Overruled (The Legal Briefs 1)

Except for my occasional sniffle, it’s quiet inside the cab of the truck as we drive down the dark, empty roads. I don’t quite know how I’m supposed to feel about the woman beside me. In basic terms, she’s my competition. I’m well acquainted with rivalry; I live it and breathe it in my career—outperforming the prosecutors at trial, outshining my fellow attorneys as we all vie for a coveted partnership. There are moments when I know I’m better than my opposition, and times when I have to dig deep to surpass those who are my equal, if not more talented.

The difference here is I actually like Jenny. If circumstances were different, she and I could’ve been friends. She’s smart and fun to be around. I understand why Stanton loves her. And the part of me that’s his friend—that wants his happiness more than my own—doesn’t want her to marry JD.

But then there’s the other part—the one who loves Stanton—who wants to scratch Jenny’s eyes out. Who wants her to disappear, or even better, to have never existed in the first place.

“How long have you loved him?”

The question is gently posed, like a pediatrician would ask the parent of a sick child how long they’ve been like this.

“From the beginning, I think. I didn’t . . . admit it. I thought it was just physical attraction . . . friendship . . . convenience. But now . . . I realize it was always more.”

She nods. “There’s just somethin’ about a man from Mississippi. Damn southern charm is in the DNA—they don’t even have to work at it.” She pauses as she turns the truck onto an equally desolate road. “And Stanton . . . he’s even more overwhelming. Brilliant, hardworkin’, handsome, and he fucks like a beast.”

I bark out a shocked laugh.

Jenny laughs too. “My momma would smack the teeth out of my head if she heard me say that, but god help me, it’s true.”

Our giggles quiet and Jenny sighs. “A woman would have to be ten times a fool not to fall in love with that man.” She glances at me knowingly. “And you don’t look like a fool to me.”

After she turns away, I continue to stare. “How did you do it? How did you stop loving him?”

The last few days have been like torture. Every profession of his affection for her stung like the lash of a barbed whip. The yearning I’ve seen in those stunning green eyes, the tenderness they hold for her, burned like an electric shock, stealing my breath.

Sex with Stanton is exhilarating; working beside him is a privilege. But loving him . . . that just hurts.

Her mouth twitches. “I don’t think I ever did stop. It just . . . changed into somethin’ else. Somethin’ quieter, less crazed. When you’re young, you love fireworks ’cause they’re loud and bright and thrillin’. But then you grow up. And you see that candlelight isn’t so thrillin’, but it still makes everything better. You realize that the glow of a fireplace can be just as excitin’ as fireworks—the way it burns low, but lights your home and keeps you warm all night long. Stanton was my fireworks . . . JD’s my fireplace.”

“But Stanton’s in love with you.”

She glances at me sideways. “You really believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. Only what he does.”

She shakes her head. “You should talk to him—tell him how you feel.”

It’s easy for her to say—she lives across the country from him. I’ll have to see him and work with him every day after this weekend. Right now, I have his friendship, his admiration. His respect.

I’m not sure I could live with his pity.

Jenny drives the truck behind Stanton’s parents’ house, up to the entrance of the barn. Before I get out, I turn to her. “It was really nice meeting you, Jenny. You have a beautiful daughter, and I hope . . . I really hope your wedding day is perfect.”

Her head tilts. “You won’t be around for the weddin’ tomorrow, will you?”

I confirm her suspicions with the shake of my head.

She nods, understanding. “I hope . . . well, I hope you come back here one day, Sofia, and when you do, I hope you’re smilin’.”

Then she wraps her arms around me and gives me a hug. It’s warm and kind, and above all—genuine.

• • •

Packing takes longer than I’d thought. Why, why did I bring so much? Three bags down, two to go. I grab the last of my T-shirts from the drawer and turn to place them in the open suitcase on the bed. But I freeze when I hear the hoarse, fraught voice from the doorway.

“You’re leavin’?”

Did I actually think I’d be able to pack and leave town without facing him? Without having this conversation? Stupid Sofia.

I don’t look at him—if I do, I’ll disintegrate into a blubbery mass. I need time—distance.

