Page 100 of Dial L for Lawyer
Despite everything—the reporters, the betrayal, the exhaustion—I find myself smiling but my heart is still racing.Not from Maya this time, but from something scarier: the idea of being folded into his family. "OK. Let's go babysit Michaela."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. But full disclosure, I'm terrible with kids," I say. "Like, genuinely, tragically bad at interacting with children."
Caleb grins. "She's seven, not a firing squad. You'll be fine."
"I once made a toddler cry just by saying hi."
"Surely not."
Bennett's already heading for the door, muttering something about 'inoculating the next generation against sarcasm.' Logan just waves. "Don't let her hustle you," he says.
"Her or Serena?" Caleb asks.
"Yes," Logan answers, and then he's back to his screens, the warm glow of human interaction already fading from his memory banks.
CHAPTER 25
Caleb
Michaela opens the door before we can knock, already in her dinosaur pajamas despite it being only six o'clock.
"Uncle Caleb!" She launches herself at my legs. "Dad said you were bringing your girlfriend!"
"Hi to you too, monster." I ruffle her hair. "This is Serena."
Michaela pulls back, studying Serena with the intensity of a judge reviewing evidence. "Are you the one who makes Uncle Caleb smile at his phone?"
Serena blinks. "I... maybe?"
"Dad says Uncle Caleb only smiles at contracts and his phone lately, and contracts are boring, so it must be you." She extends her hand formally. "I'm Michaela Elizabeth Kingsley. I'm seven and three-quarters."
Serena shakes her hand solemnly. "Serena Ann Morgan. I'm... older than that."
"How much older?"
"Michaela," I warn.
"What? You said always ask direct questions to get accurate information."
"I said that about depositions, not dinner guests."
She rolls her eyes—a gesture she definitely learned from me. "Fine. Do you want to see my closing argument for Mock Trial club?"
"You're in Mock Trial?" Serena asks. "At seven?"
"Seven and three-quarters. And technically it's pre-Mock Trial. We're practicing for when we're old enough for real Mock Trial." She grabs Serena's hand. "Come on! I'm prosecuting a witch for building a house made of candy without proper permits."
Serena shoots me a helpless look as Michaela drags her toward the living room. I follow, trying not to laugh at how quickly my niece has commandeered my girlfriend.
The nanny rushes into the entryway, coat already half on, every muscle in her face tight. I recognize the type from a hundred desperate conference calls—polite, professional, and seconds from collapse.
"Thank you so much for this," she breathes. "The car's waiting right now. Here's the full list—bedtime is seven-thirty, but it's OK if you push it to eight. Emergency numbers are in the red folder. Michaela has a cashew allergy, and she's already eaten but not much because she was certain you'd be ordering pizza." She thrusts a clipboard at me, and I don't even blink at the inventory of responsibility.
"It's fine," I say, steady and warm. "Go see your mother. Don't worry about us."
"Thank you," she says again, then bolts, leaving behind a faint trail of Chanel No. 5 and existential distress.
