Chapter 2
Iwake up the next morning with no intention of meeting Reese for coffee. Any personal encounter with him would be inappropriate, and I’d risk my credibility as a reporter with a potential scandal. Which means, instead of my normal routine that would include showering and dressing before heading to the coffee shop, I’m still in my PJs when I walk into my kitchen and put a chocolate-flavored pod in my Keurig. While it brews, I proceed to think about the man I’m avoiding. If I were another reporter, I would take him up on the invitation and corner him for an interview, but I’m not big on the sex-for-information kind of reporting, and that’s how that reads to me. Besides, no one likes to be stalked by the press, and while Reese Summer might be an asshole, I’m not. Nor am I chasing headlines, but rather meaningful, objective commentary that has often been the reason I am awarded interviews I would not otherwise be awarded.
Steaming cup in hand, I sit down at my white marbled kitchen island and proceed to finish two cups of coffee, while doing what I do every morning. I read my Cat Does Crime write-up in hopes that I won’t hate what is now published, and today, thankfully, I do not, though sometimes I do. And I didn’t have much to work with to start. There were opening statements, some heated words between counsels, and the judge pulling them back behind closed doors, in what became the end of the day. But reading over my published piece, I made it work. There is a nice mix of personal insight into the case, the judge’s general attitude and presence, as well the jury’s engagement in the courtroom events. Additionally, I share my opinions on what should happen, has happened, or has not happened. Finally, I end with a closing statement of my own:
The prosecution’s opening statement promised to prove a good-looking billionaire to be a monster in disguise. The defense, led by Reese Summer, in turn, promised to prove them wrong. It’s a predictable narrative, of course, except for one thing. The sensationalism in the courtroom for the defense, in what appears to be the JFK effect of good looks and charm, wins the day. Summer slays the jury and the audience, convincing them that the prosecution is on a witch hunt. And since the prosecution chose to present their case with over-the-top drama akin to a B-rated, poorly shot, Friday the 13th movie, they better have facts as backup to win. Until then, —Cat
I left out the part about me having met Reese, finding him to be an arrogant ass, and that he still had me actually contemplating getting naked with him. I don’t even know where my head was. Reese personifies the very man who has always been a problem for me. I know Reese is trouble. If the prosecution doesn’t know that by now, they will. Just to arm myself with facts, to back up those statements, I google him now. In the name of research, of course. I write down the details in my notebook:
Age: 35
Yale Law School graduate, eight years ago
Single
Never lost a case
God, the man has a résumé that matches that of my father, two brothers, and Mitch, my ex. If only I’d stuck to fucking that man in his office, I might not have minded that he’d also fucked his secretary in his office. Funny how that works. And on that insightful note, I shut my computer. Time to shower, dress, and head to court, sans a stop by the coffee shop for a white mocha and a brush with Mr. Arrogant Asshole.
By the time I’m out of the shower, I start to wonder if I’ve let my irritation and attraction to Reese Summer cloud my judgment about meeting him. In an effort to not appear unprofessional, have I decidedly acted unprofessional? I’m going to want to interview him. Why would he grant an interview to a woman who stood him up? Of course, I didn’t agree to meet him and it wasn’t a date, but still…
By the time I’ve dressed in a fitted black suit-dress with a V-neck, and have pinned my hair neatly at the back of my head, I’m certain I’ve misstepped. Determined to fix that problem and catch Reese before he leaves the coffee shop, I pull on a black blazer and my knee-high black boots, and then slip my briefcase and purse across my chest on my way to the door. I’ve just finished the fifteen-floor elevator ride and stepped into the lobby when my cellphone rings.
I cross the lobby while scooping it out of my unzipped purse to note my friend Lauren Walker’s number.
Waving at Adam, the doorman, I exit the building and answer the call. “How’s the baby?” I ask, answering the call.
“Are you talking about the one in my belly or the one in my bed?” she asks.
“You’re the only person on this planet that would call your beast of a husband and ex-FBI agent a baby.”
“Baby is the wrong word,” she concedes. “Protective bear is more like it. He hovers worse than the DA, and I know you know what that means.”
