Overruled (The Legal Briefs 1)

Brent clear his throat. “No . . . I’m a lawyer. An old, boring lawyer.” When she just continues to stare adoringly, he adds, “Very old.”

“I really wish you boys would stay with us,” Mrs. Shaw laments as she finally sits down to eat her own breakfast. “Doesn’t seem right to have y’all stayin’ at the hotel.”

The hotel—’cause like the stoplight, there’s only one.

“Brent can stay in my room,” Mary announces. Before her mother can respond with more than a frown, she giggles. “I’m jus’ jokin’.”

Then she turns to Brent and mouths No I’m not with a Lolita-like wink.

I cover my mouth at Brent’s horrified expression and look around to see if anyone else noticed. Jake’s intent on finishing his food, and Stanton . . . Stanton stares dejectedly into his coffee cup.

“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw, but really, the hotel is great.”

Mary leans back, her hands disappear under the table—and ten seconds later Brent jumps up like he’s been electrified.

“Whoa!”

All eyes turn to him. Mary bats her lashes innocently.

“What’s your problem, nervous and jerky?” Jake asks.

Brent opens his mouth like a fish searching for water. “I . . . just can’t wait to see the rest of the place! No time like the present. Let’s go!”

I bring my dishes to the sink and the four of us head toward the door.

“Bye, Brent,” Mary sings.

Brent waves uncomfortably, then whispers to me, “That’s it—I’m growing a fucking beard.”

• • •

We spend the rest of the morning showing Jake and Brent around the ranch. Stanton is quiet—distracted.

Later in the afternoon, Stanton takes Brent and Jake out to the pastures to help his father with the clean-up. While they’re gone, Mrs. Shaw tells me we’ll be heading to the one local tavern for the evening and that I should get ready. The sun is setting when I step out of the bathroom, wearing my favorite red slip dress, to find that Stanton’s back. Waiting in my room.

And he’s alone.

He stares at me like it’s the first time he’s seeing me—long enough for a whole host of butterflies to dance in my stomach.

“You are beautiful,” he says in a low, awed voice with just a touch of southern.

Three words.

Such a simple compliment. But because it’s him—it feels like the most wonderful thing anyone could ever say to me.

The tavern is a small place, with wooden floors, a worn oak bar, a few scattered square tables, and two pool tables in the back room. Five of us sit together at a table—Jake is having a loud, raucous time with Ruby Monroe, Jenny’s sister, and Brent seems more relaxed without having to dodge the wandering, underage hands of Mary Shaw.

I excuse myself from the table and head to the ladies’ room. When I walk back out, I stop in my tracks. Because through the crowd I see Stanton rise from his chair and walk to the jukebox. He fills it with quarters from his pocket, and the twinkling sounds of piano keys override the noise of conversation in the crowded bar. He strides to where Jenny and JD are sitting side by side, and his lips move—asking a question I can’t decipher. JD nods his head and after a moment, shakes Stanton’s outstretched hand. Then Jenny stands and together they walk to the dance floor. Willie Nelson’s mournful voice fills the air singing “Always on My Mind.”

I watch as he takes Jenny in his arms—the strong, beautiful arms that have held me, made me feel cherished with their warmth. The arms I’ve gripped in pleasure and passion more times that I can remember. He gathers her close to his chest, the chest I laid my cheek on just last night, lulled to sleep by the sound of his steadfast heartbeat.

And together, they sway.

I don’t feel the tears rise until they’re blurring my vision and streaming down my face. My throat constricts, and the purest of pain squeezes my chest like a cruel vise.

I can’t do this anymore.

I know it now. I can’t stand by and pretend to help him fight for her.

Because I want him to fight for me.

More than anything.

For him to want me—not just as a friend or a lover. But as his forever.

Like she is.

Jenny looks up into his eyes. Their expressions are tender as they speak, and I thank God I can’t hear the words. Then Stanton raises his hand to touch her face . . . and I squeeze my eyes closed, blocking the intimate gesture.

A moment later I’m heading for the door. Self-preservation compels me, Willie’s lyrics of love and regret chase me, but I don’t look back.

Outside, the air is moist, thick—I gulp it in with pathetic hiccups and seek the comfort of my own arms, wrapped around my waist.

“Sofia?”

