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I’ll order coffee.
It’s safe.
Or not.
It’s not safe, but it is lucky. Coffee is how I met Reese. Coffee is how I ended up kissing Reese. I’m not writing a book with the prosecutor. If I’m going to write a book with anyone, I’ll write it with Reese. I’ll propose that idea to him and the publisher. I just need to do the obligatory meeting I have set tonight.
Instead I order a White Russian with a half pour, which ensures I drink more cream than alcohol. While I wait for it and Dan, a television nearby has been tuned to the news and a familiar broadcaster is standing in front of the courthouse, where there is nothing but picketers being reported. I get one look at a “kill the baby killer sign” and I think I need the rest of that pour. But too late. My drink is here, and so is Dan Miller, and he looks as angry tonight as he does pretty much always.
Dan locates me quickly, proving once again that this day needs a reset button. He crosses the room: Tall, lanky, and in his forties, with a hint of gray in his brown hair. Too soon, he sits down by the window opposite me. “I assume you chose this location to be seen. The reporter that scooped the prosecution.”
My anger is instant, but my legal training and debate skills remind me to clamp it down. “First,” I say, biting out a controlled reply, “I didn’t choose this location. My publisher did. Second, I don’t scoop stories. Ever. I write expert analyses and true crime novels.”
“Right,” he says. “And I gave in and agreed to meet you. No more need to stalk me at coffee shops. Now what?”
I give an incredulous shake of my head. First Reese with the stalker thing. Now him. “I live by that coffee shop, so perhaps you were stalking me to get a true crime book deal.”
“I don’t need you for a book deal.”
“And yet you’re sitting with me. Have you ever written a book?”
“No, but—”
“It was a yes or no question, counselor. And now we both know why you’re here. The publisher believes you need a skilled co-writer to write a decent book. I don’t want to be your co-writer. Now we can say we met, we did this, and we won’t work together.”
He studies me several beats. “Who wins this case?”
“No one, because justice is not going to be served. You acted rashly. You didn’t wait for the evidence to tell a convincing story.”
“You don’t think he’s guilty.”
“I’m an attorney. I honor the court system, and he’s innocent until proven guilty. As for the book, this meeting is over. We can say we did it. We can say we aren’t compatible.”
“But you’re writing a book anyway.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll need my input.”
“If you choose to let Reese Summer speak out while you do not,” I counter, “I’ll deal with that fact in my book and you’ll have to as well.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a statement of fact.”
“This meeting was a joke from the get go.”
He says something else, but I tune him out with the sensation of being watched I’d felt at the courthouse repeating all over again. My gaze pulls wide and lands on a table across the room, where Reese sits with his co-counsels, and my eyes connect with his, his narrowing, a question in their depths. He isn’t sure what to think. I’m not either. My palms are sweaty. I feel guilty. This is crazy. I did nothing wrong. He really is making me crazy. My fingers curl into my palms. Why did I agree to a meeting at a courtroom hotspot? I’ve tried to be discreet with Reese, but I happily meet with his opposition in public?
“Look,” Dan says, “I don’t need or want—”
“I get it,” I say, looking at him. “I’m not writing a book with you. And frankly, I hope you decide to spend your time finding the right person to prosecute, rather than writing a book about the wrong one.” I grab my bag, stand up, and head for the door without looking in Reese’s direction. I’ll text him when I get out of here and explain, or not. This is my job.
I start walking, and I swear Reese’s gaze burns through me. I weave through the now-occupied tables and the group of people that enter as I’m trying to exit the bar, pushing past them to travel through the lobby. Once I step outside, the temperature has dropped about ten degrees, while I feel downright hot. “Wait one moment.”
At the sound of Dan’s voice, I cringe and turn to face him. “The publisher wants this to happen,” he says, standing in front of me, crowding me now. “We need to be on the same page when addressing them.”
“I’ll talk to them,” I say. “I’ll move this in the direction we both obviously want it to go.” Which is nowhere, I silently add.