After three years of working with her and under said DA’s operation, I do, but I get it. She miscarried last year. Her husband is worried. Still. “Royce can’t be that bad.”
“He is. So are his brothers. Soon I will have a drone following me to the bathroom.”
I laugh. “That would be bad. Really bad. But sympathy aside. How are you feeling?”
“Sick. I hear that’s actually a good thing. But me aside, I have a client meeting in a few, but there was a purpose to this call other than drones and hovering men. I thought you’d want to know that Royce got a call from the defendant in the case you’re covering.”
I frown. “Nelson Ward wants to hire your husband’s company to protect him?”
“He isn’t pleased with the company he’s using to handle the threats he’s getting.”
“And?”
“Royce immediately declined. He just feels it’s bad mojo to aid in the defense of a guy who might have killed a pregnant woman, especially with a pregnant wife of his own.”
“I think he has a point.”
“Of course he does, but I know Reese Summer. I don’t believe he’d take this case if he believed Nelson to be guilty.”
I turn a corner and keep walking, weaving through the crowd. “You’ve met Reese?”
“Yes. I know I told you that.”
“No. No, you did not tell me that, though I suppose it’s logical, since you’re both working criminal defense attorneys. Are you telling me now that you’re going to talk Royce into taking the case?”
“No,” she says. “I tried and failed, and I know what battles to pick with the Walker men. And I read your rundown on opening statements, which was not only excellent, by the way, it cements my belief that Mr. Hotness wins again.”
“Mr. Hotness?” I ask, stopping dead in my tracks only a few steps from the coffee shop. “What does that mean?”
“Oh gosh, you don’t know Mr. Hotness? What kind of reporter are you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Reese was on TV last year, and it sparked all kinds of fantasy blogs about him. It’s insanity the way it took off. He hates it.”
“Reese Summer is Mr. Hotness?”
“Yes, but like I said. He hates it. He feels it degrades his skills. He’s a good guy. And he is hot, but don’t tell Royce I said that. He’s been very jealous since I got pregnant again, which is just silly. I’m pregnant, for God’s sake.”
“Like you have eyes for anyone but Royce anyway.”
She sighs. “I really do love that man. Anyway, I have to go. But for the record, I’ll bet you a Chocolate Avalanche Sundae at that ice cream place we found a few months back that the woman’s ex-boyfriend killed her.” There are voices in the background before she says, “I need to go, but I expect courtroom gossip you tell no one but me.” And on that note, she hangs up.
I lower the phone and blink with the realization that right now, the biggest gossip I have to share, or withhold, is me meeting Mr. Arrogant Asshole while reading about, and admittedly living, a mini-fantasy about Mr. Hotness, both of which are Reese. How is this even possible?
I glance at the time on my phone and realize how close I have to be to missing him before he heads to court. Shoving my phone back inside my purse, I hurry forward and open the door just as Reese is exiting. Before I can even blink again over this man, his hands come down on my shoulders and he turns me to the side of the door. “You’re late,” he says, his hands scorching my arms, while a fall breeze is now tinged with the spicy, masculine scent of his cologne.
“I don’t remember setting a date or time.”
“And yet we did,” he says. “But you obviously had to talk yourself into showing up.”
“I came for coffee.”
“Liar,” he says.
“I came—”
“For me,” he says, his voice a low rasp as he adds, “Come for me again. Tomorrow. An hour earlier than today.”
“I need—”
“Good,” he says. “And I want to hear more. Tomorrow. I have to go.” He releases me then he’s walking away. I rotate to watch him depart, and Lord help me, the man really is Mr. Hotness and I can still feel him everywhere, and he didn’t touch me anywhere but my arms. He’s also gone before I’ve confessed my identity, and I consider chasing him down and explaining myself, but he’s headed to court. I’m the last thing that he has on his mind today. And yet he was here. For me. I’m not sure what to do with that little tidbit of information. But then, men like him love the chase, and I didn’t fall at his feet.
It’s about the chase.
Until he decides I set him up to get the interview I still need from him. This really can’t end well, or even naked. No one is going to come, at least not Reese and myself together.