Page 14 of Only Fate

I force a smile. “Thank you, Margo.”

She appears as confused as Terrance did.

As everyone else in this damn place.

Margo pats the back of the booth. “Let me know if you needanything else. If not, have a great day. It was nice seeing you two.”

“You probs don’t want to announce you want to kill your future competition,” Amelia says, leaning in closer.

“So, just kill him, but don’t announce it. Got it.”

“This will be interesting,” Amelia says, leaning back in the booth. “Possibly more entertaining than when Jax and I wanted to kill each other.”

I push my plate away from me. “Yes, but there will be no happily ever after for Adrian and me.”

A twinkle shines in her eyes. “You never know.”

No one knows about my past with Adrian.

And they never will.

It’s a secret we keep to ourselves.

5

Three Months Later

Idid it.

I freaking did it.

Lane at Law.

Is the name kind of generic? Yes.

It’s not like you can tap entirely into your creativity. No one will takeBoho Love LaworSparkly Butterflies at Lawseriously.

My office is a brick building fifteen minutes from downtown and less than a minute's walk to Down Home Pub. It’s also not close to Terrance’s—soon-to-be Adrian’s—firm downtown.

No thank you on being near him.

I tapped into my savings, and my parents covered the remodeling costs. Since the space was an insurance office before, not much work was needed.

River and Jax put a fresh coat of paint on.

A local carpenter replaced the old tiled floor with wood and installed new cabinetry. And because I have the most supportive parents in the world, they surprised me with brand-new computers and anything techie needed for a business.

I throw my arms out and spin around.

My own firm.

Somewhere I don’t have to run myself ragged for self-centered men who see me as beneath them. It might take a while to acquire clients, but I’ll work my butt off. I posted an ad for a paralegal but haven’t hired anyone yet.

I straighten items on the antique desk I found at an estate sale last week. Just as I’m about to start my computer and go through paralegal résumés, the door chimes. I leave my office to find Archie Jetson, the local florist, holding a bouquet.

Archie offers me the flowers. “A delivery for Ms. Lane.”

“Thanks, Archie,” I say, taking them from him with a smile. “Who sent these?”

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