5
The Italian restaurant on Deck 7 was small and candlelit—battery-operated candles, but still the most romantic place Aaron had been in a decade.
Nash was across from him, red wine in hand, telling a story about a batch of porter that exploded in his fermenting room and coated Tucker head to toe. Aaron laughed so hard he choked on his wine, and Nash reached across to steady his glass, his fingers brushing Aaron’s wrist and staying there.
“You’re making that up,“
Aaron said.
“Hand to God. Tucker walked into the taproom looking like a bog monster, and a customer asked if it was a new seasonal offering.“
Nash grinned. “We almost went with it. Swamp Thing Stout.”
Aaron shook his head. Nash’s fingers traced slow circles on the inside of his wrist, making it hard to think about anything except getting Nash alone.
“So,“
Nash said, voice dropping. “Later—“
“Later—“
“After dinner—“
“After dinner—“
“My suite. King-size bed. Balcony.”
“You mentioned that.”
“I’m building anticipation.“
Nash’s thumb pressed against Aaron’s pulse point.
Aaron leaned forward. “We might not make it through dessert.”
“No?”
“Nash. You keep touching me and I can barely remember how to hold a fork. If you think I’m going to walk past your cabin door and just wave goodnight—“
Nash’s eyes went dark. “I was trying to be a gentleman.”
“Stop trying.”
Nash chuckled, low and warm. “New plan. We skip dessert, go to my—“
Aaron’s phone buzzed with a text. Dennis. All caps.
Dennis
CALL ME. LEGAL EMERGENCY. NOW.
Aaron’s stomach dropped.
“Everything okay?“
Nash asked.
“I don’t know. My colleague says it’s a legal emergency.”
“Do you need to—“
“I need to call him back, and I’ll need my laptop.“
Aaron rubbed his face. “Nash, I’m sorry.”
“Go,“
Nash said, squeezing his hand. “Handle it.”
“But I wanted—“
“So did I,“
Nash said, his expression disappointed but not wounded. “Go take care of it. I’ll be here.”
Aaron leaned down and kissed him—a promise. “I’ll text you.”
Aaron was on the phone before his cabin door clicked shut.
“Where the hell have you been?“
Dennis said.
“Having dinner. What’s the emergency?”
“Morrison’s team filed an emergency motion. They’re arguing the Title VII claim is defective because Keisha Williams’ gender identity assertion post-dates her employment contract. Mackenzie moved the hearing to next Friday.”
Aaron sank onto the bed, already reaching for his laptop. Keisha Williams. Twenty-six, three years at Morrison Financial, excellent reviews until she came out as trans. Terminated within sixty days for “restructuring.“
The kind of case that could set precedent if they won—and gut protections if they lost.
“That argument is garbage,“
Aaron said. “Gender identity isn’t contingent on disclosure timing. Bostock settled that.”
“I know. But Mackenzie’s entertaining it, which means we need a response by Wednesday. Karen’s drafting, but Goldstein wants you back.”
Aaron pulled up his email. Forty-three pages of bad-faith legal gymnastics dressed up in footnotes. He started reading.
“Get Karen on the call.”
Dennis hesitated. “Goldstein said—“
“Get her on.”
A click. Karen’s voice, alert despite the hour. “Aaron?”
“The jurisdictional argument. Walk me through your response framework.”
She launched in—Bostock as foundation, supplemented by the Fourth Circuit’s Williams’s ruling, bolstered by EEOC guidance from 2021. Sharp. Thorough. Near perfect.
“Good,“
Aaron said. “Add the Seventh Circuit’s Whitaker decision—it addresses the temporal argument directly. And pull the legislative history on the 2020 amendments. Morrison’s team will argue original intent. Cut that off.”
“I’ll have a draft to you tonight.”
“Send it to my email. I’ll review and mark it up. We’ll call again tomorrow morning.”
Silence. Then Dennis repeated: “Aaron, Goldstein said he wants you back.”
Aaron stared at the screen. Forty-three pages of a corporation trying to argue that a woman’s identity had an expiration date.
But he thought about what leaving would mean. Packing his bag, catching a flight from St. Croix, walking back into the office as if the last three days hadn’t happened. As if Nash hadn’t happened.
“Karen’s brief is solid,“
Aaron said. “I’ll review every word. I’ll be on the phone for anything she needs. But I’m not flying home early to sit in a conference room and perform urgency for a man who bills three thousand an hour and hasn’t written his own brief since 2014.”
Silence. Aaron could sense Dennis recalibrating.
“Karen can handle this,“
Aaron said. “She’s ready.”
“Okay. I’ll handle Goldstein.”
“Thanks, Dennis.“
Aaron hung up and sat there, heart hammering. Not from the case. From what he’d just done.
He’d said no.
Not to the work—the work mattered. But to the martyrdom. The automatic assumption that Aaron Mercer was always available—because Aaron Mercer didn’t have a life worth respecting.
He texted Nash.
Aaron
It’s an emergency with a case. I need to work tonight. I’m sorry. Rain check on the suite?
The response came fast.
Nash
No need to apologize. You’re fighting for someone who needs you. That’s not something to be sorry for. The suite will be here tomorrow. So will I.
Aaron stared at the text. Then he set the phone down, opened the motion, and got to work.
He was up until two AM, redlining Karen’s draft, pulling case law, building an airtight argument Morrison’s team wouldn’t be able to touch.
But when he finally closed his laptop and lay back on the narrow bed, it wasn’t the brief he was thinking about.
Nash was on the pool deck the next morning with two cups of coffee and a plate of pastries. He looked up when Aaron approached, his expression a blend of hope, worry, and tenderness.
“How bad?“
Nash asked, pushing a coffee toward him.
Aaron sat, wrapping his hands around the cup. Strong, a little sweet—exactly how he took it.
He told Nash everything. The case, the motion, Keisha Williams, Goldstein’s demand.
“And what did you tell them?“
Nash asked.
“That my associate could handle it. That I’d review everything remotely.“
Aaron took a drink. “That I wasn’t leaving.”
Nash set his own cup down. “You’re not leaving.”
“No.”
“Aaron. That’s not nothing.”
“It’s just a phone call.”
“No, it’s not. And you know it.”
Aaron did know it. That was the terrifying part.
Nash reached across the table and took his hand. “I’m proud of you.”
Aaron’s throat went tight. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said that about something that wasn’t a legal victory.
“Don’t get used to it,“
Aaron managed. “Tomorrow I’ll be back to checking email every six minutes.”
“Baby steps.“
Nash squeezed his hand. “Now. We dock at St. Croix in an hour. There’s a rum distillery—they do small-batch aging in bourbon barrels. I need to see their operation.”
“You want to go on a distillery tour.”
“I want to go on a distillery tour with you. There’s a difference.“ Nash grinned. “And tonight—“
“Tonight,“
Aaron said. “Your suite. For real this time.”
“For real this time.“
Nash’s grin widened. “Wear something easy to take off.”
“You’re bad.”
“You like it.”
He did. God help him, he really did.