REESE

Four hours later, the courtroom of jurors, press and observers, has

endured the tedious cross-examination of the victim's boyfriend and the

tears of her mother. The testimony drags onward, and the day does not end

early because it's Friday. But ultimately Reese tries to give us all an ending

to the trial. Come nearly six o'clock, he stands and addresses the court.

"Judge," he says, "the defense respectfully requests the dismissal of all

charges. There has been no evidence presented to support charging my

client. At this point, I think we can all question why my client was charged

at all. With the obvious lack of evidence against my client, and a number of

suspects, did the prosecution simply pick the one that gets them the biggest

book deals?"

The courtroom erupts in murmurs and chaos, while I cringe at the

personal note this has hit for me. I've been flirting with Reese. I've all but

promised to get naked with Reese. I have a meeting about writing a book

with the prosecutor, this very hour, perhaps. Turns out I know the answer to

my earlier question: Yes. It can get more complicated.

The judge bangs his gavel and shouts, "Order!" pulling me back into the

moment as he looks directly at Reese. "Unless you get me a confession by

someone other than your client, the jury will decide this case, not me. Don't

argue. You won't like the results. Court adjourned."

And just like that, the trial will continue on Monday, and I have drinks

with the prosecutor instead of coffee followed by sex with Reese Summer.

This day needs a do-over.

I don't wait to find out if there are press conferences after court. I analyze

and opine on crimes. I don't push and shove. I don't hide in bushes or

around corners to get stories. In other words, I don't wait to find out if there

is a press conference after court that will include nothing more than more of

the same huff and puff I listened to all day. A short walk later, I arrive at the

Johnnie Walker bar, on the ground level of the Johnnie Walker Hotel, before

the clusters of tables are filled. I glance around the spacious bar, the décor

all brown leather and wooden masculinity, the lights dim.

I cross the room and settle into a seat by a window, away from any other

tables, allowing for a private conversation with Dan that could include

sensitive and confidential information, if we can get past our dislike for one

another. It also allows me to see the door, at least at the moment, before the

crowds erupt. For the time being, I ignore the entrance, and the menu on the

table that I know from previous visits sports a wide variety of Johnnie

Walker scotch. I'm not a scotch girl. I'm not a drinker at all—at least, not

when I need my head on straight. Which means I will never drink with

Reese Summer.

I'll order coffee.

It's safe.

Or not.

It's not safe, but it is lucky. Coffee is how I met Reese. Coffee is how I

ended up kissing Reese. I'm not writing a book with the prosecutor. If I'm

going to write a book with anyone, I'll write it with Reese. I'll propose that

idea to him and the publisher. I just need to do the obligatory meeting I

have set tonight.

Instead I order a White Russian with a half pour, which ensures I drink

more cream than alcohol. While I wait for it and Dan, a television nearby

has been tuned to the news and a familiar broadcaster is standing in front of

the courthouse, where there is nothing but picketers being reported. I get

one look at a "kill the baby killer sign" and I think I need the rest of that

pour. But too late. My drink is here, and so is Dan Miller, and he looks as

angry tonight as he does pretty much always.

Dan locates me quickly, proving once again that this day needs a reset

button. He crosses the room: Tall, lanky, and in his forties, with a hint of

gray in his brown hair. Too soon, he sits down by the window opposite me.

"I assume you chose this location to be seen. The reporter that scooped the

prosecution."

My anger is instant, but my legal training and debate skills remind me to

clamp it down. "First," I say, biting out a controlled reply, "I didn't choose

this location. My publisher did. Second, I don't scoop stories. Ever. I write

expert analyses and true crime novels."

"Right," he says. "And I gave in and agreed to meet you. No more need

to stalk me at coffee shops. Now what?"

I give an incredulous shake of my head. First Reese with the stalker thing.

Now him. "I live by that coffee shop, so perhaps you were stalking me to

get a true crime book deal."

"I don't need you for a book deal."

"And yet you're sitting with me. Have you ever written a book?"

"No, but—"

"It was a yes or no question, counselor. And now we both know why

you're here. The publisher believes you need a skilled co-writer to write a

decent book. I don't want to be your co-writer. Now we can say we met, we

did this, and we won't work together."

He studies me several beats. "Who wins this case?"

"No one, because justice is not going to be served. You acted rashly. You

didn't wait for the evidence to tell a convincing story."

"You don't think he's guilty."

"I'm an attorney. I honor the court system, and he's innocent until proven

guilty. As for the book, this meeting is over. We can say we did it. We can

say we aren't compatible."

"But you're writing a book anyway."

"Yes."

"You'll need my input."

"If you choose to let Reese Summer speak out while you do not," I

counter, "I'll deal with that fact in my book and you'll have to as well."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a statement of fact."

"This meeting was a joke from the get go."

He says something else, but I tune him out with the sensation of being

watched I'd felt at the courthouse repeating all over again. My gaze pulls

wide and lands on a table across the room, where Reese sits with his cocounsels, and my eyes connect with his, his narrowing, a question in their

depths. He isn't sure what to think. I'm not either. My palms are sweaty. I

feel guilty. This is crazy. I did nothing wrong. He really is making me crazy.

