Page 9 of Resisting the Lawyer (Dirty Hot Resistance 3)

“For now?” She echoes, suspiciously.

My grin widens, enjoying that look on her face. “Who knows what might happen?” My smile is bordering on mischief now. “You could very well fall in love with me. And then you’ll have to charm me into another date and then another.”

Now even she can’t control the twitching of her lips, as she asks, “Why am I charming you into dates? Very confident, aren’t you?”

I waggle my brows at her, inciting a laugh from her, “So, what do you say? One date?”

She shakes her head, amused exasperation written all over her face. “One date. And no hanky-panky.”

I’m trying not to laugh at her choice of words which I find too endearing. Who says ‘hanky-panky’ nowadays?

Minutes ago, she was so reluctant to even think of saying yes, and now I have her laughing and agreeing as if the whole idea amuses her.

I start the car, satisfaction settling in my gut. Got you to say yes, didn’t I?

Elise has a smile on her face and the tips of her ears, which are visible due to the loose bun she’s tied her hair into, are red.

Do I feel guilty about manipulating her into a date?

I smile cheerfully. Absolutely not.

After all, there’s a reason why I’m called ‘The Shark’.

Dropping Elise off at her apartment, I’m driving home when an unfamiliar number shows up on my screen before the phone begins vibrating almost viciously. I press the Bluetooth option on my screen and answer the call.

An overly hearty male voice fills my car, “Lucas! I was wondering if you have some time tonight. I wanted to have dinner with you.”

My expression grows chilly. “Leon.”

A slight pause and then, there’s a note of irritation in his voice. “I’m your father. You can at least call me Dad.”

Disgust is a swift emotion that makes me curl my upper lip, and even as I speak, I can hear loathing in my voice. “You’ve done nothing to earn that title.” I cut the call and when it immediately starts ringing again, I turn off my phone and toss it on the backseat.

Like a greedy weasel, Leon walked back into our lives once both Debra and I became successful. Initially, I had shut the door in his face and advised my twin to do the same. But Mom is of a weaker constitution with a much gentler nature. So when the man who’d sired her children approached her, he used all her weak spots against her until she asked us to get to know him at least.

To this day, I have yet to understand how he got her to agree to it. It’s been a handful of years and sometimes, even Debra caves into that smooth talking weasel, but I remember the struggles of growing up until our maternal uncle stepped in, then Mom found a job. But life hadn’t been easy.

I know who’s to blame for my mother’s tears on the nights she failed to put food on our table or take us to the hospital because she didn’t have insurance, or even the smallest of failures she thought she had committed. I remember her grief and my hatred for this man grows in leaps and bounds, despite his weekly attempts to get to know me.

Dark thoughts clouding my mind, I turn into the driveway of my house. As a child, we had lived in shelters before finally moving into a tiny one-room apartment which was little more than a box.

Is it any wonder that I had chosen to build a large ostentatious home for myself? In a wealthy neighborhood, my property has large grounds with a small pond. I park the car in the driveway and I’m about to get out when I notice the monstrous looking bike. And then my eyes fall on the man leaning against it.

“Oliver?” I sound surprised as I climb out of the car and slam the door behind me. “What are you doing here?”

Tall and broad-shouldered, Oliver’s sandy hair is ruffled and his blue eyes clearly annoyed, a state which I’m inclined to believe is permanent. He glares at me in greeting and his British accent is thick as he greets me with his usual scowl, “I need you to go over these documents.”

I walk to the front door. “Come in, then.”

He follows me inside and although he’s visited my place a few times, he tosses his jacket on the handrails of the staircase that leads to the four bedrooms on the first floor. The ground floor is a sprawling space that holds a large kitchen, a den which I often like to refer to as my ‘man cave’, a dining room and my study.

Shrugging off my trench coat, I hang it on the coat hanger and step into the kitchen to get a cold drink. “You want a beer?” I ask, holding the fridge door open in the dark kitchen as the light shining from inside reflects on my face.

He grunts in acquiescence.

I grab him one as well. “Let’s go to my study.” I flick on the lights of the large study and see Oliver’s eyes take in the chaos. Feeling a bit sheepish, I scratch the back of my head. “I’m mostly working here so…” I shrug. “…just ignore the mess.”

He studies the piles of contracts on one of the chairs, kept in place by a heavy leather bound book, before he removes them carefully and sits down, drawing out a large envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket and setting it before me. “I want your opinion on this.”

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