We’re in the big attic, where trunks, old books, paintings, and plastic-wrapped dresses get stored. It’s dark and dusty, with shadowed corners that look like they’re moving if you stare too long. Kennedy loves it up here.
“Come on, it’s going to start soon,” I tell her. “We’ll come back here tomorrow.”
Her eyes are still wide behind her thick-lensed, yellow-framed glasses as she gazes around the room, but she nods. “All right.”
I head up the ladder and push open the access door in the ceiling. Then I climb through and reach down my hand. Kennedy grabs it as she climbs through and then we’re standing on the flat peak of my house. Sometimes Kennedy calls it a castle—Mason Castle—because of the ballroom. Her house is just as big. They don’t have a ballroom, but they have a home movie theater, which is a thousand times cooler.
The icy wind cuts right through my robe—it’s freezing this year, cold enough to see every breath. The sky is a black blanket above us, and the stars are so bright, it feels like I could reach up and grab one—as easily as picking an apple off a tree. Kennedy spins in quick circles, her long brown hair fanning out. “You were right—this is the best!”
She’s smiling, and the metal line of her retainer shines in the moonlight.
I grin back—until she gets too close to the edge of the roof. I grab her hand and pull her back. “Watch out!”
We sit down close to one of the five chimneys, to block the wind. When Kennedy’s teeth start to chatter, I put my arm around her. She snuggles against me, warming us both up a little. We talk while we wait for the show to start.
“. . . So they let me quit fencing and start lacrosse instead,” I tell her. “It’s awesome.”
“You’re so lucky!” Kennedy cries. “Mother said I couldn’t stop ballet even if my leg was broken. She said I’m going to marry a prince, and no prince wants a princess who doesn’t know how to dance.”
Music floats up from the band downstairs. “I wonder if Claire is dancing with your cousin Louis,” Kennedy tells me. “She said she’s going to kiss him at midnight.”
I feel my face scrunch. “Why?”
“She said that’s what you do at midnight. Kiss the boy you like.”
My face stays scrunched—because I can’t imagine anyone liking Louis—let alone kissing him.
Then a chorus of voices surge from the veranda below. “10, 9, 8 . . .”
A few seconds later, the band begins “Old Lang Syne” and the sky explodes with color. Bursts of reds and blues, slashes of silvery purples and swaths of sparkling greens light up the night and reflect on the river’s surface.
While I watch the fireworks, Kennedy turns under my arm. And then she kisses me on the cheek.
“Happy New Year, Brent,” she whispers.
I look at her and smile.
“Happy New Year, Kennedy.”
As I shake off the memory I scan the yard, searching for that red dress. But when I find her, it’s not just relief I feel—it’s something else. Something rougher, hotter, hungrier.
Because Kennedy is staring at me.
She doesn’t notice that I’ve noticed. Her gaze is too busy trailing over my chest, my arms, my ass. Her eyes are eager and her cheeks are flushed pink—and I don’t think it has anything to do with the afternoon sun. I turn her way, holding my arms out, so she can get the full viewing pleasure—and her eyes snap up to mine.
I smirk and lift an eyebrow.
Her lips part and her cheeks go from pink to red.
I lift my hand and wave.
She lifts her nose and turns away from me.
And you know something? I think this is going to be fun.
5
A week and a half later, I walk into court for the first day of the Longhorn trial, wearing my best navy suit and lucky silver cuff links. Ready to rumble.
Little Miss I-don’t-make-plea-deals-ever made it pretty clear she’s looking for a fight. And if that’s how she wants it, that’s how I’ll give it to her. But when I fight in court, I fight to win. If she’s not going to play nice—I’m down for playing dirty. That applies to outside the courtroom too.
I set my briefcase on the defense table. Justin is already here, looking very young and respectable in a gray jacket and burgundy tie. He was understandably freaked when I told him there’d been a change in plans—that he was going to be seeing the inside of a courtroom. His father’s here today, sitting behind his son in the front row of the galley, staring at his phone, barely sparing his kid a glance. We’ve worked out an attendance plan for his parents with alternating days. I just hope they stick to it, because the last thing I need to worry about is the two of them keeping their shit together.
Kennedy strolls in, dressed to kill.