Brent’s voice approaches from my left, coming closer as he calls my name again. I don’t try to hide my . . . sadness? That’s not a strong enough word. Devastation hits the nail on the head. I feel like a building that’s about to collapse, the foundation I built, the structure and support that I thought would keep me standing falling away beneath my feet. And Brent sees it all.

His head angles in sympathetic reflection, but what strikes me most is—he’s not surprised. Not even a little.

He sits on the sidewalk bench and pats his lap. “Looks like somebody needs a ride on the therapy train. Hop on. Tell Dr. Brent all about it.”

There’s no shame as I perch myself on his thighs.

“He doesn’t dance,” I whisper.

Brent nods slowly. Waiting for me to continue.

“But he’s dancing with her.”

The words sound completely ridiculous said out loud, but I don’t care. The dam breaks, and my face crumbles. “I thought I had a wall, you know? I didn’t think I’d be the woman who wanted more. I’m an idiot, Brent.”

A low chuckle reverberates through his chest. “You’re not an idiot, sweetheart—that designation belongs to the blind southerner you’re crying over.”

I raise my head and look into Brent’s forever kind blue eyes. He’s always reminded me of my brother Tomás. They share that same comforting attitude that makes you feel that anything coming their way, no matter how devastating, will be handled.

“How can he not know?” I ask. “Why can’t he see how hard this is for me?”

Brent brushes my long hair off my shoulders. “In fairness to Stanton, you’re a good actress. And . . . sometimes it’s hard for guys to read between the lines. To pick up on all the things that aren’t said. Some of us need it spelled out.”

Brent holds me for a few minutes more as I soak up his calm, making it my own. Then I drag my fingers under my eyes, wiping away the melting mascara that probably makes me look like a raccoon.

“Soph?” That voice comes from the shadows behind us, deep with worry. I feel him move closer, without turning to look. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Having all of Stanton’s attention, sensing his concern and knowing in my heart that he’d rain down hell in my defense—I admit it feels good. For a moment. But it’s only an emotional crumb. One that used to satisfy me, but now will only end up magnifying the emptiness. Leave me starving for all the things he doesn’t feel for me.

Clawing myself together, I stand from Brent’s lap and face him head-on. Stanton reaches out to touch me, but I step back. “I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not. What the hell happened?”

I shake my head. “I don’t feel well.” That’s true, at least. “I want to go back to the house.”

“All right, I’ll—”

I step further back, bumping against the bench. “No. Not you.”

The thought of being in the closed space of a vehicle with him is horrifying. I need more time to collect myself, so I’m not reduced to a quivering mass clinging to his leg, begging him to love me.

Wouldn’t that be attractive?

Confusion displaces the concern clouding his eyes. “But . . .”

“I’ll drive her.”

We all turn to the door of the bar, where tiny, blond, and perfect Jenny Monroe stands beside her fiancé. I didn’t realize we’d drawn an audience. And although she’s not exactly my favorite person at the moment, I’ll take her.

“Thank you.”

Brushing past Stanton, I follow Jenny as she fishes keys from the purse slung across her shoulder, walking briskly to the parking lot.

Stanton doggedly trails us. “Hey! Just wait one damn—”

“Go back to the bar, Stanton,” Jenny calls. “Have a beer with JD and talk about how y’all are gonna keep your brother from takin’ his clothes off.”

In a conspiratorial tone, she tells me, “Carter tends to get overheated when he’s drunk, and his nudist tendencies come out. The idiot’ll be bare ass by midnight.”

With a touch to her key ring she unlocks the doors on the shiny black Ford pickup, and I scramble into the passenger seat like a teenager fleeing a machete-wielding maniac. The engine roars to life, she shifts into drive—and the headlights illuminate Stanton Shaw, stubbornly bracing his hands on the hood of the truck, blocking our way.

Jenny opens the window. “Boy, if you don’t move, I’ll run you down. Won’t kill you, but you won’t be nearly as persuasive hobblin’ around a courtroom on crutches.”

Keeping distrustful hands on the truck, he moves around to Jenny’s open window. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, but I feel his gaze on me.

“Sofia.” His voice is harsh but pleading at the same time. “Sofia, look at me, damn it!”

Jenny leans forward, obscuring his view. “Let her be, Stanton. Sometimes a woman just needs another woman. Give her space.”

From the corner of my eye, she pats his forearm, and after a moment his hands fall away from the truck. She doesn’t give him a chance to change his mind; the spinning tires spit gravel and dust as we pull out of the parking lot.

• • •