REESE

I arrive to the courthouse an hour before start time, but, frustratingly, the

picketers and crowds are pure insanity. I push through it all and by the time

I make my way to the courtroom, I end up in the same back row as

yesterday. Then again, I think, as I try to get comfortable in the hard seat,

maybe I need to keep a low profile until I deal with the Reese Summer

situation. Situation. There's a way to describe what's happening between

me and that man.

Pulling my journal from my briefcase, I open it to my writing from

yesterday, and grimace at my scribbled note about women who fall in love

with convicted killers. Mr. Hotness isn't the defendant, but the story idea is

still a good one. Setting that aside for now, I start jotting down notes related

to Lauren's comments, with a focus on who might be guilty of the murders,

if not the defendant. I'm pages into my thoughts when the action in the

courtroom begins, and it's not long before Reese is at his table, and I find

myself remembering his words, spoken all gravelly and low: You came for

me. Come for me again. There had been a glint in his eye, I realize. Cocky

bastard knew exactly what he was implying about me and my, well…

orgasm. And holy hell, as he walks to the bench to greet the judge, I'm

fairly certain a number of women sigh for no reason other than that he is in

the same room. I really hate that I'm one of them, but I'm not going to deny

that he's a good-looking man. That isn't the point in all of this. His attitude

and my job are.

The trial begins, and the prosecution claims the reins, continuing its

opening statement narrative, painting a picture of a selfish billionaire who

wanted his cake and to eat it too, a.k.a. a wife and a mistress. It's dirty,

gritty, nasty legal work. It's also delivered clumsily, filled with empty

spaces, and theories that have no factual support. And from where I sit,

Reese does an incredible job of tearing down every witness that is

presented.

So much so that by lunchtime I set aside Lauren's praise for Reese and

decide that my original assessment of the man is correct: He is most

definitely the kind of man who will fuck you and fuck you over, unless you

fuck him and fuck him over first. Professionally speaking, of course, and as

a general observation, made objectively by a woman who has not gotten

naked with him. Which brings me to who is actually naked and exposed

right now, and it's not me or Reese, but rather everyone else in the

courtroom.

As if proving every mental point I've just made, he approaches a witness

for the prosecution and proceeds to turn the woman into a silly schoolgirl,

who fidgets, smiles nervously, and bats her eyes at him. She also proceeds

to look like a liar when she can't keep her story straight. It seems that her

claim to have seen the defendant with his "alleged" mistress, as Reese calls

her, proves less than reliable. Apparently, she's not sure what she saw after

all.

Unsurprisingly, once she's off the stand, the prosecution asks for an early,

and long, lunch break. "One hour," the judge allots, giving nothing but the

standard break, which to me says that he believes the witness list is not only

long, but destined to be drawn out.

The gavel is clunked on the wooden block on top of the judge's desk, and

the courtroom becomes a gaggle of people standing and moving toward the

door. I don't get up. I can't. The walkway is packed and I'm trapped. I try to

make good use of my captive position, watching the front of the courtroom

for a story. The prosecution scrambles to a back room while Reese lingers

at his table, conversing with his client and co-counsels. Interestingly, Reese

stands close to the accused. He leans toward him. Lauren is right. This is a

man who believes his client is innocent. Or Reese simply loves everyone

who pays him and pays him well.

The courtroom doesn't just begin to thin out, it empties out like a suction

draining a swamp, and suddenly, I'm out in the open, exposed, a woman

watching Reese Summer in a sea of empty seats. It's in that moment that he

leans in close to his client to say something in his ear. In doing so, he faces

the courtroom, and me, and his gaze seems to fall on me: The woman who

almost stood him up for coffee, who is now sitting in his courtroom, staring

at him. This feels like a scene out of a stalker movie, and I'm the stalker.

He doesn't react to my presence. Maybe he doesn't recognize me. Maybe

his mind is elsewhere. Whatever the case, he continues to stare at me with

no external reaction before pulling back to look at his client, his attention

back where it belongs: Not on me.

"Miss," a security guard greets me, suddenly towering above me. "We

need you to exit the courtroom."

I frown and look at grandpa in blue, wondering if the man is serious.

How was I supposed to leave when I was blocked in? My walkway is clear

now, and I leave my comment in my head. "Of course," I say, as he steps

into the aisle in a fashion that prevents me from walking in any direction

but the door. Maybe he thinks I'm a stalker, too.

I move in front of him and exit the courtroom. And that is how my thirtysecond encounter with the man of the hour, Mr. Arrogant Asshole, Mr.

Hotness, ends: With me escorted to the door by an armed guard. So much

for professionalism and discretion.

I exit the side door of the courtroom, Nelson Ward walking in front of

me, Elsa and Richard, my co-counsels, beside me, while I have one thing,

the wrong thing in the middle of a trial, on my mind: A woman. They reach

the private room where we'll have lunch and talk strategy, and I watch them

enter before turning on my heel and heading the other direction.

"Reese."

I turn to find Elsa, who is a stunning older version of Cat by fifteen years,

standing at the door. Only I don't want to fuck Elsa. I've never wanted to

fuck Elsa, and not because of a ten-year age difference between us. Because

the woman has the personality of cardboard, despite her brilliant mind. But

I have wanted to fuck Cat. From the moment she tugged on my sleeve and

cast me in an irritated, green-eyed stare that told me at least ten things about

her personality, all of which became: I want to fuck her.

Instead, she was already fucking me.

Fucking reporters, and that has to be her story. It's the only thing that

makes sense.

"I'll be back in ten minutes," I say to Elsa, already giving her my back

and walking down the hallway.

I exit to the main corridor, happy as hell that the press has rules to follow

that don't include accosting me and security has a tight handle on the

boundaries. Of course, some of them might decide that equates to a

challenge, I think, with Cat in my mind. I scan the corridor and get lucky. I

spy my little blonde game player headed down the hallway to my left. I

don't need encouragement to follow. I'm already making tracks in her

direction, and when she turns right, I step up the pace. Her path leads me to

a set of stairs, in a less-populated part of the courthouse. The sound of her

footsteps leads me up the stairs, and I reach the top just in time to see her

enter a room to my right.

I pursue her, and when I discover that room is a bathroom, I don't care.

This woman played me, and I don't like to be played. She finds out now

that it ends now. I follow her inside.