“I have to go home. I’m so behind, a lot of work to catch up on . . .”

He moves in front of me. I stare at his chest, as it rises and falls beneath the soft cotton T-shirt. He takes the clothes from my hands. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, until you talk to me.”

I close my eyes, feeling my pulse throb frantically in my neck.

“What happened, Sofia?”

Against my will, my gaze rises, meeting his. It swims with concern, overflows with confusion . . . with affection and caring.

But it’s not enough.

“What happened? I fell in love with you.” The words come out in a whisper—everything I feel for him a sharp, rigid thorn lodged in my throat. And the pain that he doesn’t feel the same is a noose cinching tighter and tighter. “I love everything about you. I love watching you in court—the way you speak, the way you move. I love how you scrape your lip when you’re trying to think of what to say. I love your voice, I love your hands and the way they touch me. I love . . . the way you look at your daughter, I love how you say my name.” My voice shatters at the end, and my eyes close, releasing a flood.

“No, baby, don’t cry,” he begs.

His hands rise to my face, but I step back, afraid the contact will completely break me. The words rush out. “I know that isn’t what this is f

or you. And I tried to ignore it, to push it away. But it just hurt so much to see you with. . .”

His head is bowed from my pain. “Sofia, I’m sorry . . . just let me . . .”

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes closed again. “Don’t be sorry—it’s not your fault. I have to just . . . get over it. I will. I can’t . . . I can’t be with you anymore that way, Stanton. I know you’ll be hurting from Jenny . . . But—”

“That’s not what I meant! Slow down, please. Listen to me.”

But if I stop to listen, I’ll never get it all out. He’ll never understand. And I meant what I said—I don’t want to lose him.

“We’ll be friends again. This won’t come between us. We can go back—”

I never finish the words. His mouth covers mine, cutting them off, swallowing them whole. He grasps my face, pulling me to him—touching me like he never has before. With desperation, like he’ll die if he has to let me go.

His desire for me is a palpable, throbbing ache between us—and I submerge myself in it, willing to drown. His fingertips are hot on my skin, scorching enough to scar. And I hope they do. I yearn for remembrance. Proof that I was here, that this is what we felt. That even for a moment . . . we were real.

He turns us and we fall to the bed, the feel of his strength, his rigid length pressing down on me, a welcome weight. I writhe beneath him and Stanton tears at my clothes like they’re the enemy.

It’s not a smart thing to do; it’ll hurt in the morning. But I won’t say no. This . . . this I get to have.

The pant of his breath, the scrape of his teeth, the sound of his moans, the pressure of his wet, perfect kisses. These are the moments—the memories—I’ll hold on to and cherish.

Because they’ll be the last.

22

Stanton

Everyone always talks about how quiet and peaceful the country is. But that’s not totally accurate. The cacophony begins at dusk—grasshoppers, mosquitoes, crickets, and scurrying vermin, louder than you’d ever think possible. And at dawn, there’s the baying of animals, the machine-gun clicking of cicadas, the thumping of hooves, and the deafening sonata of chirping birds.

It’s the birds that pull me from sleep—the deep slumber of a man who’s at peace with a choice he’s made.

Even before my eyes crack open, I know she’s gone.

I feel it in the empty space beside me, the missing scent of shampoo and gardenia and Sofia. I bolt upright, squinting, and look around.

Luggage? Gone.

Jeans on the desk? Nowhere in sight.

Red dress from the floor? Vanished.

Fuck.

How the hell could I fall asleep without talking to her first? Without telling her—

“Sonofabitch!”

I jump into a pair of jeans and run shirtless and barefoot down the stairs. I jog into the house—hoping.

But when I get there, the only person in the kitchen is Brent, sipping a cup of coffee and eating one of my mother’s blueberry muffins.

“Where is she?” I growl—pissed at myself, but all too willing to take it out on him.

He swallows the mouthful of muffin, regarding me with distant, assessing eyes. “She called the hotel about four this morning. Asked for a ride to the airport. Jake wouldn’t let her go alone and changed his ticket to fly back with her.”

My chest goes hollow. I’ve fucked up so badly.