“How are you and Mason even friends?”
Ben looks up from his file at me, his eyes glancing off my socked feet that sit on top of his desk. If that’s a hint, I don’t take it. If I’m going to sit in his office all weekend, I’m going to be comfortable. “What do you mean?”
I answer with an eye roll. “You know exactly what I mean.”
He leans back in his chair and stretches, giving me an appealing view of the ridges in his chest and shoulders. “What can I say? I’m a friendly guy. People like me. Especially hot little purple-haired chicks.”
“Did you meet a lot of those in Cancún or did you branch out?” Great. I was just thinking how nice it was that Ben honored his promise not to bring any of that up, and now I’ve gone and mentioned it.
His eyes narrow slightly as if he’s assessing me, deciding what to admit to. “I think most of them were blond. Except for the one from Spain. Oh . . . and a redhead.”
Awesome. I’m not at all surprised. Not for one minute did I think I was anything except his night’s target. Puking all over this guy was probably my saving grace. “You must have been awfully tired after that,” I say with mock concern.
He flashes those devil dimples at me. “Two of them were best friends, so . . . I was after that night.”
I struggle to keep my jaw from dropping, because I have a gut feeling that Ben couldn’t be bothered to make things like that up. I may consider myself adventurous—Jared certainly thought so—but I don’t think I’d have the first clue about keeping up with a guy like Ben. He worked in a strip club, after all. “Have you always loved yourself this much?”
“I had an awkward year in ’ninety-nine, but I got over it quick,” he offers with a chuckle, turning his attention back to his computer screen. It’s been hours since we came back from that disastrous run-in with Jared and Caroline, and Ben and I have sat in his office the entire time. I’ve kept myself busy going through the caseload, making notes on next steps and important dates, things I can knock off quickly, paperwork we can hand off to June and the other paralegals that don’t require much thought or interaction to complete. Between that and the light conversation, I’ve managed not to feel too down about Jared after all.
Ben hasn’t cracked a single margarita or crawling joke. He hasn’t mentioned the public fondling he did of me on the street corner—thank God Jack wasn’t looking out his office window at that particular moment.
It’s as if it didn’t even happen.
I study his tanned, handsome face. That chest-constricting smile. After sitting in here with him for this long, as much as I hate to admit it, Ben’s not the bad guy I convinced myself that he’d be. Yes, he’s still cocky, obnoxious, and downright infuriating sometimes, but he works hard, he seems to genuinely respect Jack, and he’s nice to everyone. Even my nerdy stepbrother.
So, maybe Jack forcing us together was a good thing. I have enough to be on edge about, without playing Mission Avoid Ben at Work. And now I won’t have to sit in Nelson’s office, thinking of ways to shank him and get away with it.
“I was right.” I reach over and pick up the picture of a much younger Ben on a field, in his football uniform. A tiny brunette woman—his mother, I presume, though he looks nothing like her—stands beside him, a proud smile on her face. “How old were you here?”
“Fourteen.”
Really? I would have guessed at least sixteen. “You were a big kid.” And gorgeous. Even at that age, I can see that Ben would have had all the little girls batting their lashes. “You said you were injured, right?” I think I remember Ben saying something about that in Cancún. When he nods, I ask, “What made you become a lawyer?”
“Honestly?” He pauses, tapping his pen against the pad. “I was going pro. There was no other way about it. Then some jackass plowed into my knee. Everything about the hit was dirty. The ball was out of my hand a good five seconds before that. The guy wanted me out for good. It wasn’t the first time he had done something like that. He shouldn’t have even been on the field.” He leans back in his chair, and a rare morose expression passes over his face. “The NCAA got involved, suspended the guy for one fucking game. I was pissed, but there wasn’t much I could do. Once the NCAA rules, they won’t change it. Still, I had to try. So I built a case against the guy myself—with specific names and dates and witnesses. His history.” I can see the spark of passion in Ben’s eyes. “I appealed the suspension. It didn’t change anything for me, exactly like I had expected. But when the idiot took another player out the next year, the case I’d built made sure he was out for the year.” Ben shrugs. “I couldn’t play anymore, but I figured sports law was something I might be good at. I know the ins and outs of this profession, beyond just the game—how to spot future talent, all the top schools, standard contract requirements and terms, and all that bureaucratic bullshit. I figured with some luck, I could do well.”
“But Warner doesn’t have a sports law department, Ben,” I say slowly, not wanting to dampen the sudden excitement in his voice with the obvious.
He grins. “I know it doesn’t, Reese. Not yet, anyway. I was actually offered a job at a sports law firm on the West Coast, but I need to stay in Miami because of my mama for now. And, Jack’s willing to let me try to build one here, after I’ve put my dues in.”
Ben turns his attention once again to his work as I feel the small smile curl over my lips. Jack is always looking for ways to help people out. I wonder if he’s taking a chance on Ben because he’s a good friend of his son’s and Mason doesn’t have a lot of friends. Jack’s the kind of guy who would do just that.
“What else did Mason tell you about me?”
I see the dimples appear, even at this angle. “That you’re certifiable.”
“And?”
Ben’s gaze lifts to me. “And I like certifiable.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint,” I offer with a heavy sigh as I bite into an apple that Jack dropped off earlier, before heading out. “I’m completely sane. He’s just had it out for me since I jumped out of his closet and made him piss his pants.” Of course I leave out the part where I was wearing a clown costume and had a very realistic-looking cleaver in my hand. And I was eight. Because those details actually might make me sound a tad unstable.
Ben bursts out in a roar of laughter; a genuine, chest-warming sound. “Okay, are you going to help me with this work or just sit there and look tempting all day?”
I roll my eyes—though I secretly bask in his words.
I don’t believe it.
Eight hours after that ridiculous public display at the café, I’m straddling my bike outside a Chick-fil-A and inhaling a sandwich, while staring at a private message on my Facebook account from my ex-husband.
Was great seeing you today. You’re more beautiful than ever.
I reread the message at least twenty times as bitter nostalgia consumes my insides. Jared always greeted me with a groggy, “Hey, beautiful,” as soon as my alarm went off. The first time he said it was especially jarring because I hadn’t heard it since I was five years old, when my father was still around. Growing up with a mother that looks like Annabelle—and me looking nothing like her and everything like my father—I know what beautiful is and I know that I am not it. Sure, there’s something about me. Something that sometimes grabs someone’s attention.
But, Jared always made me feel beautiful.
My appetite has suddenly vanished. Wrapping up the rest of my dinner and sticking it back in the bag for later, I type out with shaky hands:
Great seeing you, too.