Terms & Conditions (Trey and Paula #2)

CHAPTER 1

TREY

He knew the time without looking. Years of waking before alarms had trained his body to surface before the rest of the house, before the city, before anyone could ask anything of him.

Today, however, someone already had.

Paula Kelly slept diagonally across his bed, one leg over his, one hand under his pillow, bonnet tilted far enough back that curls had escaped around her face. Sometime during the night she had acquired most of the comforter and all of the territory.

Trey stared at the ceiling.

Then at her.

Morning had settled over the house by degrees rather than all at once.

The gray October light at the windows turned the kitchen counters silver at their edges, and the scent of coffee sat underneath the warmer smell of butter and turkey bacon.

Trey had spent years making this house efficient—everything in its place, every room quiet enough for thought.

Paula changed the acoustics of it. A cabinet closed harder.

A laugh arrived from another floor. A mug appeared beside his in the sink.

None of it was dramatic, which was precisely why he noticed.

He had known how to want her for years. He was still learning what it meant to make room for her without quietly deciding what that room should look like.

Then at the narrow strip of mattress remaining.

Three years of restraint, and this was his reward.

He smiled.

Paula shifted closer.

His smile disappeared.

“Dangerous woman,” he murmured.

She did not wake.

He eased himself out from beneath her, showered, tied his locs back, and went downstairs. His house was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint hiss of tires on damp pavement outside. October air came through the cracked kitchen window smelling like wet leaves.

He put Miles Davis on low.

Coffee first.

He reached automatically for his usual dark roast, then stopped and took down the lighter bag he kept because Paula had once informed him his coffee tasted like “hostile litigation.”

He had never told her he bought the second bag for her.

He suspected she knew anyway.

By six fifteen, turkey bacon was in the skillet and pancake batter rested on the counter.

Bare feet sounded behind him.

“You left me.”

Trey looked over his shoulder.

Paula stood in the doorway wearing his white T-shirt and nothing he could see beneath it. Her bonnet was gone now. Her curls were piled on top of her head, and sleep still softened her face.

“I came downstairs.”

“Same thing.”

“You were unconscious.”

“I was resting.”

“You were snoring.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I do not snore.”

“You do.”

“Lies.”

“Good morning, PK.”

That softened her despite herself.

“Morning.”

She crossed to the coffee. Trey handed her a mug before she asked.

Paula took one sip and looked at him.

“You bought my coffee.”

“I bought coffee.”

“You bought my coffee for your house.”

“Drink it before it gets cold.”

She smiled into the cup.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

He ignored it.

Hers rang upstairs.

Paula’s head turned toward the ceiling automatically.

Trey saw the exact moment work entered the room.

The Grant matter.

Washington had called and Paula had answered. Since then, Renee Whitaker had sent documents, timelines, interview notes and enough privileged material to make Paula disappear behind a laptop for hours at a time.

Paula looked at Trey.

“That might be Renee.”

“Then answer it.”

She hesitated.

He understood why. Three years ago, she would have been halfway upstairs before the first ring ended. Now she was learning that urgency and importance were not synonyms.

The phone stopped.

Then rang again.

Paula sighed. “That’s Renee.”

“Go.”

She ran upstairs.

Trey flipped a pancake.

Five minutes later she returned dressed in leggings and his Howard sweatshirt, phone at her ear.

“No,” she said, all sleep gone from her voice. “Do not issue a statement yet. If the timeline is wrong, a statement locks you into the wrong facts.”

She listened.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

She ended the call.

Trey slid a plate in front of her.

Paula stared at it.

“What?”

“You made pancakes.”

“I frequently make pancakes.”

“You made pancakes while I was discussing a United States senator.”

“The pancakes were already committed.”

She laughed and sat.

For ten minutes they ate while Paula explained everything she was allowed to explain, which was almost nothing.

Trey did not ask for more.

Trey respected the boundary.

He understood privilege. He understood the strange intimacy of loving another lawyer: sometimes the person you loved most could not tell you what had happened in the most important hours of her day.

Paula stole a piece of turkey bacon from his plate.

“You have your own.”

“Yours looked better.”

“They came from the same pan.”

“Different energy.”

He shook his head.

Her phone buzzed again.

She reached for it.

Then stopped.

Trey watched her.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me.”

“I have eyes.”

“You’re judging me.”

“No.”

“You have a judgment face.”

“I’m a lawyer. I have several.”

Paula laughed.

Then she turned the phone facedown.

“Ten minutes.”

Trey smiled. “Take fifteen.”

“Don’t push it.”

They finished breakfast.

Afterward Paula carried her coffee into his study. Trey followed with the plate she had abandoned.

She opened her laptop, clicked the confidential file, and became Counselor Kelly.

He leaned against the doorframe.

There was something profoundly attractive about watching Paula work. Not because she needed him. Precisely because she did not.

Political Science.

MBA.

Years in crisis management.

Howard Law.

The bar behind her now.

Paula had not replaced one identity with another. She had stacked them.

She looked up. “Why are you hovering?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re six-four. Hovering is your natural state.”

Trey laughed.

“I have brunch at eleven.”

“With?”

“Anthony. Malcolm may come.”

Paula’s eyebrows rose. “Anthony is the one who texts like a teenager?”

“Yes.”

“I like him already.”

“You haven’t met him.”

“I like anybody who annoys you.”

“That is a troubling standard.”

She grinned and looked back at her screen.

Trey started toward the door.

“Trey?”

He turned.

Paula’s expression had changed.

“Thank you.”

“For breakfast?”

“For not asking.”

He knew exactly what she meant.

He nodded once. “You’ll tell me what you can.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then you can’t.”

Her shoulders lowered.

Trust was not always dramatic. Sometimes it was knowing when not to ask a question.

Trey went upstairs to dress.

When he returned, Paula was still working.

He put his keys in his pocket.

“PK.”

“Yes?”

“Eat the fruit.”

She looked at the untouched bowl beside her.

“Bossy.”

“Yes.”

She picked up a strawberry.

“Happy?”

“Immensely.”

“Go to brunch, Roosevelt.”

He bent and kissed her forehead.

Then stopped.

The kiss had been instinctive.

Paula looked up at him.

Neither spoke.

Something ordinary had just happened.

That was what unsettled him.

Not the desire.

Not the sex.

Not even the years of wanting her.

A forehead kiss before brunch.

A second coffee mug in his sink.

Her laptop open in his study.

Those were the dangerous things.

Trey left the house smiling anyway.