Chapter 14
Claws Come Off
West
Istop in the doorway.
Jane's at the kitchen counter, laptop open, phone charging beside it. Hair damp from the shower, twisted into that messy knot she does when she's working. The one that makes my fingers itch to pull it loose.
She's humming.
Off-key. Some pop song I don't recognize.
Completely unselfconscious. The yellow sundress again—the one with the thin straps that keep slipping off her shoulder.
No bra. I can tell because I'm a man and I have eyes and she's standing in my kitchen and the morning light is doing things to her silhouette that should require a consent form.
I went for a run this morning. Early. Five miles along the beach while the sky was still turning pink, feet slapping wet sand, trying to outrun the mess in my head.
Not because of what Blake did last night—though watching him confirm himself as exactly the predator we suspected wasn't pleasant. I recorded every word. Every gesture. Every casual cruelty.
Because of what comes next.
When Natalie cancels this wedding—and she will cancel it, the evidence is airtight—the fallout will ripple through every boardroom and charity gala on the Eastern Seaboard.
"End of the Ashford-Hartwell Partnership?" "Billionaire Merger Collapses Days Before the Wedding."
The financial press will dissect it. The society pages will feast. Both families are too prominent to avoid scrutiny.
And the Prescotts? Right in the middle.
Blake and I grew up together. Our mothers lunched at the same country clubs. Aunt Milly went to Vassar with Blake's mother. Mom handles the Hartwell legal accounts through Prescott Legal Group.
Which means I need to call home before they hear it from Page Six.
I can already play the conversation.
Mom will answer on the second ring. "West. Is everything alright?"
"Define alright."
"Oh no. What did you do?"
"Helped stop a wedding. Long story. Also, I might be in love with the woman who orchestrated it."
Milly will be on speakerphone within thirty seconds. "Our Jane did all this? I like her more already. Tell me everything."
They'll get it. They always do. Prescott Legal manages accounts for billionaires across the Eastern Seaboard, but protecting bad behavior isn't in the charter. Protecting people who deserve it—that's the family business.
And Blake Hartwell doesn't deserve protection.
Natalie Ashford does.
There'll be fallout. Awkward encounters at charity galas. Clients choosing sides. Maybe a few who take their business to the Hartwells out of loyalty or cowardice.
But Mom will handle it with the same dry precision she applies to everything, and Milly will make a crack about "finally having something interesting to discuss at book club."
And I'll sleep well knowing we stopped a woman from marrying a monster.
Jane catches me standing there. The grin that spreads across her face accelerates my heart rate more than the five-mile run.
"Hey, you! We did it."
Not you did it. Not I can't believe that worked.
We.
Something in my chest loosens. Whatever media circus comes from the collapse of the Ashford-Hartwell merger—worth it.
"You're in a good mood," I manage.
"I'm feeling victorious." She taps the laptop screen. "Do you know how rare this is? A plan that actually worked? Not 'sort of worked if you squint' but actually, completely worked? And it's thanks to what you captured in the King's Room."
I cross to her. Pull out the chair beside hers. Sit close enough that our knees bump under the counter.
"You don't usually celebrate?"
"I don't usually have time. Or anyone to celebrate with, honestly. And most of my cases are simple. I never had to learn how to seduce a billionaire from a hockey player before." Her eyes are bright. Alive. Electric. "Which is why we're doing this right."
"Doing what right?"
"The handoff. With the bridesmaids." She's scrolling her phone now, multitasking the way she does when her brain's running at full capacity—three thoughts at once, all of them sharp.
"They're getting the best news of their lives for their friend.
So I've set up a debrief brunch. Walk them through the evidence package.
And I want to feed them something amazing and special.
Something from home. Boston Lobster Pie. "
I scan the counter. Thick folders. USB drives labeled with dates and timestamps. A printed timeline. Beside them: butter, lemons, garlic, herbs, a bag of Ritz crackers.
I watch her lean forward, bottom lip caught between her teeth while she studies a recipe on the laptop. The way she chews when she's calculating.
This is what she looks like when she's not in survival mode. Not scrambling or performing or deflecting. Just thinking.
She looks capable. Competent. Like she has no idea she's this good.
"I could have ordered from the resort," she says, not looking up. "But that feels too room-service. Too impersonal. I suddenly want to cook up a storm and celebrate with the team."
"What are you thinking?"
"Something that says 'we actually care that your friend isn't marrying a monster' instead of 'here's some catered sandwiches.'"
