Page 62 of Dial L for Lawyer
“Of course. I’m sorry. I’m being impatient.”
He squeezes my hand. "We're getting closer, Serena. We're going to nail whoever did this."
A knock on the door makes us both jump.
"Mr. Kingsley? Your six o'clock is here."
"Shit." He checks his watch. "I forgot I had another meeting."
I start gathering the papers. "I should go anyway."
"No." He catches my hand. "Wait for me? This won't take more than an hour. We can go to my place after, go through the rest of the timestamps."
"Is that what we're calling it now? Going through timestamps?"
His grin is wicked. "Among other things."
Another knock, more insistent. "Mr. Kingsley?"
"Coming," he calls, then lowers his voice. "Wait for me in my office. There's a couch, a bar, and Logan should be back soon with his laptop ready to illegally obtain security footage."
"Illegally?"
"Allegedly." He kisses me, quick and possessive. "One hour. Two max."
"Fine. But I'm raiding your expensive scotch."
"Raid anything you like." He heads for the door, straightening his tie, transforming back into the shark lawyer. "Oh, and Serena?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't put your underwear back on."
“I didn’t even bring it.”
His smile is slow, predatory, a promise of what’s to come. He gives me one last look that travels from the sapphire earrings down to my bare legs before he opens the conference room door, leaving me flushed and frustrated and completely, utterly his.
And for the first time, that doesn't terrify me. It thrills me.
CHAPTER 17
Caleb
I've been in love with the edges of disaster since law school. For years, disaster meant taking the cases everyone said were unwinnable, billing more hours than anyone thought possible, building a fortune that dwarfed my father's entire career—all to prove I'd earned the Kingsley name. That I wasn't just riding on three generations of legal legacy. By thirty, I'd surpassed him in every measurable way: more wins, more money, more power. And still, he'd ask when I was going to do somethingmeaningfulwith my law degree. As if the empire I'd built was just an expensive way of acting out.
But with Serena, disaster has a different meaning. It’s the thought of her walking out that door and not coming back. It’s the image of her panicking in that conference room, looking fractured under the weight of a lie I haven't dismantled yet. She’s recalibrated my entire definition of risk, ruined me for the kind of risks I used to crave. Losing her would be worse than losing everything I’ve ever fought for—it would gut me, destroy me. And for the first time since my father told me I was a disappointment, I feel the raw, terrifying edge of somethingI can’t control, something I might not be able to win just by outworking everyone else. It’s the most dangerous and alive I’ve ever felt.
When I’m finished with my meeting, I find Logan waiting in my office, hunched over his laptop with the concentration of someone disarming a bomb. Three empty Red Bull cans sit in a neat row beside him. I close the door behind me and toss him a fresh one from my mini-fridge. He catches it, but doesn't look up, just continues typing.
"Where's Serena?" I ask, looking at my empty couch but still scenting the faint perfume of her hair lingering in the air.
"In the bathroom. Heard you nearly got walked in on by three paralegals and a guy selling copy machines."
"That's bullshit. No one said that to you."
He snorts, eyes flicking up at me with undisguised amusement. "You're right. But that door isn't soundproof, and people definitely heard."
I start to pour myself two fingers of Macallan, but stop halfway, some weird impulse to save it for when Serena's back. "What have you got for me?"
