This Love Hurts (This Love Hurts 1)

She knows as well as all of us that he’s not going to cut it. I’d never trust anyone to come within an inch of my paperwork if they can’t pass the bar. A huff of disdain leaves me, but a friendly smile finds its way to my face as I lift my glass to her when her eyes reach mine.

It’s short-lived and veiled mutual distaste for one another. She’s as cutthroat as I am, but with two decades’ more experience. Decades that also taught her she can take shortcuts and bend rules … bend not break, as she once said. One day, I’ll be one of the bigger names and I won’t do it the way she did.

My phone buzzing in my hand is the perfect out to ignore her. Unless I’m trying a case against one of her defendants, there’s no reason to engage with Miss Miller. She’s the reason lawyers have a bad rap. I check my phone again to see a row of messages from Cadence. The summary of it isn’t anything I didn’t already know: she understands they pretend like it didn’t happen and like our childhood was full of white picket fences and tamed rosebushes. Our parents’ house may have both of those now, but that’s not how we grew up.

Just ignore them, I offer her in a quickly typed message. Her response is even quicker, hitting my phone before I’m able to clutch the thin stem of my wineglass again.

The front doors open, offering some light and distraction in my periphery, but I’m caught in her message.

I love you, but I can’t just ignore it like you can.

She’s so emotional. My sister is the child counselor at the middle school we both went to when we were kids. Of course she’s wound up over this, but this is old news. It’s past pain. I take a moment to think about how best to respond, knowing she’s hurting. She’s sensitive and she needs more support than I ever did in this aspect of life. She doesn’t get it though, and I don’t know that she wants to. I text her back regardless because she’s my sister, and I get it. I completely understand the struggle.

You can’t change the past or the way our parents cope. I’m here for you. You aren’t crazy. It happened and if you want to talk about it, talk with me, not them.

The exhaustion weighs down my expression, pulling at the corners of my lips. Hurriedly, I hide it all by throwing back the rest of my wine. Spinning the large glass with my pointer and thumb finger on the stem, I take in her messages that she’s okay and that she loves me.

That’s all that matters, isn’t it? That we’re all okay now. That’s what matters. I wish she could see it like that, but she doesn’t. Maybe it’s because she sees them more than me. After all, I’m a state away and she only has a neighborhood separating them from her.

As I’m typing out that I love her too, Sandy takes my empty glass and replaces it with another, this one filled nearly to the brim.

“Long days deserve large glasses,” she says beneath her breath with a sympathetic tone and a knowing wink. The grin I give her is wider and more genuine than I’ve given anyone all week. My girl.

My fingers toy with the stem absently as I stare at my phone, waiting to see if Cady has anything else to say. I don’t know what to tell her. I don’t ignore what happened or the fact that my parents pretend like everything’s fine. I wouldn’t even say that I’ve moved on. I’ve just simply moved forward. The past doesn’t haunt me anymore. She should let it go too.

“White wine?” A deep voice from my left is followed by the sound of wooden legs grinding against the slate floor as he pulls out a stool and takes a seat. Agent Cody Walsh.

I wish I could have contained the jump in my shoulders and the way my heart beats wildly at the sudden sound of him sneaking up on me.

“Shit, sorry,” he says and his tone is light as I laugh, letting my body sway gently as I shake my head, peeking up at him through my thick lashes. I hope my lipstick is still in place. He told me once how the dark red looks good on my light brown skin. I don’t wear it just for him, but I can’t deny that I like it when he sees me in this particular shade. His gaze drifts to my lips then. That’s when the butterflies happen. My thirtieth birthday behind me and I still get butterflies.

Shaking it off is easy for me, but stopping this smile from growing as this handsome man eyes me … well, that’s not so easy. Neither is stopping the heat of a blush from creeping up my cheeks all the way to my temple.