My lips twitched. She had bought into my high-flying-millionaire charade. Probably thought we were a part of the same yacht club.
“How far did you get in your research?” I braced an arm over her head, trapping her between me and the restroom wall. She smelled like Arya. Of peachy shampoo mixed with the sweetness of her skin. Of long, lazy summers and spontaneous pool swims and ancient books. Like my impending downfall.
Her eyes met mine. “You finished Harvard Law School. Got pulled straight into the DA’s office. Traurig and Cromwell recruited you after you nailed a huge case even though you were the small fry. Lured you to the white-shoe dark side. Now you’re known as the shark who gets his clients fat settlements.”
“Where’s the mystery, then?” I leaned forward an inch, breathing more of her. “Sounds like I’m an open book. Need my Social Security number and full medical history to complete the picture?”
“Were you born eighteen?” She cocked her head sideways.
“Fortunately for my mother, no.”
“There’s no information about you prior to your time in Harvard.”
A bitter laugh escaped my throat. “My accomplishments before eighteen include winning beer pong games and getting lucky in the bed of my truck.”
She eyed me skeptically, her delicate brows furrowing. I spoke before she could ask more questions.
“I’ll give you one thing: you make that bag of trash who sired you look like a real angel in the media.”
“That’s an easy task. He is innocent.” Her lips were inches from mine, but I was in complete control of the situation.
“That’s not for you to decide. If you continue tampering with the narrative before the trial, I’ll be inclined to move for a gag order on the case. The temptation of shutting your mouth up is already too much.”
“Are outspoken women an inconvenience to you?” she purred, her eyes sparkling. It felt so much like our banter from a decade and a half ago that I almost laughed.
“No, but whiny little girls are.”
That made her pull away. She twisted her mouth in annoyance. “Did you come here for anything other than to rub your small, insignificant win in my face?”
Would you rather I rubbed something else in it?
“Yes, actually.” I pushed off the wall, giving her—and myself—some space. “First things first—the Brewtherhood is my domain. My territory. Find a girly cocktail bar that hosts trivia nights. Better yet—read a book or two before you try it next time. Your general knowledge could use a few tweaks.” I used the word she’d used for my media-management skills.
She opened her mouth, no doubt to tell me to go shove my self-importance up my rear in five different languages, but I proceeded before she could cut into my words.
“Second—I think I deserve one piece of information in return for this.” I produced the Denny’s voucher Dr. Douchebag had handed me earlier tonight. Her eyes zinged with exhilaration. I knew she didn’t care for the actual voucher. Only about what it represented. About going home with the prize. This was classic Arya. She would catch my foot when we did laps at the pool, playing dirty sometimes. Anything to win.
“You want a piece of information?” she asked. “You’re insufferable. How’s that for a fun fact? Now hand that over. My employees deserve free Denny’s meals.”
She reached to grab the voucher. I raised my hand higher, chuckling. “Sorry, I should’ve specified. I get to ask the question.”
She tossed her arms in the air, unused to being challenged. “Shoot.”
“How shall I address you—Miss or Mrs.?”
I’d made it a point not to check Arya’s marital status, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t curious. There was no ring on her finger. Then again, she didn’t strike me as the type of woman who’d flaunt a statement ring.
Her mouth curled up in a smile. “You are interested.” Her eyes flared.
“You are delusional.” I suppressed the urge to brush away one of her flyaway hairs with my thumb. “I like to know things. Knowledge is power.”
She licked her lips, peering at the voucher I held between my fingers. Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. I could see her resolve crumbling. She wanted to keep the mystery alive but wanted to win even more.
“I’m single.”
“Color me surprised.” I handed her the ticket. She snatched it, like I was going to change my mind any second, stuffing it into her purse.
“I’m guessing you’re with the pretty associate.”
“Now why would you guess that?” I was surprised. I ignored Claire completely during work hours, unless it was related to a case we were working on.
Arya shrugged. “Call it a hunch.”
“I can also call it jealousy.”
She smiled easily. “Tweak the narrative as you please to help your fragile ego, honey. It’s a free country.” She turned around, ready to leave.
“You have good instincts, silver-spooned princess.”
Her head spun so fast I thought it was going to dislocate from her shoulder. “What did you just call me?”
Well, shit. It had just spilled out of my mouth. Like it hadn’t been almost two decades. Like we were still the same kids.
“Princess,” I said.
“No. You said silver-spooned princess.” Her eyes narrowed into slits.
“Nope,” I lied. “But that’s not a bad nickname.”
“Your gaslighting game is weak. I know what I heard.”
“Well, seeing as you don’t have any way to prove it, and I’m not budging, I would strongly suggest you let it drop. I called you a princess. Nothing more.”
She considered it for a full minute before nodding curtly. “See you at the pretrial hearing next week.” She saluted, not waiting for me to confirm or deny my relationship with Claire.
Of course. Next week. I had to wait seven days until I’d see her again.
Which is dandy. You hate her, remember?
“Can hardly wait.”
She walked away, her stilettos rapping over the sticky wooden floor. Typical. She always left dents wherever she went.
“Oh, and Ms. Roth?”
She stopped and turned around, arching a brow. I ran my tongue over my teeth.
“Nice claws.”
That night, I allowed myself one slipup.