7. Will
WILL
The waiter drops the bill between us with a quiet thud. Henry and I finish the last of our drinks at The Cedar Grill & Lounge. His choice, not mine. The place is a little too romantic for my tastes. White linens, soft jazz, candles at every table.
I make an effort to see my brothers regularly, but between court dates, client emergencies, and their own commitments, it’s never as often as I’d like.
Dinner was the same as always. Work talk.
The obligatory pitch to join Carter. My standard refusal.
I’d rather defend mobsters than waste time on counterfeit handbags and influencer lawsuits.
Hell, I’d take a job with Ray Malone himself before touching fashion law.
But Henry doesn’t get it. Mom groomed him for Carter, and he went along with it.
“You ought to get out of there,” I start, but he waves me off.
He could be a CEO anywhere. No question.
But instead, he hasn’t even made marketing director yet.
We know he will inherit CEO from mom, though.
Not that she’s planning to step down anytime soon.
Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she found a way to stay on as acting CEO from beyond the grave.
Still, Henry’s set on carrying out Dad’s legacy. He was only ten when Dad died. I was twelve.
Henry polishes his spoon with his napkin, then angles it to catch the light as he checks his teeth and smooth’s his hair. Ever since one of Mom’s wine-drunk friends dubbed him the pretty one, he’s worn the title like a crown.
I don’t get it. Sure, he has the pale blue eyes, the thick eyelashes, maybe an extra inch of height. But the rest? Practically identical. Same dark hair, same build. Okay, fine—he works out more. Still, I don’t see what makes him any better-looking than me.
“We should get moving if we’re going to make Dean’s opening,” Henry says, glancing at his watch.
Dean always has an opening. Some new venture, another launch. He never stops. I’ve lost count of how many clubs and restaurants he owns. Of all my brothers, he’s the one I see the least. Our schedules never sync. He lives in a different rhythm, always up when I’m asleep and busy when I’m free.
“I’ve got plans,” I say.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Hope you’re not working tonight.”
Like he’s one to talk. The guy clocks more hours than I do most weeks.
“Not tonight.”
Tonight, I’m going to win over my ice queen.
In hindsight, yesterday’s approach might’ve been too much. Assuming she’d react like a normal woman was a mistake. Abigail’s not typical.
This time, I’ve got a strategy. One of the more talkative women last night let something useful slip. Apparently, Abigail never misses a Law Association mixer. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s one starting in twenty minutes.
Why anyone would willingly spend more time with those posturing sycophants is beyond me. But if she’s going to be there, so am I.
“You’ll change your mind when you see who’s coming.” Henry shoves his phone under my nose. A parade of bronzed blondes, all legs and barely-there dresses. Models, obviously. Ten years ago, that might’ve worked. Now? Not even a flicker of interest. “Can’t do better than this,” he needles.
“Can too,” I say, flipping open my wallet and rifling through a mess of crumpled receipts.
Henry shakes his head and slaps his card down on the bill with a smug little snap.
Whatever.
“Doubtful,” he says.
A spark of competitiveness ignites in my chest. I pull up Abigail’s photo. The black-and-white headshot. She’s got a great figure, sure, but she doesn’t need to show it off. Not with a face like that.
Henry squints. “She looks like her idea of fun is filing tax returns.”
I snatch the phone back. “Get your eyes checked.”
I glance at her one more time before locking the screen. And there it is again, that damn flutter. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
“I’ll come too. Meet her,” Henry says.
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m a great wingman.”
“I can’t think of a single time you didn’t end up leaving with the woman you were supposed to be setting me up with.”
“Not my fault they like me.”
“Stay the hell away from her.”
“Oh, it’s serious?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
“Then what’s the big deal? Worried she’ll prefer me?”
“She doesn’t like me. She’s not going to like you.”
“Let’s test that theory.”
“No.” He does have a way with women. Abigail seems too smart to fall for his bullshit, but I’m not willing to take that chance.
Henry grins, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re getting twitchy. That’s new.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not that deep.”
“Sure,” he says, giving me that smug, all-knowing look he wears when he thinks he’s cracked the code to the universe. He hasn’t.
“So let me get this straight,” he says. “You’re skipping your brother’s opening, and a room full of hot models, to chase after some middle-aged lawyer who doesn’t even like you?”
“She’s not middle-aged,” I snap. “She’s my age.”
He shrugs. “Average life expectancy’s, what, mid-seventies? Do the math.”
“So what does that make you?”
His eyebrows shoot up. You can actually see the math happening in real time.
“Wait...shit. I’m too young to be middle-aged.”
I leave him there, spiraling into his existential crisis.
