Page 105 of Breaking His Law

I close my messages app, switch my cell phone off then stretch out my neck, the tension there evident. My muscles have been throbbing since Arianna left the office the other day and had Joseph pass on a message that she was feeling sick.

All I’ve done since then is worry about her every minute of every hour.

She’s been quiet. Too quiet. Distant, almost. Which is unlike her because she shares everything with me, even down to what brand of shampoo she’s trying out to see if it will help with the volume.

I have no idea what the fuck that means, but it made her happy, and yet, for the last few days she’s just not around. And I know she’s sick, but she’s barely replied to any of my messages, or picked up when I called, insisting that her throat hurt too much to talk.

Fuck it. I don’t care how sick she is, my court case is over after today and if I get sick then we can spend the next week bundled up in each other’s arms in her little apartment together.

Decision made.

I’m visiting her the minute I win this case and I’m out of court.

Knowing I’m going to see her in a few hours, my heart races and I already feel better.

Then I’ll tell her how I really feel.

I never knew love could feel this good.

Get ready, baby, I’m coming for you.

41

NATHAN

Following a successful win in court this afternoon I had Jenkins drop me at my apartment where I had the quickest shower on record, changed, then drove myself to the pharmacy to buy some flu medication and throat lozenges for Arianna.

Hell knows what she needs, but I bought one of everything. Anything to help her feel better.

I may have sworn one too many times when I was stuck in downtown traffic on my way here, frustrated by commuters making their way home early. I fucking hate rush-hour traffic.

Living out on the ranch sounds peaceful and I can see why Mom bought the place years ago. It was a smart move; it’s just such a shame she isn’t living her best life with Dad and is now beginning her golden years by herself.

Me and my brothers visited Dad yesterday and I got the shock of my life when I saw him for the first time in two weeks. His decline in health was sudden, but once he was placed on the right medication to lessen his symptoms he plateaued for a while and I didn’t want to believe Mom when she said Dad hadn’t been great for the last couple of weeks, but she was right. His mobility has lessened, he’s more fidgety, which is what the doctorcalled dystonia, and he struggled to talk or hold a conversation yesterday which upset Cole.

Dad’s deteriorating health has hit him the hardest, with him being the youngest, and he’s the one who made us all go for tests to determine if we had the same Parkinson’s disease and dementia gene. Part of me was curious and another part of me was quite happy to stay in the dark. Watching my father’s health worsening has been painful for everyone.

Luckily for all of us, no one inherited it and when we told Mom, she broke down, relieved to hear the positive news. Something there hasn’t been much of in the family as of late.

Much later than I planned, I finally pull up outside Arianna’s apartment, the powerful hum of my Bentley Continental cutting through the quiet night. My heart pounds with anticipation—I haven’t seen her in days, and every second apart has felt like an eternity. As I kill the engine, a grin tugs at my lips. She has no idea how much I’ve missed her.

To surprise her, I use the spare key she keeps at my place to quietly let myself into her apartment, closing the door gently so I don’t wake her if she’s asleep. The soft trickle of running water brings a smile to my face—it means she’s in the shower and maybe, just maybe, she’s starting to feel better.

I choose to let her be and head into the living room, settling in to wait for her.

Stacks of papers and folders, notes and files cover the coffee table and floor and I tut to myself, annoyed at her that she even brought work home with her.

I take a seat on the sofa and pick up a piece of paper with a printout of a case file number I don’t recognize. As my eyes move down the photographed label, I spot the attorney and read the name. “Daniel Hart.”

What the hell is she looking for?

I rack my brain for an answer, sifting through the dozens of photos and paperwork she’s printed off and read the date on the file, and calculate it’s a case from fourteen years ago.

A pile of papers fall off the table, scattering across the floor, and my breath hitches in my chest when I see a photograph of my father, me, and my brothers with red scribble notes underneath them that look like a list of questions.

Something isn’t adding up here.

This isn’t research for a case of mine. It’s something she’s working on herself.

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