10. Abigail
ABIGAIL
The restaurant is an upscale Italian spot.
Its name is written in fancy cursive, making it impossible to read.
Inside, the space feels intimate, with dim lighting and the soft glow of candlelight flickering across the tables.
Classical music plays softly in the background, blending with quiet conversations.
The air smells of garlic, fresh basil, and something else, maybe truffle oil.
Despite the fact that a single meal here probably costs more than my electric bill, every table is full.
The staff greets Will like an old friend, which only makes my discomfort sharper.
“Mr. Carter,” the hostess says warmly, “we just got another shipment of that Scotch you like.”
“Appreciate it, but I’m driving tonight,” he replies, slipping his hands into his pockets with easy grace.
We’re led to a secluded table in the back, where a young waiter introduces himself as Luca.
“Can I get you a drink to start?” he asks.
“We’ll have a bottle of the Serenite Reserve,” Will says, then glances at me. “Unless you’d prefer something else?”
I have no idea what that is, but I nod like I do. “Sounds fine.”
Luca scurries off, and the moment he’s gone, Will turns his full attention to me.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
“Do you say that to all your opposing counsel?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Only the ones I can’t stop thinking about.”
“This isn’t a date,” I reply, though the words come out softer than I planned.
He just nods, his grin widening. “Alright, then.”
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Not because he’s trying to change my mind but because he isn’t. He just sits there, perfectly at ease, like my walls don’t faze him at all.
Luca returns with the wine, his hands still trembling slightly as he uncorks the bottle.
Before I can say anything, Will leans back and says, “Relax, Luca. You’re doing fine.”
The kid exhales like he’s been holding his breath since we arrived. He flashes Will a grateful smile before vanishing again.
“Thought you were driving?” I ask, nodding at the wine.
“Just one,” he says, swirling his glass. “But if you’d rather I didn’t?”
“Suit yourself.” I’m definitely having one. Maybe two.
I flip open the menu, only to be met with a pretentious font. You’d need a PhD in linguistics to decipher it.
“What do you recommend?” I ask, squinting at what might be pasta names or possibly Renaissance poetry.
Will shrugs, effortlessly casual. “No clue. I’ve only been here once before.”
Once? And yet the staff treats him like royalty. Maybe there’s a secret file in the back. Carter, William H.: Prefers Scotch, tips 30%, allergic to shellfish.
The thought should be irritating, but he wears the attention lightly, like an old sweater, not a crown.
“I can’t read this,” I say, tossing my menu down.
“Thought it was just me.”
As if summoned by our confusion, Luca reappears. When Will asks for recommendations, the kid lights up, walking us through the menu with growing confidence.
We settle on the trout, and as Luca jots it down, Will checks his watch. The kid pales, like he’s just remembered somethings in the oven, and bolts back toward the kitchen.
“Why’s he so jumpy?” I ask, finally taking a proper sip of wine. It’s perfect. Bright acidity, a subtle honeyed richness, and a long, elegant finish that lingers. My shoulders loosen before I even realize it.
Will shrugs. “Maybe because I know the owner.” He sets his glass down, steady hands, relaxed posture. “Or maybe, like me, he’s trying very hard not to stare at you.”
My smile sneaks in before I can stop it. Will’s eyes drop to my mouth, lingering a second too long.
“Definitely prefer that to your usual death stare,” he says.
The candle flickers between us, throwing soft shadows across the linen, the wine, his face.
And for once, I don’t have a reply.
Time slips by in easy, surface-level conversation until Luca returns with our meals.
“The trout,” he announces, setting the plates down. The presentation is stunning. Golden, flaky fish atop saffron potatoes, crisp green beans, a silky quail egg, and a few strategically placed Kalamata olives. The aroma hits, herbaceous, bright, and my stomach answers before I can.
“Thank you, Luca. Wonderful,” Will says, smiling warmly, holding his gaze. It’s the kind of eye contact most men like him skip.
“Been here long?” he asks.
Luca hesitates, then eases into the question. Will listens. Not just waiting to speak, but really listens. No impatient nodding. No eyes drifting around the room. Just quiet, focused attention.
I sip my wine, watching him. It’s unexpected. He’s not performing. He’s just being kind.
Over dinner, Will tells me about his time at boarding school.
“She had it out for Dean, especially,” he says, his voice dropping like his old headmistress might be listening. “Art was the only class he cared about. Spent a whole term on an impressionist piece. Mrs. Dench called it “uninspired.” So Dean redecorated her tulip garden…with a golf cart.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. It’s terrible, but the way he delivers it makes it impossible not to.
“What kind of trouble did he get in?”
“None. The surveillance system mysteriously malfunctioned.” He taps his glass, smirking. “A true mystery, indeed.”
“And you?” I press.
“Flawless record. Model student.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Or just good at not getting caught?”
A slow grin. “There might’ve been an incident with the surveillance system.”
“Tell me another,” I say, propping my chin on my hand.