My fingers curl into my palms. Why did I agree to a meeting at a courtroom

hotspot? I've tried to be discreet with Reese, but I happily meet with his

opposition in public?

"Look," Dan says, "I don't need or want—"

"I get it," I say, looking at him. "I'm not writing a book with you. And

frankly, I hope you decide to spend your time finding the right person to

prosecute, rather than writing a book about the wrong one." I grab my bag,

stand up, and head for the door without looking in Reese's direction. I'll

text him when I get out of here and explain, or not. This is my job.

I start walking, and I swear Reese's gaze burns through me. I weave

through the now-occupied tables and the group of people that enter as I'm

trying to exit the bar, pushing past them to travel through the lobby. Once I

step outside, the temperature has dropped about ten degrees, while I feel

downright hot. "Wait one moment."

At the sound of Dan's voice, I cringe and turn to face him. "The publisher

wants this to happen," he says, standing in front of me, crowding me now.

"We need to be on the same page when addressing them."

"I'll talk to them," I say. "I'll move this in the direction we both

obviously want it to go." Which is nowhere, I silently add.

"When?"

"They'll contact me tonight. I'll let them know our decision."

He glares at me for several seconds and then scrubs his jaw and walks

away. And that is when I realize that Reese is standing just outside the hotel

door, close enough that had Dan turned just right, he'd have seen him.

Close enough to have heard everything. For several beats, neither of us

move, speak, even breathe, it seems, the overhang attached to the building

shadows his face. But I don't need to see his expression to feel the anger in

him. He thinks he knows something he does not know.

"Whatever you think you saw, you didn't," I say, and my voice seems to

set him into action.

He walks toward me, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Angry at the moment, a man of

power and control, but that anger is palpable. He stops in front of me, so

damn tall and broad, a chilly breeze lifting that spicy scent of him, which

wraps around me. Everything about him in this moment is overwhelmingly

large.

"What I saw isn't what pisses me off," he says. "You have a job to do.

You have interviews to do. I get that. It's what I heard that pisses me off. A

book deal with that man? Were you feeding your book partner

information?"

"No," I say quickly. "God. No. Reese, this isn't—"

"Were you going to fuck me for information?"

"That's not what this is. Why would I wait, if that's what I wanted?"

"You got me talking. And I admit it. You were good, sweetheart. You

look good. You taste good. You fuck people over real damn good."

"Don't be an asshole because you think I'm an asshole. Because I'm not

an asshole, and that makes you a really big asshole. And the very fact that

you're going off the deep end like this tells a story. You've been burned,

and guess what? Whoever she was is not me."

"Maybe you can put that in your book with Danny boy. Maybe you can

even turn me into a monster defending a monster."

"No," I breathe out, hit hard by those words, and I don't even know why.

"I don't think you're a monster."

"But you need to sell books. However you can sell them, right?"

"That's not who I am. I know you know that."

His voice softens ever so slightly. "I barely know you, Cat."

"Then don't judge me. My publisher set this up, and—"

"You should have warned me."

"This is my job. We aren't dating."

"Right. Just fucking. No. Wrong. We aren't even fucking. We were

waiting while you milked me for more than an orgasm. And now I know

where I went wrong with you. The minute I heard you were a reporter, I

should have pulled your skirt up and had my one and done, and got you the

fuck out of my system."

"Stop being an asshole."

"It's who I am, per you."

"You're reading this all wrong, and you're—"

"I don't want more information," he bites out. "Let's keep this simple but

not sweet. Hard and fast. Hard and long. As long as it ends. I'm in. If you

want to fuck. Let's fuck."

"You ruined the joy of that little adventure."

"Fine," he says. "If you change your mind, if you want your one and

done, call me. Otherwise, don't." He turns and walks away, leaving me on

the sidewalk, staring after him as he re-enters the building.

I take a step to follow him and quite possibly punch him, but several

high-profile lawyers walk into the hotel behind him. And I amend my

earlier statement. Meeting here wasn't stupid. I have nothing to hide with

Dan. With Reese, it's different. We're one big, combustible ball of angry,

sex-driven tension that's hard to miss if you're in the same room with us.

Rotating, I start an angry walk toward my apartment, and with every step

I take, that anger vibrates through me. Being pissed off morphs into images

of my ex screwing his secretary and a playlist of his lies. Reese didn't deny

being burned. He didn't deny that it was driving his reactions to me now.

Damn it, I've seen beneath the asshole. It's a wall. I get it. I have my own.

My anger plummets.

I make it one block and I dial Reese's number. He doesn't answer. I walk

another block and try again. He doesn't answer. I start getting angry all over

again. This emotional rollercoaster and attempts to contact him repeat for

seven blocks until I stop walking. At which point I realize that he must

think that I'm actually calling for sex. Now he's toying with me the way he

thinks I've toyed with him.

I turn around and start walking back toward him.

This ends tonight, one way or the other.