Chasing Serenity (River Rain 1)

“I can’t even begin to imagine who gave you my telephone number so you could delight me with your insights into my character when you barely know me.”

“Harvey.”

I harumphed, and I didn’t care that my doing so made him emit an appealing, surprised chuckle.

I carried on talking.

“Well, he’s off my Christmas list and I’ve known him mere months. However, in those months, Christmas occurred, so he will feel that sting, I assure you.”

“You’re that good with giving presents?”

“I am a master at accessorizing,” I bragged without the least bit of humility because the subject didn’t deserve it. I was a master at these things. “I am a master at wine pairings. I am a master at space-economizing packing. And I am a master at gift giving.”

I decided not to include my talent with lying in that list since, so far, I had yet to demonstrate it to him.

Not to mention other reasons.

“Space-economizing packing?”

“When on holiday, each day requires three outfits, Judge,” I retorted like he was dimwitted. “You go to Paris for a week and try to fit everything you’ll need in the two measly seventy-pound bags you’re limited to without mastering the art of space economy. Specifically, when you’ll be shopping whilst there, so you’ll need extra space for your return.”

He burst out laughing.

I should have hung up.

I didn’t.

I listened.

Because it was deep and rich and full of humor and life.

I had learned Judge Oakley did not hold back when he laughed.

It was a remarkably satisfying sound.

Though, I did listen while drumming my fingers on my desk, due to, I told myself, impatience when it was actually (I refused to admit) that I hated I was listening to it over the phone rather than in person.

“Three outfits?” he asked through his residual chuckles.

“Yes. With shoe changes.” Pause, then, so he could understand fully, “And handbag changes.”

“No airline gives you two seventy-pound bags,” he informed me.

“They do in first class.”

“’Course they do,” he murmured, humor tingeing his tone.

“Lest you forgot, I’m filthy rich,” I told him, not knowing if I did it trying to repulse him or test him (and this was an actual successful lie, because my parents were, but regardless of my healthy trust fund (which I didn’t count because I didn’t earn it), I was not).

“You’d think a rich chick wouldn’t steal a guy’s coat,” he teased.

If it was a test, which I decided it wasn’t (though it was), he would have passed.

Time to end this.

“Judge—”

“Parfait means perfect in…” He let that trail for me to fill in the blank.

“French.”

“Right. You speak it?”

“I lived there for three years.”

“Right. Seems a natural fit. I’m surprised you came back.”

“My beloved grandmother died, then my parents’ long, loving marriage disintegrated,” I stated coldly.

And then my uncle blew his brains all over a priceless painting.

His tone was vastly different, just as mine had been.

But his was as warm as his laugh, though without the humor.

“Chloe—”

“I’ll get the coat to Bowie.”

“You’ll get it to him? Can’t he just bring it to the store from the house?”

Damn, damn.

Shit.

“I mistakenly packed it,” I sniffed.

“You can’t mistakenly pack an overcoat.”

He was so right.

God.

“Especially you,” he continued, “being a master at space-economizing packing and all.”

I walked right into that one.

What had become of me?

“Are you quite finished haranguing me about your coat?” I demanded.

“Sure. I can be finished haranguing you about my coat if you’ll talk to me about why you sounded like your world was ending when you picked up the phone.”

“I’ve said repeatedly I’m fine.”

“Parfait, which I don’t know French, I still think it also might mean bullshit.”

“You might not be done,” I stated acidly. “But I am.”

“Don’t hang up on me, Chloe, please,” he said quickly.

I hesitated.

And then his voice became soft, gentle.

God.

Beautiful.

“Talk to me.”

So beautiful.

So dangerous.

“I’ll get the coat to you, Judge.”

“Chloe—”

“As soon as I can.”

“Give it to me yourself.”

Seeing him again, in his tall, rustic, brown-eyed, broad-shouldered wonder?

Not on my life.

“Goodbye, Judge.”

“Chloe—”

I hung up.

I then turned the sound off my phone, set it face down on my desk, and I did not see the contents of the file on my father’s lover scattered across my desk.

I heard Judge saying, Because you’re two hours away, and not at Duncan’s, which I can get to in fifteen minutes.

He didn’t care about his coat.

He heard in my voice that something was wrong, and he was going to come to me.

He was annoyed that getting to me would take too long.

And he barely knew me.

But he was going to come to me.

My phone lit from underneath, someone was calling.

Or calling back.

I plopped in my chair with not even a nuance of my carefully cultivated elegance and stared at a picture of the very attractive Susan Shepherd on my desk, not thinking that this woman had played a part in turning my life upside down.

I did it thinking, He was going to come to me.