Page 28 of Dial L for Lawyer
"Please tell me that's not on a yacht."
"Estate in the Hamptons."
"Of course." I pause. "Will you be there?"
"Do you want me to be?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility.
"Ask me when this is over," I say finally. "When I'm not your client anymore."
"I'll hold you to that."
We land on a building I don't recognize. Caleb helps me out, his hand on my back as we navigate to an elevator. My legs are shaky—from the flight or his touch, I'm not sure.
His driver waits in the parking garage.
"We're taking Ms. Morgan home," Caleb informs him.
The ride is quiet. Caleb stays on his side of the car. I stay on mine. We glide along the lakeshore in silence for almost a minute. Caleb looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. I stare out the window, watching the street lamps smear into gold and white in the rain-polished glass. Inside my head, the evening replays at reckless speed—the yacht, the laughter, the way he looked at me when we were along.
And the other thing, the unspoken thing. The little voice inside going on and on about how much I want him. I want him in ways I can’t even allow myself to say out loud, because if I do I’ll never fit myself back into the small, practical container I’m expected to occupy.
By the time we reach my building, I’m toes curling and stomach tight, running out of reasons not to throw myself at him.
The driver opens the car door, and the chill of night bumps all over my skin. I smooth my skirt, step out, and glance up to seeCaleb standing on the sidewalk, holding my coat in both hands. The sight unsteadies me more than the helicopter did.
“Thank you,” I say, because it’s easier than saying anything else. He drapes the coat over my shoulders, tugging it closed at the lapels, careful but firm. There’s a warmth in the gesture, so at odds with his usual high-gloss lawyer persona that I almost can’t process it.
For a second, it gets weirdly, beautifully quiet. The city noises fade, replaced by the rapid stutter of my heartbeat in my ears.
Caleb looks at me like he’s assessing a contract for fine print and he has to keep re-reading the same line. “If you panic tomorrow,” he murmurs, “picture my face when I saw you in that dress tonight.”
I bark a laugh. “You’re a menace.”
His eyes crinkle a little at the corners. “I’m a lawyer. It’s nearly the same thing.”
A swirl of wind lifts my hair, making me shiver. “Eight sharp tomorrow,” I say, clutching my bag like a shield. “I’ll be ready.”
He stands there long enough that I almost think he’ll move, say something, break the tension in the air with a cutting joke or a gentle touch or a wild, spontaneous kiss. But he just looks at me, like he’s memorizing exactly how I look in this moment—windblown, fragile, stubborn to the end.
“I never doubted it,” he says, voice so soft I barely hear him over the city.
Then he turns and disappears into the night, and I’m left alone in the cold, aware that something is shifting for good this time.
CHAPTER 10
Serena
"What do they think I'm going to do? Steal the pot plants in the lobby? Start a rebellion in accounting?" I ask the security guard as we wait for the elevators.
“Ma’am, I’m just doing my job.”
I fold my arms across my chest. The moment I stepped into the Luminous building, this guard stopped me, giving me a sympathetic look as he announced he was to escort me to the executive floor. A week ago, I had a key card that opened every door in this building. Now I need a babysitter to use the elevator.
When we step off the elevator, I’m herded past the empty reception desk, down the glass fishbowl corridor lined with oversized beauty posters—every glossy print a monument to my now-tainted reputation. In the boardroom, standing by the window, silhouetted by morning sun and Lake Michigan, stands Caleb. Arms folded, gaze fixed on the water, looking like he owns the place in his charcoal suit and burgundy tie. Mystomach lurches. It’s easier to play brave when I’m alone, but the second I see him—shoulders squared, jaw carved from stone, eyes lethal, like a really hot predator scanning for his first kill—my composure begins to splinter. The memory of last night's confession on the yacht deck makes my skin feel too tight.
“Ms. Morgan,” he says, as the guard backs pointedly out of the room. “Right on time.” He gestures to the chair at the end of the table. “Nice dress.”
