“I don’t know what I was thinkin’, okay!” And with more scorn than I intend, I throw out, “And Jenny’s not like you.”
But Sofia’s not perturbed. “Obviously she’s a little like me, since she hung up on your sorry ass. But the question you have to ask yourself is—what are you going to do about it?”
She’s right. I have to get out in front of this—make my case, hold my claim, get my shit together. I have to talk to Jenny—better this time—and convince her not to get married. And I can’t do that from Washington, DC.
“I have to go home. I have to see her—face-to-face. Find out what the hell’s been going on. I have to fix this.”
Sofia puts her hand on my shoulder. “Take it one step at a time—build your case. Win her over to your side. Be charming. Be . . . you.”
I stand up. “I’m going to human resources, to get time off.” I look at the three of them. “You’ll cover for me?”
“Sure.”
“Of course.”
Jake nods.
Before I step out through the door, Sofia’s voice stops me. “Stanton.”
I turn back. Her eyes are encouraging, but her smile seems . . . forced. “Good luck.”
I nod. And without another second of hesitation, I get ready to go home.
8
Sofia
I haven’t lifted my head from my laptop since I walked through the door. My heels lie discarded beside the entrance, my damp beige trench coat is strewn across the floral armchair where I tossed it, my umbrella is propped in the corner, dripping. Sherman’s stretched out in front of the picture window, his big browns eyeing the raindrops that pour down the window pane. Elton’s Greatest Hits 1970–2002 has been playing as I draft one motion to suppress evidence, another asking for change of venue, and still a third—a response to the district attorney’s attempt to charge my seventeen-year-old client, the son of an esteemed lobbyist, as an adult for drug possession with intent to sell.
The back of my neck aches as I roll my head, trying to loosen the protesting muscles. I set the computer on the couch cushion beside me and rub my shoulders as Elton croons “I Want Love.”
And it’s then I finally let myself think about all the things I was using work to avoid.
Stanton is leaving. Going to Mississippi to fight for “his girl.” There was no uncertainty—letting Jenny Monroe marry someone else was never a consideration. He was adamant, bold, determined as I’ve ever seen him. And I have no doubt he’ll march down there and remind her of everything she’s obviously forgotten.
I imagine him bursting through her door, lifting her with those strong, sculpted arms—like Tarzan claiming his Jane—and convincing her, with his irresistible smile and shrewd charm, to give him another chance.
And when she does—and I’m sure she will—my arrangement with Stanton will be over.
I close my eyes. Because my stomach is tight and there’s a heaviness on my chest—like the feeling you get after swimming in a pool for too long.
This isn’t my first trip around the block. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old single woman. I’ve had several one-night stands. In law school they’re about all you have time for. They fill a need, leave you in a good mood, and help you focus.
One hand literally helping the other.
That’s why I said what I did this afternoon—snapped him out of his shocked funk. Got him on the right track. Because before anything else, Stanton is my friend. I wouldn’t say I’m self-sacrificing—but I’m loyal. And that’s what good friends do. They help each other.
What we have—what he and I do together—is fun. Physical and convenient. And above all else, it was supposed to be simple.
But the sick feeling in my stomach, the tinge of sour jealousy on my tongue—there’s nothing simple about that.
I shake my head at myself, determined to shake off this melancholy right along with it. I’m not one of those girls, the kind ruled by emotions. I’ll just put it aside, like last season’s handbag. Maybe Stanton going away for awhile is the best thing. It’ll give me the space I need to clear my head. Because falling for your “friend with benefits” would be a dumb move, and I’m no dummy.
Sherman lifts his head a moment before there’s a brisk knock on the door. He gets to his feet, but stays silent like the good watchdog he is, as I cross the room. I open the door, and there—his saturated arms braced on the frame—stands a panting, dripping Stanton Shaw. Raindrops cling to his thick lashes as he looks up at me, bent at the waist. A translucent white T-shirt sticks to his torso, outlining ridges of solid muscle and the path of hair that leads lower beneath his drenched running shorts, leaving little to the imagination of what he’s packing beneath. His golden locks lay flat on his forehead, dark and wet.