“She’s a beauty, Shaw. Lucky for her she takes after her mother. Hope you’ve got a baseball bat ready.”
Way ahead of him. “Nah, man, I got a shotgun.”
He nods with approval and slaps my arm.
“Hey, stranger, long time, no see.” My eyes are drawn to the sumptuous form of Sofia Marinda Santos, my co-counsel—among other things—as she walks up to our table.
Clothes don’t just make the man—they make a statement for a woman. They speak particularly rapturously for Sofia. She dresses as she is—impeccable, sharp, classy, yet so damn sexy it makes my mouth water. Her red silk blouse is tastefully buttoned, revealing only a few inches of bronze skin below her collarbone—not even a hint of cleavage. But the material accents the God-given bounty of her ample breasts—full, firm, and fucking gorgeous. A short, gray tweed jacket covers long, elegant arms, and the matching pencil skirt hugs the rounded swell of her hips before revealing toned legs that go on for days.
“Where were you hiding?” I ask, then point to an empty chair. “You want to join us?”
Naturally ruby lips smile back. “Thank you, but no, I just finished having lunch with Brent in the back.”
I gesture while making the introductions. “Drew Evans, this is Sofia Santos, a fellow child molester liberator according to your wife.” Sofia’s dark brow arches slightly at the description, but I continue. “Soph, this is Drew Evans, my old college buddy, my current investment banker, and just an all-around rude bastard.”
Ignoring my dig, he extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sofia.”
“Likewise.”
She checks the time on her Rolex and teases, “You should finish up here too, Stanton. Don’t want to miss the verdict.”
I’m shaking my head before she’s done speaking. Because we’ve been debating this since the trial started. “I’ve got all the time in the world, darlin’. Hell, we may even order dessert—that jury isn’t coming back until Monday, at the earliest.”
“You may be the Jury Charmer.” Her manicured fingers swirl in a circle, like she’s conjuring a crystal ball. “But I’m the Jury Seer. And I see those housewives wanting to scratch this trial off their to-do lists for the weekend.”
“The Jury Charmer?” Drew comments dryly. “That’s adorable.”
I give him the jerk-off sign with my hand while insisting to Sofia, “Your vision is off this time.”
Her mouth purses. “Care to make a wager on that, big boy?”
“What are your terms, sweet thing?” I counter with a daring grin.
Evans watches our exchange with unconcealed mirth.
She braces her hands on the table, leaning forward. And I have a whole new esteem for gravity—because it’s that force that causes her blouse to pull away from her body, giving me a delectable view of her stunning tits encased in delicate black lace.
“The Porsche.”
Caught off guard, my eyes widen. She’s not messing around.
She knows my silver 911 Carrera 4S Cabriolet convertible is my prized possession. The first thing I bought myself when I was hired at the prestigious Adams & Williamson law firm four years ago. It’s pristine. It doesn’t come out in the rain. It doesn’t get parked where a bird could shit on it. It doesn’t get driven by anyone but me.
“When the jury comes back today, you let me take your Porsche out for the ride of its life.”
She stares me down, waiting.
I rub my knuckles along my jaw, debating.
“It’s a stick shift,” I warn in a low voice.
“Pft—child’s play.”
“What do I get if—when—you lose the bet?”
She straightens up, looking pleased with herself, even though she hasn’t heard my terms. “What do you want?”
The image of Sofia’s curves barely covered in a tiny red bikini, damp and soapy with suds, infiltrates my brain. And I can’t hold back the lewd smile that graces my face. “You have to wash the Porsche, by hand, once a week for a month.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Done.”
Before we shake on it, I look into her eyes and spit deliberately on my palm. Our grasp is sliding and slick. Her nose crinkles, but her eyes—her eyes simmer with an amused heat only I can read.
She likes it.
After I release her grip, she wipes her hand with a napkin. Then Brent Mason walks out from the direction of the restrooms to join us. Brent is an associate at our firm, started the same year as Sofia and me, though he looks much younger. His round blue eyes, wavy brown hair, and carefree personality invoke protective, little brother–like feelings. The limp that accompanies his gait adds to the boyish impression, though in reality it’s the result of the prosthetic on his left leg, the consequence of a childhood accident. The event may have taken his limb, but Brent’s jovial good humor remains fully intact.