Page 97 of Keller

"You just proved my point. It's okay. Own it."

"I think I've met my match. Maybe you should have been an attorney, Ms. Mercer."

Her cheeks flush as she ducks her head and reaches for another oyster. I file away the reaction. I'm enamored with the way compliments catch her off guard, how she deflects with humor.

She doesn't know how beautiful she is. That makes her even more dangerous.

TWENTY-FIVE

Keller

Krewes That Disbanded in Protest:Following the 1991 ordinance, several long-standing krewes—including Comus and Momus—ceased parading rather than disclose membership practices or alter their policies. Their withdrawal underscored the deep tension between private exclusivity and the evolving expectations of public transparency.

The driveback to Quinn's place takes us less than ten minutes. She kicks off her sandals the moment we step inside, leaving them by the door. I follow her lead, toeing off my boots and setting them beside hers.

We are creating a routine before my eyes.

The lamp in the corner casts warm shadows across the walls.

"Lincoln Lawyer, right? Ready for some more handsomeness, cockiness, and competence?" She grabs the remote and queues it up.

"You're really committing to this."

"I never do anything half-ass." She glances at me, something flickering in her expression. I can't help but smile.

"Do you mind if I jump in the shower first? Quick rinse. I didn't have a chance to shower after my run."

"Not at all. Go ahead."

She disappears down the hall. The bathroom door clicks shut, and the water starts running a moment later.

I settle onto the couch and pull out my phone. Three texts from West about Tuesday's lineup. One from Marcus confirming the flight logs have been archived. Nothing urgent.

I set the phone down on the cushion beside me and stretch. I haven't stopped to catch my breath since I snuck out of here this morning before dawn. I close my eyes and rest my head on the back of the sofa.

The water runs behind the wall. I imagine the steam curling against the glass and Quinn standing beneath the spray, hair slicked back, water sliding down her shoulders.

Heat coils low in my gut. I shift on the couch, adjust my posture, and force my attention to anything else.

Control.

I breathe in deeply, letting the tension settle into something manageable.

The water shuts off after a few minutes pass and the bathroom door opens. I hear her moving down the hall before she appears in the doorway. Her wet hair is loose around her shoulders, darkening the collar of an oversized gray t-shirt. Baggy sweatpants hang low on her hips.

Christ.

She looks better than any woman in a designer gown. The casual intimacy of it hits me somewhere deep.

"Ready?" She settles onto the couch beside me, pulling her legs up and tucking them beneath her.

I lift the throw blanket and drape it across both of us. "Ready."

She presses play. The show picks up where we left off. Mickey Haller navigates another impossible case through legal maneuvering and morally gray zones. My kind of way to fix things.

Quinn watches intently for a few minutes, her shoulder warm against mine beneath the blanket. I try to follow the plot and the dialogue. But I'm a hundred percent distracted by the beautiful, intense woman sitting beside me.

Fifteen minutes in, I've absorbed nothing.