Page 145 of Dial L for Lawyer
"And new mixing bowls. We're starting a life together, Kingsley. I need gear." I watch him close the laptop and set it aside, his attention shifting fully to me—one eyebrow up, like he's cataloging which version of me is going to show up next.
"You don't have to act calm," he says, softer now. "I'm nervous too."
I squint at the window. "Are you though? You look so chill, if you got any more relaxed you'd be medically dead."
He makes a show of stretching, a big cat in the sun. "This is advanced Zen. Years of self-imposed discipline. Also, I have a ridiculous amount of faith in you and in my own ability to charm a room full of old lawyers. Worst case, I get fired and have to spend the rest of my days lounging here, eating terrible cookies and admiring the view."
"You think my cookies are terrible?"
"I love your cookies. When you cook them," he says, sitting up and patting the mattress. "But you keep refusing to bake them. It's always just dough. One might say you’ve developed a commitment issue with baked goods."
I cross to the bed and flop next to him, knees up and arms crossed. "I don't know how to use the oven yet. And I'm worried I'll burn down your kitchen during our first week living together. That's a bad omen."
He snakes an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in until my cheek is pressed against his chest. "Our kitchen. And even if you do, the fire alarm will go off. We'll be fine."
I groan, but let him hold me, and we listen to the faint soundtrack of the docudrama.
"I'm going to be sick every hour until we find out," I say quietly. "You know that, right?"
"It's still Thursday," he says, kissing my hair. "You've got plenty hours left to catastrophize."
"I'm serious, Caleb—what if they disbar you? What if this becomes internet news? What if you lose your name on the door?"
He tightens his hold. "We're going to be fine."
"I know." And I do. Whatever happens tomorrow, we'll figure it out. "I just hate waiting."
His phone rings from the nightstand. We both stare at it.
"It's the office," he says, voice carefully neutral.
My stomach drops. "Answer it."
He reaches for the phone with one hand, keeping the other arm tight around me. "Caleb Kingsley."
I can't hear the other side, but I watch his face. His eyebrows shoot up. His mouth falls open slightly.
"Are you serious?" A pause. "Yes. Yes, I understand. Thank you."
He hangs up.
"Well?" I demand.
"They finished their deliberation early.”
“And?”
“I'm in the clear." The words come out rushed, like he can't quite believe them. "A small fine. A written reprimand. Mandatory ethics training. That's it."
"That's it?"
"That's it." He grins, sudden and brilliant. "They cited the pre-existing relationship and your testimony; said the dinner condition was ‘ill-advised but not coercive’ given the record. So I pay a fine. But I keep my partnership, my job. I keep?—"
I kiss him before he can finish, hard and desperate and celebrating. He rolls me onto my back, hands in my hair, and I can taste his relief and joy and the promise of our future.
"I'm so relieved," I whisper against his lips.
"That speech you gave—" He laughs and shakes his head.
