Page 32 of Sugar

“Like that.” At my lost expression, he explained, “After I made a donation, they put up a bench in my honor. Last I knew, it was in the east corner of the student library near the law periodicals.”

Oh.

Ohhhhh.

Unlike Easton’s flush, mine wasn’t limited to my ears. It spread up my chest and across my cheeks.

He ran his thumb along his etched jawline as he studied me. His voice definitely held a little more roughness when he quietly prodded, “What were you thinking just now?”

“Nothing,” I tried, but it came out airy.

His dark eyes narrowed as he stared me down.

If he was a prosecutor, he would have a record-high conviction rate. Everyone would just confess under the intensity of that silent glower.

Breaking the eye contact, I looked to the side and pulled my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to think of a feasible lie.

“Madeline.”

At the edged way he said my name, my gaze snapped back to him. Only his eyes weren’t aimed at mine. They were locked on where I gnawed my lip. He slowly raised them. “Tell me.”

Thrown by the firmness in his order and the unexpected heat coating me, I gave him the honest answer.

Kind of.

Because unfortunately, my words came out a stammered, babbled mess. I sounded every bit the silly little girl I’d initially been introduced as. “The bench is, uhh… It’s a known… Um, students hook up on it.”

I wasn’t sure how the somber attorney would take the news that his namesake bench was used for illicit purposes. If he would be insulted that he’d donated all that money just for it to be sullied. Or maybe even angry.

I was wrong.

His small smile was heavy with unmistakable pride. “Good for them.”

I deflated. “Really?”

“Better that than it getting carved up.” I pressed my lips together, and he surmised, “It’s carved up. Is it with dicks?”

Hearing him say fuck had sent a zip of lust through me. Hearing him say dick? It was an entire electrical storm of desire that jolted my body.

I did my best to ignore the inappropriate reaction as I nodded. “They’re well-done ones, if that helps. Very artsy.”

“That’s some consolation.” He opened his mouth, but a series of rapid beeps cut through the air. “I need to check these. Excuse me.”

While he looked at his cell, I read through my questions. I’d covered them all, but my brain raced to come up with more. Follow-ups or new ones to prolong the interview that I wasn’t ready to end.

Unfortunately, that choice was out of my hands.

“I’m sorry, Maddie, something’s come up with a client,” Easton said as he stood.

A joke hovered on my lips to accuse him of setting up the fake texts as an emergency out—similar to the ones I used with Wren when we had dates we were unsure about.

But one look at Easton showed a genuine urgency. He moved to his desk as he spoke. “Do you have everything you need for the article?”

No.

I wanted another hour or ten of this.

“Yes,” I said instead as I repacked my bag—including the cookie that would make the perfect midnight snack.

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