, I’ve felt like I was floundering in the deep end, trying to prove to my dad—and myself—that I have what it takes to be the shark in the courtroom.
“Go on.” I think back to the mountain of tiny decisions that led to my colossal food career nosedive.
“Okay.” He grins. “It was a murder case. The suspect had an alibi tighter than a clamshell. Said he was out for a jog at the time of the crime, even seen on security cameras.”
“Sounds pretty air-tight.” My fork is poised mid-air.
“Exactly. So I dive into the neighborhood HOA records,” he continues, clearly enjoying this story. “Turns out they have timed sprinklers set to go off like clockwork every night.”
“Let me guess. Our man should’ve been drenched.”
“Spot on. But when the cops picked him up, he was as dry as dust,” Foster declares.
I can’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the gentle lapping of the water against the yacht’s hull. There’s something about Foster’s storytelling, the flair with which he reveals his victory, that makes me want to give a slow clap.
I shake my head. “That’s some next-level lawyering. Using sprinkler schedules to take down a bad guy. Pretty freaking brilliant.”
“Why, thank you. Like I said, the devil’s in the details.” His gaze holds mine with intensity.
“Indeed.” I feel a mix of awe and that annoying twinge of envy. I wish I had the same excitement for the process that he has. “You really love what you do.” I stare at the view and ponder whether my brain is wired to enjoy creative justice-seeking.
“I absolutely do.” He nods with a wide grin. “But you—what you did with Thompson vs. Monroe—Jesus. That set a new legal precedent.”
“Thank you.” Yeah, even Dad was proud of me on that one. I study Foster for a moment, his eyes twinkling as he talks about our cases. Man, he might have enough enthusiasm for the both of us.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, his brow arching.
“Sure, just envying your passion.” I bite my lip, a nervous habit when my confidence decides to take an unscheduled vacation.
He chuckles, the sound warm against the cool night air. “Passion can be overrated.” He waves a hand. “It’s also about dedication and discipline to do the legwork.”
“Well, I’ve got that in spades.” I lean back against the plush cushion of the outdoor settee. But both those things are a hell of a lot easier when driven by the love of the game. I know because that’s how I felt when I launched my catering business.
He taps his finger against the stem of his wineglass. “Maybe you just need something to remind you why you became a lawyer in the first place.”
That would be my dad. Not exactly a motivating thought.
After our server opens a new bottle of wine, Foster offers to taste it, and after, squints at the wine bottle like it insulted his mother. “Ugh, this wine is bad,” he says with finality.
“Really?” I try to keep the surprise out of my voice. Then I ask the server for a small amount, and when I take a sip, I let it swirl around my mouth. It’s bold, fruity, and good. “It’s fine—let’s go with it.”
“Nope, definitely off.” Foster waves at the bottle with the disdain of someone who’s never tasted such horror.
“Sir, I assure you—” the server begins, but Foster cuts him off with a sharp hand gesture.
“Just bring us your best,” Foster snaps, studying the server’s name tag. “Raphael.”
A young guy with a smile that’s clearly been through the hospitality wringer, the server says, “Sure thing, sir.” He whips away the bottle and our glasses.
“I’m sorry about the inconvenience,” I say to the server as he retreats.
I fight the urge to slide under the tablecloth. My misadventure in the food business taught me to appreciate the value of a good grape, but also the grace of not being a wine snob. Foster’s not wrong for wanting a decent drink, but his entitlement is sickening.
My gaze darts around, hoping the other guests are too caught up in their own good time to notice this. I mean, come on, West and I have chugged back beer that tasted like it was filtered through a sock.
“Don’t apologize to him.” Foster raises an eyebrow, appalled. “Eva, that’s his job.”
I fight to keep my tone even. “Look, I worked in the service industry. It might be his job, but he’s got a very hard one.”
“He’ll be alright.” Foster nods. “I’ll make sure to give him a really good tip.”
“Thank you.” I manage a smile. But then I can’t help but glance at West, who’s sipping the champagne like it’s his birthday and not caring if it tastes one sour note shy of vinegar.