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When we’re alone again, he leans a little closer, giving me a stern look. “Don’t apologize to him.”
I lean forward and drop my voice to a whisper. “This is a nice restaurant. I’m pretty sure my therapy chicken violates health codes. If you think the bus driver was going to have a problem with it, just wait till the management sees. Besides which, I have chickenshit on my pants.”
Martin gives a huff of laughter. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. I seriously doubt a health inspector is going to be stopping by. And if they do, the management should fire the host for being bribable, easily intimidated, and an insufferable ass.”
“You were the one who bribed and intimidated him.”
“Absolutely. That doesn’t make it my problem.”
“Shouldn’t lawyers be a little more respectful of the law?”
“Are you genuinely worried that your therapy chicken is going to contaminate the restaurant?” He shifts to eye my legs beneath the table. “Or your pants for that matter?”
“I washed them as best I could in the bathroom at Precious Meadows. And Flew Bacca is very well behaved. And wearing a chicken diaper to boot. So no, I don’t think she’s a health hazard.”
“I thought your chicken’s name was Princess Lay-ah?”
“I have three therapy chickens. I rotate through bringing them on visits.”
“So it’s Princess Lay-ah, Flew Bacca and …?”
“Hen Solo.”
He gives a serious nod, as if this isn’t the silliest conversation he’s likely ever had. “Well, that’s better than Luke Sky Cocker.”
I have to suppress a smile. “Luke Sky Cocker would obviously be a rooster. And they don’t make good therapy chickens. Too aggressive.”
I take a sip of my gin and tonic and—damn it!—it is soothing.
I hardly know what to think about the fact that I’m sitting here in the middle of the day across from him, sipping a drink with my therapy chicken.
I would’ve sworn he hated me. That he thought I was ridiculous. Given our previous interactions, he has every right to see me that way. I expected scorn and ridicule from him, but instead he’s … feeding me? Chatting with me about all of this like it’s not absurd. Somehow, his attitude is even more soothing than the drink.
I pull the soft-sided carrier onto my lap and unzip it just enough to slide my finger through the gap and stroke Flew Bacca’s feathers.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Maybe I want the chance to convince you that not all lawyers are total assholes.”
“Just the ones who use their power to intimidate and twist the law to meet the needs of their clients.”
“I prefer to think of it as using the law to protect my clients.”
“Potato, potatah. Either way, that’s not really an answer.”
“To which question?”
“The question of why you’re buying me a drink.”
“You were crying, in the rain, while waiting for your boyfriend to come get you.”
I ignore the scorn in his voice as he says the word boyfriend. (He probably thinks I made Trent up.) Instead, I point out, “It wasn’t raining.”
He gives a beleaguered sigh, flipping his phone around to show a weather app boasting a severe weather warning and nearby lightning strikes. “You needed someone to step up and take care of you and I’m not a total monster.”
I bristle at the implication that I can’t take care of myself. Despite the fact that he might have a point. “Look, I’m sorry if?—”
“Stop.”
