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“Did you call to tell me I’m getting an interview?”
“If I say no, what will you write about me tomorrow?”
“The truth,” I say, “just like I did today. I want to interview you and your client, but I’m not a child who will throw a literary tantrum if I don’t get one. There will be another case. Another time. A little less coffee to fight over.”
“Yes. Coffee. I’ll see you at the coffee shop in an hour.”
He hangs up.
I lift the phone in the air and stare at it. Coffee. Reese. The mistakes I could make because of how good he smells. The way he just ordered me to show up. The way I have no idea the purpose of this meeting. I call him back. “Hello, Cat,” he greets me.
My name is like silk on his tongue.
I love it.
I hate it.
“Am I meeting you for an interview?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then I’m not meeting you for coffee.”
“Why?”
“One,” I say, without missing a beat, “you didn’t ask. I don’t take orders. Two, if I met you, you wouldn’t know if I’m there for the interview or sex or your stunningly humble personality. And I wouldn’t know if you were trying to sway my coverage. Three, even if you did ask, I would not say yes until this trial frenzy was over.”
I hang up, throw away the blanket, and twist around to settle my feet on the floor. My phone rings. I answer again without looking at the number. “Hello, Reese,” I say, mimicking his greeting.
“I’ll call. I’ll ask. I’ll impatiently wait until after the trial.”
He hangs up.
He is making me crazy. He’s making me want to know him.
I don’t want to know him.
Only maybe I do.
I head to the bathroom and remind myself that there is a reason I just had a six-month relationship with an artist. Powerful, money-hungry, controlling men like Reese Summer are not my kind of guys. Then again, neither are artists, since the whole live in the moment with no planning thing drove me nuts, and no amount of sex, which the man called his “creative outlet,” could change that. But my newly crossed-out artist boyfriend isn’t the point. I’ve been here with a man like Reese, done this simmering burn before, and I cannot forget how this plays out. The sex is wild, the connection explosive, and then the crash and burn is hard, fast, and painful.
I will not fall for Reese “Mr. Hotness” Summer.
Three hours later, I am dressed in a black pantsuit—meant to fight the chill outside and inside the courtroom, which had everyone shivering the afternoon before—and heading out the door. With plenty of time to spare, and since that coffee date with Reese is on indefinite hold, I stop by the coffee shop. I endure the line and grab my white mocha, hoping the earlier hour will allow me to get a closer seat to the action. I fail miserably. I work my way toward the front door and the picketers and the camera crews seem to swell by the moment. My press pass is the only saving grace but I’m still delayed entry into the courthouse. Once I’m finally inside the building, I’m through security, and to the courtroom quickly. I’m also stuck in the back row again, but just as I’m pulling my things from my bag, a security guard steps beside me. “If you’ll follow me, miss,” he says, “I’ll be relocating you.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Not that I know of,” he says, motioning me forward.
The next thing I know, I’m being shown to a seat just behind the families, sitting with the high-powered television news media and not far from where Reese is seated. The court is brought to order, and we all stand. The normal order of events takes place and Reese and his counterpart do as they have every morning: Approach the bench for some argument they are both already making. When Reese turns back to walk to his table, his eyes land on me, and while he shows no outer reaction, I feel the silent nod. The confirmation that he put me in this seat. And I’m not sure how to feel about it. Yes, I want the seat. Yes, I want an interview. But I don’t want the sex for an interview thing. That isn’t who I am, and maybe this has gotten so far out there with us that I just can’t ask for an interview.
It’s not a thought I hang on to for long, as Nathan Miles, the medical examiner on the case, is called to the stand, where he proceeds to deliver a convoluted testimony. The prosecution keeps him tied to the stand for hours, and I take pages of notes, but find no proof in anything presented. There is simply gore meant to drive the jury to convict. Come lunchtime, Reese hasn’t even been given the chance to cross-examine, though he’s had his share of objections.
The court dismisses everyone for an hour break, and I stand up, waiting for the crowd before I can exit my row. I’m stopped dead in my tracks and end up scanning the courtroom, where Reese remains by his table, and my eyes lock with his, the instant punch of awareness between us something I feel to my toes. My God. What am I doing with this man? Someone knocks into me and bodies fill the space between us, breaking the connection but I still feel it. I’m hot all over despite the courtroom being an icebox again today, and I waste no time hurrying through the building to exit the front door. Security has the picketers and the cameras pushed to one side, while a pathway is clear for the rest of us humans. I walk down the dramatic concrete steps and to my right, where there are food trucks parked. I’m starving and I want to stop, but there are hordes of reporters everywhere. I hurry away, take another two right turns, and head to a small park down the way that is my secret courtroom escape.
Once I’m there, I’m free from the crowds, and I have food trucks and even a bench when I’m ready to eat. I stop at a place that has candies and nuts and order two bags of the latter.
Once I’ve paid, I turn around and walk straight into a hard chest. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I—” I blink up and into Reese’s eyes, that spicy scent of him now becoming familiar. “How are you here?”