He obliges and tells me a story about a midnight kitchen raid he definitely wasn’t part of. Somewhere between my laughter and the last bite, I realize I’m enjoying myself.
“Sounds like you were all terrors. Is that why you got shipped off?”
“No. My father died. Heart attack.” His tone goes flat, eyes drifting to his glass. “Mom took over as CEO. Her time got scarce.”
I’d heard his father was gone, but never how or when. He was just a kid when it happened. Sent away. I picture it: the before with noise and laughter. And then, just like that, silence.
I know what that feels like.
“What about you?” he asks. “Siblings? What’s your family like?”
I tell him about Celia’s modeling career, my dad’s heart attack, their move to Australia. The beachfront apartment. The campaigns. The glittering events. The words spill out before I can stop them.
I catch myself mid-sentence and take a too-quick sip of wine.
“So, if they were traveling all that time. Who took care of you?” he asks. It takes me a second to realize what he means.
“I did.”
I was fifteen. I wasn’t a child. It was fine. What was Mom supposed to do, throw away Celia’s chance? That money changed everything.
His expression shifts to something like admiration.
But there’s nothing to admire. I was old enough.
His fingers drift toward mine across the table. I reach for my cutlery instead, stacking it neatly on my plate.
“Excuse me.” The chair legs scrape against the floor as I stand.
The restroom offers a brief escape. I brace against the basin, staring at my flushed cheeks in the mirror. From the wine, the laughter, or the slow creep of regret. I’m not sure.
Then I notice the necklace.
I know that box. Celia once modeled for that jeweler. Their pieces cost more than most people’s rent.
Before I can stop myself, I’m pulling out my phone, scrolling their website.
There.
Oval Emerald Solitaire Pendant with Diamond.
$11,636
I snap the page closed, jamming my phone into my purse.
What was he thinking?
I can’t keep this.
But what do I say? Sorry, I stalked your gift online and now I feel guilty that it cost so much? His initials are engraved. He can’t return it. And handing it back would feel cruel.
My thumb brushes the emerald’s cool surface. It is beautiful.
A traitorous smile tugs at my lips before I bite it back.
No.
A fancy dinner. A ridiculously expensive necklace. An hour of easy conversation.
None of it means anything.
None of it.
About an hour later, Will pulls up outside my house. We ended the evening sharing the most delicious tiramisu I’ve ever had. Bittersweet espresso, airy mascarpone, and a dusting of cocoa that melted on my tongue.
“So,” he says as I unclasp my seatbelt, “ready to admit I’m not so bad after all?”
I exhale, keeping my tone light. “You’re not so bad.”
“Good enough for a second date?”
I pause. He’s not what I expected. Not when he drops the act. But I still don’t trust him. We’re on opposite sides of a case. It’s easier this way.
“I don’t date opposing counsel. Unless you’re looking to settle?”
“Don’t tempt me.” His smile is all teeth. “Work is work. We won’t talk about it. Simple.”
Simple? This case could drag on for months.
“I’m not losing you to someone else in the meantime,” he adds.
I almost laugh. Does he think I have a line of suitors? He talks like I’m something rare. Something worth chasing. I like it. My gaze drops to his lips.
Before I do something reckless, I slip out of the car. I turn to say goodnight, but he’s already moving, rounding the hood like a man on a mission.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking you to your door. Can’t have anything happen to you on my watch.”
It’s ten steps. I move first. He falls into pace beside me, our shoulders brushing.
“There. Not kidnapped,” I say as we reach the door. I fumble with my keys.
“You know what I think?”
I sigh. “What?”
He licks his lower lip. “I think you feel this too.”
I shake my head.
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Kiss me. Then try to tell me you feel nothing.”
“I’m not—”
“Because you know you’ll like it—”
“For goodness’ sake.” I press my mouth to his for what’s meant to be a quick, dismissive peck.
But Will’s hands slide to my hips, strong and sure, tugging me flush against him.
The contact is electric—his body heat, the scent of his skin, the restrained power in the way he holds me.
The kiss deepens, his mouth coaxing mine open with maddening patience.
His tongue finds mine, teasing, tasting, until my breath catches in my throat.
I melt against him, helpless to stop it.
One of his hands travels up my spine, fingers splaying at the nape of my neck, tipping my face up to his.
The other grips my waist, anchoring me as his mouth moves over mine.
My fingers clutch his shirt, nails digging slightly, and still it isn’t enough.
I want more. My body arches into his, caught between the solid door and the firestorm he’s igniting in me.
He kisses me like he’s starving. Like he’s been waiting for this. His teeth catch my lower lip and I gasp. He uses the sound, slipping deeper into the kiss, until every thought I had about resisting him dissolves completely.
By the time we finally break apart, my chest is rising and falling rapidly. My pulse is a wild, unsteady drumbeat in my ears.
“Inside,” he says.
And for once, I don’t argue. I open the door and step through.