Page 4

For a beat, we stare at each other in the mirror before slowly turning to face one another.
As if in slow motion, I’m hit with a wave of energy, like a pure shot of electricity, that awakens something deep in my core, and I hate it.
Because it’s him.
Nathaniel Hart.
San Francisco’s top personal injury attorney.
Billionaire playboy.
And the son of the man I want to destroy.
2
NATHAN
“I can buy my own drink, thank you though.” The feisty woman who gave Chase “Jerkoff” Torres the virtual middle finger rejects my offer to pay for her drink with a dismissive wave of her hand. Her fiery glare pierces through me, as if daring me to challenge her.
But instead of being annoyed, a grin tugs at the corner of my lips. There’s something intriguing about her. She’s refreshing, and oozes confidence that most people spend a lifetime trying to master.
“Well,” I say, resting my elbows casually on the bar, “it seems like you’ve got everything handled. For the record, I wasn’t trying to get you to come home with me. I just thought you might enjoy a drink with some company that doesn’t fall into the douchebag category.”
Her lips twitch, almost betraying a smile, but she quickly masks it. “Nice try, but I don’t need company.”
“Noted,” I reply, raising my hands in mock surrender, then I reach to unbutton my navy suit jacket. “However, I would like to buy you a drink to congratulate you on sending Chase back to his wife. I like a woman with strong morals.” It’s a lie by omission;I spotted her as soon as I entered the bar. All legs, dark hair, curves for days, and snarky as hell. She’s a fucking smoke show and I immediately wanted to know everything about her.
“You know him?” She points her thumb in the direction Chase left in.
“And his wife,” I confirm. “You were right. Suzanne deserves better.”
Her voice sounds hopeful about her suspicion when she asks, “So I was right about the three kids?”
“Right on the money.”
“Knew it,” she says triumphantly with a smug grin before she draws her lips into a thin line again.
Something about her tells me she doesn’t let her guard down very often, if at all, and doesn’t trust me, or anyone. Not easily anyway.
The only reason I know this is because I recognize a lot of myself in her.
Guarded. Takes no bullshit and can smell a rat a mile off.
I guess that’s what makes me the top personal injury lawyer in the city. I’m a skilled listener and can read between the lines, hearing what’snotbeing said, and I have an innate ability to analyze client nuances. It’s what sets me apart. My success isn’t just built on knowing the law, it’s also knowing people and how to read them. Which I’m an expert at.
For instance, right now, I know the woman with the tempting mouth who was quick to reject my offer to buy her a drink is now reconsidering. The slight tilt of her head, the irritated way she’s tapping her fingers on the bar, and the subtle softening of her posture give her away.
She’s unaware of her body leaning closer to me. It shifted by only a couple of inches, butInotice. And the way she’s licking her lips while staring at mine as if she’s imagining what it wouldbe like to kiss me is a sure sign that she’s attracted to me, and I bet she hates herself for it.
As she continues to assess me, I can sense a question lingering on the tip of her tongue, but she’s holding back. So I say what I know she’s eager to hear, because she’s trying to figure out if I’m a gentleman or a sleaze ball. “I know Chase because he’s a lawyer, like me, but please don’t mistake us for being friends. My friends are faithful, and loyal to a fault.” Unlike Chase. He’s a shitty lawyer with a shitty reputation.
“I wasn’t asking,” she bites back.
“You didn’t need to.”
The bartender puts our drinks down on the bar, and I slide the one-hundred-dollar bill his way, instructing him to take it. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir.” The bartender tips an invisible hat and smiles appreciatively before he walks away.