“I don’t know. But most likely, it will be after the wedding.” She gives me a farewell smile. “The next time you see me, I’ll be a duchess.”
My eyes skip to the obscene jewel on her hand, given to her by a duke from a small but wealthy constitutional monarchy. It’s not an old-fashioned arranged marriage, but it was orchestrated. Have to make sure those genes get mixed with the right pool, because the last real duty of today’s nobility is to make sure the wealth stays in the family, by producing offspring to inherit it.
My finger trails along her jaw to her chin. “Do you think he’ll make you happy?”
She considers it. “We understand each other. It could be worse.”
After a moment, I lean down and kiss her forehead. “Bye, princess.”
“Good-bye, Brent.”
? ? ?
Harrison waits for me at the front door, his complexion back to his everyday pallor, with a hearty dose of freckles scattered across his cheeks. They make him look younger than his twenty-two years, which I can relate to. It’s why I decided to grow the beard I keep neatly trimmed. And women definitely approve—these bristles have all kinds of creative uses.
I take the offered briefcase and inform him, “I’ll walk to the office today. I’m feeling surprisingly energetic this morning.”
Harrison nods and steps away from the door. “Very good, sir.”
I raise an eyebrow reproachfully.
Harrison’s brown eyes pinch closed, then he forces out, “I mean, very good . . . Brent.”
The butler school he went to in England must have drilled shit into them Full Metal Jacket boot-camp style, because those habits are hard to break. But even though I was raised in a house full of servants and I’m used to the relationship between employer and personal employee, “sir” isn’t my style.
I tap his shoulder. “Take good care of our guests. And don’t be scared of Tatianna—she only bites if you ask very nicely.”
With a wink, I’m out the door.
? ? ?
I step up to our building at 9:00 a.m. on the dot, to the law firm of Becker, Mason, Santos and Shaw. I’ve seen my last name etched on buildings before—on libraries and hospital wings—but there’s a special thrill in seeing it stenciled on these doors. Because it’s mine, something I did on my own.
“Good morning, Mr. Mason.”
“Hi, Jessica.”
Gotta love interns. Hungry, idealistic, so eager to make a good impression, and so willing to please. They take care of the grunt work, the boring research necessary to bring home a win. And when the minion looks like Jessica—cute face, great rack, fiery red hair—that’s a special kind of awesome. A few years ago, I would’ve been all over that.
I don’t remember exactly when twenty-four became too young; I just know it is. At thirty-two, the age difference isn’t extreme, not like my Uncle Randall and his blushing bride. He’s older than dirt, and she couldn’t legally drink at her own wedding. I have no idea what they even talk about, though I suspect her oral skills are more important to him than her verbal ones. But to me, the Jessicas of the world are girls. They have the experiences of a girl, see the world through a girl’s eyes. And these days, whether it’s a casual hookup or more, I want a woman.
She hands me a stack of messages and gestures to the closed door beside her. “They’re in the conference room.”
“They” are my partners. The best criminal defense attorneys in the city, and my best friends. Starting up your own firm isn’t easy, despite the plethora of criminal activity in this area. You have to build up a client list; earn a reputation for being winners and hard-ass negotiators. And that’s what we’ve done. We’re the little firm that could—and business is booming.
I walk into the conference room for our biweekly meeting. The hulk of a guy at the head of the table with the dark hair and sharp gray eyes is Jake Becker. Jake’s the straight man in our little troupe—the Abbott to my Costello. He can be a scary motherfucker when he chooses to be, which makes it all the more entertaining when the soft spot he tries so hard to pretend he doesn’t have gets revealed.
“Does it matter?” he says into the phone, looking bewildered. “I don’t know. Whatever you want, I’m good with. Okay, I gotta go. Brent just got here. I love you, too.”
That would be Chelsea McQuaid on the other end of that phone, the owner of the finger Jake is completely wrapped around. They’re getting married in two months. For a long time, Jake was a hard-core bachelor—a Dark Knight in a lonely Batcave without a Vicki Vale. Then Chelsea and her six orphaned nieces and nephews came along and adopted him, kind of against his will. It was the best thing that ever happened to the grumpy son of a bitch. When he’s with Chelsea and the kids, there are moments that he’s so happy, it almost hurts to look at him.
Jake sets his phone on the table. “Jesus Christ, why am I doing this again?”
He doesn’t sound it, but he’s happy. Trust me.