Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
EMILY
I was a lawyer. I could compartmentalize.
I could not, however, stop noticing that Finn was doing it, too.
After our near-kiss, we’d agreed on nothing. Said nothing. The morning after, we’d both treated the previous evening like a deposition neither of us wanted on record. It was an unspoken, mutual arrangement.
It was also starting to drive me insane.
We both hoped we could go back to the way things were. But with me living in the same house as him? It wasn’t happening.
So I worked while Finn rested his junk. That was what our lives had become.
In between billable hours, we traded commentary on the slow, agonizing march of time.
My entire world shrunk down to this townhouse, and to the simple, tangible task of caring for him while Elliott was still stuck in Florida.
We’d been doing this for a solid week.
Finn was sprawled across his sectional, a deposed king trapped under a knit throw during one of his ice-maker-is-actually-working-now sessions. He held his phone high, thumb swiping.
I was back in my spot at Finn’s dining table, with my laptop and what was left of a now-stale bagel.
We kept our space. Just like we should.
I dragged a line through a convoluted equity provision. One hundred and fifty grand in withheld bonuses. The number hung on the screen, bleeding straight into my own math since it had many of the same digits and the same number of zeros as my student debt.
If I walked away from the firm tomorrow, I’d finish paying off my law degree by my late seventies.
The cursor really didn’t care about my math as it continued flashing.
Waiting for me to do something.
Well, guess what? I didn’t take demands from a cursor.
I stood, grabbed a fresh glass of water, and centered it on a cork coaster beside him.
I did not look at his mouth or try to kiss him. Our domestic choreography was enough to make Elliott proud. Neither of us crossed any lines.
“Hydration,” I announced.
“Appreciate it.” His pitch was a half-beat too casual.
He was in his glasses, the black-rimmed ones. The ones he liked so much better than contact lenses and, frankly, I did, too. Not that I should’ve had an opinion.
He reached for the glass, keeping his elbow pinned strictly to his ribs. Our knuckles maintained an appropriate three-inch buffer zone. I pivoted, marched back to my chair, sat down, and gripped my pen until the plastic creaked.
He shifted. “This whole ‘no strenuous activity’ rule is bullshit. Does blinking count? I feel like I’m blinking strenuously.”
A small laugh escaped me. “You’ll survive.”
See, like that. That was normal. That was just Finn being Finn and me being Emily and life being… life.
And then my email pinged with a news alert I had set up ages ago.
My personal digital bloodhound to track online mentions of former clients.
The subject line was bland, but the headline beneath it landed like a gavel crack against my chest: Owens it buried itself straight into my heart.
Heat rose in the back of my throat. I slammed my laptop shut with a sharp crack that echoed in the room.
“Whoa,” Finn said, lowering his phone. “Laptop piss you off?”
I crossed my arms around my chest and squeezed.
“It’s not the laptop.” The words came out tight. I stood up to pace the space between the table and the couch, my arms still wrapped around myself as if I could hold my composure together.
“Em?” he asked, his voice gentle.
“It’s everything. This whole damn thing.” I tossed my arms wide in full drama mode.
“What’s the whole damn thing? A case? The firm?”
“Yes, the case. All the cases.” I spun to face him, the frustration boiling over into a torrent of words.
“That client I won big for? It’s only been a freaking week and they’re just…
they’re screwing so many people because of the framework I helped create.
I showed them how. I taught them how to get away with it, Finn. I gave them a goddamn playbook.”
My voice cracked. I hated it. I was the shark, the closer. I didn’t crack.
But you are. You’re cracking wide open.
“Is this how I spend my life? Making sure despicable people face zero consequences,” I went on, the bitterness coating every syllable. “I’m a glorified janitor for corporate monsters. I shred the evidence and I do it so well they give me a partnership and a corner office.”
His expression was unreadable. Just… listening. Which somehow made it worse.
And better.
Gah.
“I hate my job,” I whispered, the admission finally clawing its way out. It sounded like treason. It sounded like truth. “I am so tired of wearing the power suits and the high heels and pretending that winning is the same as doing good when it’s clearly not.”
I stopped pacing and sank onto the edge of the ottoman near his feet, burying my face in my hands.
The fight drained out of me, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion.
“I’m trapped, Finn. I have a mountain of student debt, a partnership I should want, and a mother who thinks my entire worth is tied to my win rate. ”
“Em, you’re more than all of that,” he murmured, leaning toward me.
“How do I get out of a cage I built myself?” I asked, knowing he didn’t have the answer, either.
The hum of the ice machine filled the silence.
I waited for him to make a joke, to tell me it wasn’t that bad, to distract me. It’s what he always did.
But he didn’t.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, missing all of its usual levity. “You deserve more than this, Em.”
I lifted my head. He had pushed himself closer to me, his expression serious.
“You deserve more than a life of shark suits and ulcers,” he said, and the simple sincerity of it hit me harder than any argument or pep talk ever could. “You deserve to wake up in the morning and not feel like you’re on the wrong team.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
I blinked them back fiercely. “It’s not that simple.”
“Forget simple,” he said, leaning forward more and wincing as the movement pulled at his injury.
“Let’s go with fantasy. Forget the debt.
Forget your mom. Forget Douglas and his creepy shoulder squeezes.
If you could do anything in the whole world—anything at all, no rules, no consequences—what would it be? ”
The question was so absurd, so far removed from my reality, that a choked giggle escaped me. “What, like a Powerball fantasy?”
“Exactly.”
I shook my head, already rebuilding the walls that had crumbled an hour ago. “I don’t do fantasies, Finn. If I won the Powerball, I’d probably just dump it all into a diversified index fund and go back to the office so I wouldn’t lose my partnership track.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms, his eyes infuriatingly steady. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to lawyer your way out of the question.”
“I’m a boring person. My wildest, most unhinged dream is finding out opposing counsel missed a filing deadline.” I forced a dry, brittle chuckle that sounded like grinding gears.
“Emily,” he said. Just my name. “Tell me.”
I had a dozen sarcastic remarks locked and loaded in the chamber. But his persistence snagged. Admitting a dream out loud right then, when I was already raw? It was dangerous.
And yet, before I could draft a proper objection, before my brain could censor the truth, the answer just… fell out.
“I’d open a chocolate shop.”
I startled because that was not what I’d expected myself to say. It clearly even took Finn a second to process.
My words hovered between us, fragile and ridiculous. I braced myself, my shoulders tensing for the laugh I knew was coming. A lawyer who wants to trade depositions for candy? Quite the punchline.
I even tried to beat him to it, forcing a brittle smile. “Stupid, right? I’d be trading six figures for… truffles. My mother would have me committed.”
But Finn wasn’t laughing.
“You’ve been taking dessert classes for years.
I mean, I always wondered why you were so into it.
I figured you were hot for the teacher.” He shrugged.
But his intense, thoughtful curiosity made my stomach flutter.
A slow smile spread across his face, but it wasn’t mocking.
It was intrigued. “You actually liked the dessert, not the prof.”
“No, dingleberry, I wasn’t taking the classes to hook up.”
“A chocolate shop,” he repeated, testing the words.
“Okay. I can see that.” He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow.
“What kind of chocolates? The fancy, weird kind with, like, lavender and seasonings you can only get from a sherpa on the far end of Everest? Or the classic stuff like peanut butter cups?”
I stared at him, completely thrown. He wasn’t joking. He was asking follow-up questions.