Page 132 of Dial L for Lawyer
"Second thoughts?" His voice is casual, but I see the flash of vulnerability in his eyes.
"No," I say quickly. "Just... processing. I haven't lived with anyone since college."
"Neither have I." His voice softens as he puts down the box cutter and crosses to where I'm standing. "But I think we're doing pretty well so far."
I lean into him when his arms wrap around me, letting myself absorb the steadiness he radiates. We've been practically living together for weeks now, but making it official feels huge. Like I'm finally admitting that I'm not going anywhere.
"What if I drive you crazy?" I murmur against his chest. "What if my hair clogs the shower drain and my snoring keeps you up and you realize I'm actually terrible to live with?"
"You do snore," he agrees, and I swat his arm. "But I find it oddly endearing. Like a small bear hibernating."
"I do not snore like a bear!"
"More like a baby bear. A very cute, very small bear cub." He kisses me before I can respond, slow and thorough, the kind of kiss that makes me forget about being compared to a bear, about boxes and packing tape and the outside world entirely.
"If we keep this up, we'll never finish packing," I point out when we break apart.
"I'm OK with that." He's already backing me toward the couch. "The boxes can wait."
His phone rings.
We both freeze. Saturday morning calls are never good news.
"Ignore it," I say, but he's already pulling it out, frowning at the screen.
"It's Margaret." His assistant. Who never, ever calls on weekends.
The room tilts, like all the air’s been sucked out and gravity doubled at the same time. The warmth of a minute ago evaporates, replaced by something sharp and metallic pressing down on my chest.
"Take it," I say, though everything in me screams not to.
He answers, and I watch his face change—confusion, concern, then something I've never seen on Caleb Kingsley's face before. Fear. The color literally drains from his face, leaving him pale under the dust smudges.
"What do you mean, emergency meeting?" His voice is sharp. "Margaret, it's Saturday—" He goes silent, listening. "All the partners?" More silence. His knuckles are white where he's gripping the phone. "No, I'll be right there."
He hangs up, staring at the phone like it's a live grenade.
"What's wrong?"
"I have to go to the office." He's already reaching for his keys, his movements jerky. "Emergency partnership meeting."
"About what?"
"An ethics complaint." The words come out strangled. "Against me. Margaret wouldn't say more over the phone."
My stomach drops so fast I feel dizzy. Ethics complaint. Attorney ethics. Oh God. "Caleb?—"
"It's fine." But he doesn't meet my eyes as he puts on his jacket. "Probably some disgruntled opposing counsel. Happens all the time."
We both know he's lying. This isn't routine. Emergency partnership meetings don't happen for minor complaints.
"Is this… about us?" I ask quietly. "About you representing me?"
"It can't be." But he still won't meet my eyes. "We didn't do anything wrong."
Except we both know how it looks. An attorney who required a date as payment for representation. A vulnerable client who was desperate for help. Even though we know the truth—that he would have helped me anyway, that our feelings existed before—it won't matter to an ethics board. The optics are damning.
"I have to go," he says again, and this time he does look at me. The fear in his eyes makes my chest tight. "I'll call you as soon as I know what's happening."