I stand and move behind her. Wrap my arms around her waist from behind, pressing my chest to her back, my chin settling on her shoulder. She makes a soft noise and leans into me.
"West—"
"Mm." My hands flatten against her stomach. She's warm through the thin cotton.
She tilts her head. "You're distracting me."
"I'm motivating you."
"You're doing something, and it's not motivational.
" But she stands, and holds my hands in front of her before pressing back against me, hips shifting, and the contact sends a bolt of heat straight through me.
She feels it. I know she feels it, because she does it again—a deliberate little roll of her hips against what's become a very obvious problem.
"Jane."
"Is that a spatula in your pocket or—"
"It's not a spatula."
She laughs—bright and genuine—and my hands slide up under the hem of her sundress. Her skin is warm. Smooth. I find her breasts, cup them, and her laugh turns into a breathy, trembling inhale.
"You play dirty," I murmur against her neck.
She spreads her legs slightly, shifts back against me. "You started it."
I kiss the curve of her throat. The spot behind her ear where she's sensitive and where her pulse hammers visibly.
"I want to have you nice and slow," I tell her. "Later. When we've got hours and I can take my time."
"That's cruel."
"That's a promise."
She turns in my arms, face flushed, pupils dark. "Then you better keep it, Prescott."
"I always keep my promises, darling."
The word darling slips out before I can stop it. We both hear it. She blinks. Something shifts between us—warm, weighted, too big for this kitchen.
Then her phone buzzes, and she breaks eye contact, reaching for it.
"The resort's sending the ingredients up in twenty minutes."
"Then I'll shower." I release her, stepping back. Creating space before I abandon all plans and carry her to the bedroom. "You plan. I'll clean up. Then we'll make this ridiculous."
She looks up at me, still grinning. "Ridiculous is my specialty."
Yeah. I'm starting to figure that out.
When I come back—showered, dressed in linen pants and the navy shirt Jane insists makes my eyes look "unfairly blue"—she's transformed the terrace.
Table set with resort china. Tropical flowers she pirated from a lobby arrangement tucked into a water glass.
Champagne flutes arranged in a neat row.
The terrace overlooks the bay, turquoise water sparkling beneath a cloudless sky, and she's turned this borrowed casita into something that feels like home.
"Resort's sending the rest up any minute," she says, not looking at me. Too focused. "Should be here now."
There's a knock. Resort staff with a rolling cart. Covered dishes. Produce. And a cooler.
A big one.
Jane practically skips to the door. Takes the dishes. The fresh herbs.
She sets the cooler on the kitchen counter. Pops the lid.
Peers inside.
Freezes.
Then—at a pitch I didn't know human vocal cords could produce—
"AAAAAHHHHH… WHERE? WHERE. ARE. THE. CLAWS?"
I look over her shoulder.
Three lobsters. Reddish-brown. Long, whip-like antennae. Smooth, clawless bodies.
"Uh," I say carefully. "Claws as in... Maine lobster?"
Jane whips around. "YES. Maine lobster. REAL lobster. I didn’t think there are other kinds. These have antennae." She gestures wildly at the creatures.
"These are decorative. These are what a lobster uses to gossip at cocktail parties. Where are the actual claws? The big ones? The ones that could open a letter? Or defend themselves in a bar fight?”
I press my lips together.
She lifts one of the spiny lobsters by its tail like it personally insulted her lineage.
"This is a sea centipede in cosplay. This is a shrimp on steroids."
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard.
"Pretty sure that's just what lobster looks like in the Caribbean."
"NOT WHERE I'M FROM." She's spiraling now, holding the lobster at arm's length, examining it like a forensic investigator confronting contaminated evidence. "In Boston, lobster comes with weapons. With structural integrity. This is just... smooth. Why is it smooth? Why does it look aerodynamic?"
I'm trying. I am trying so hard not to laugh.
But she's standing in the kitchen, in a yellow dress, yelling at a lobster about its inadequate appendages, and I've never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life.
I lean against the counter. Cross my arms.
“You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, “first time I went to Boston for a Bruins game, I tried to order a ‘regular coffee’ at Dunkin’.”
She glances at me, still holding the lobster by the tail like it’s on trial. “Okay?”
“I expected black. Straight coffee. Nothing complicated.”
“And?”
“I got handed something the color of drywall. Cream, sugar… possibly a dairy commitment.”
Her mouth twitches.