The bar is buried deep downtown in a space that tries too hard.
Dim blue lighting and leather booths do their best to mimic an exclusive lounge, but the sticky floors and stench of spilled beer give it away.
The AC wheezes against the muggy night, losing ground by the minute.
I’m glad I wore a button-up. I’m already rolling up my sleeves as I scan the room.
I’m tired before I even start. Social scenes like this aren’t my thing. I work long hours. I like quiet. Peace. Sure, I go out sometimes, but most nights I’d rather be home. Where I’m not expected to smile for people who act like they know me just because they’ve heard stories about me.
Some guy stumbles past, shoulder-checking me without a glance, his hand clamped over his mouth like he’s trying not to vomit.
What the hell am I doing here?
This fixation is driving me insane. It’s something I should have shaken off by now. But no matter how many times I try to shut it down, I can’t stop thinking about her.
I’m supposed to keep things professional.
She’s opposing counsel. She’s off limits.
That should be the end of it. Somehow, though, that only makes me want her more.
It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t strategic.
It isn’t smart. It’s just this constant, low-grade ache that refuses to burn out.
And no matter what I do, I can’t control it.
It doesn’t take me long to spot Abigail.
She’s perched at the bar, laughing with a small circle of friends.
She looks elegant in a strapless black dress that fits her perfectly without trying too hard.
Her dark hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves, and just like that, the flutter starts up in my chest again.
That smile. I’d do anything to have it aimed at me. Hell, I’d settle for her looking at me like I’m something more than a fly buzzing around her ear. Even indifference would be an upgrade. Right now, I rank somewhere between a nuisance and background noise.
I could stand here all night, just watching her. There’s something about the way she moves, the way she holds herself. She’s not trying to be impressive. She just is.
Direct approaches haven’t worked. She sees through charm without blinking. So tonight, I’ll try something else. A little misdirection. I’ll flirt with every woman in this place until she notices. Let her see what she’s missing. Make her come to me.
And then...
What?
The question hits harder than I expect. What exactly am I hoping for? That I ask her out? Take her to dinner?
I haven’t thought like that in years. The hope of a normal relationship died somewhere in my twenties, right alongside whatever illusions I had left about love.
Too many women taught me the same lesson, just in slightly different ways.
They didn’t want me. They wanted the card that never declined.
The name that opened doors. The future that came with built-in status and security.
I was a shortcut. A rung on the ladder. A means to an end.
But Abigail?
She’s different. She comes from another world entirely. I don’t think she gives a damn about my last name or what it could do for her.
Typical.
The one woman I actually want doesn’t care about anything I have to offer.
I glance back toward the bar, spot a brunette in Abigail’s line of sight, and start moving.
After about half an hour. I’ve worked the room, moved from one conversation to the next, wearing my usual mix of charm and practiced smiles. Laughter follows me everywhere I go.
But not from her. Abigail hasn’t looked at me once. Not a glance. Not even a hint of acknowledgment.
Everyone else? All over me.
The woman in the red dress slipped me both her business card and her hotel room number.
Twice. Just in case I lost the first one.
Another kept resting her hand on my chest every time she laughed, letting it linger longer than necessary.
One leaned in so close I could taste the synthetic sweetness of her lip gloss and feel the expectation behind every word.
The stares I’m getting now are hungry. Bold. Entitled. Like my attention is a given. Like I owe it to them.
Somewhere in the haze of compliments and shallow interest, I managed to charm Abigail’s phone number out of a tipsy colleague.
But Abigail herself? Still nothing. Not a look. Not a smile. Not even an accidental brush of eye contact.
Is she really that unaware? Or is this deliberate? A silent power play to put me in my place? Every time I move closer to her, she’s suddenly on the other side of the room. Like she’s made an art out of avoiding me. I’m running out of time.
The curvy barrister I’ve been entertaining lifts her drink, taking a slow sip. Her eyes stay locked on mine, steady and expectant, like she’s waiting for me to follow through on something I never promised. It gives me an excuse to look away.
I scan the room again.
Abigail’s with someone now. A guy in a wrinkled suit, thinning hair, and the kind of discount-rack look that screams low-level government or maybe middle-management insurance. He’s standing too close, talking like whatever he’s saying actually matters.
But she’s leaning in. Her fingers graze the screen of his phone, and then, she smiles.
Not the tight, professional smile she gives everyone else. The real one.
Him? That’s who she’s smiling at?
A hot, possessive knot tightens in my chest. It’s not logical. I know that. I don’t care. I don’t stop to think. I don’t pause to weigh the risk. I can’t just stand here and watch her give that smile to someone else.
I move, pulse pounding, control slipping with every step.