Page 27 of Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

Caleb

S he's wearing my Harvard t-shirt and it's doing things to me.

Serena's perched on my kitchen barstool, drowning in my clothes, hair still damp from the shower, and she looks more stunning than any woman has a right to. Not because she's perfect—she's not, and that's the fucking point—but because she's here. In my kitchen. Instead of rushing out the door.

"How do you even work this thing?" She's examining my coffee machine like it's a spacecraft.

"Years of practice and a YouTube tutorial I'll never admit to watching." I move behind her, reaching around to hit the right buttons. "Latte?"

"God, yes."

The domesticity hits like a warm surge. I’ve never wanted anyone in my space like this. I want to freeze the frame—her in my t-shirt, steam curling off her mug—and label it on the back: start of something real .

While the machine works its magic, I watch her explore my kitchen with curious fingers, touching the marble countertops, the overpriced knife block I never use, the fruit bowl that's purely decorative.

"This place is ridiculous," she says. "Your kitchen is bigger than my entire living area. Maybe my whole apartment."

"I went through a phase where I thought I'd learn to cook."

"And?"

"And I learned I'm excellent at making reservations."

She laughs, and the sound fills the room better than any of the expensive art on the walls. This is what I want—her laughter in my kitchen, her presence making this sterile penthouse feel like an actual home.

My phone buzzes. Logan. I ignore it.

"Shouldn't you get that?" she asks.

"No." I hand her the latte.

"It could be important."

"Nothing's more important than this."

She rolls her eyes. "You can't just ignore the world because we had sex."

"We didn't just have sex." I move between her knees, needing to be closer. "We had a breakthrough."

Her cheeks flush. "Caleb?—"

"Serena."

She shakes her head, but the smile she's fighting is real. She wears it warily, like it might betray her. "Do you ever turn it off?" she asks, meaning the relentless charm, the confidence, the way I make everything about us sound like cosmic inevitability.

"The short answer is no." I lean in, nuzzling the patch of collarbone peeking from under my ancient Harvard tee. "But honestly, there's not much I want to turn off about what just happened."

She sets down her mug, hands steady now, and looks at me from under wet lashes.

"You know, my shrink once told me that my biggest flaw was wanting things too much.

That as soon as I wanted something, I'd start tearing out the floorboards, hunting for the trapdoor that meant it was all going to disappear. "

I trace the edge of her jaw. "Do you want to talk about that with me?"

"What do you mean?"

"What that trap door looks like. And why you expect to find one."

She sips her coffee with both hands, turning the cup around and around so the logo faces me, then away, then back. She's nervous, and for once I don't want to break her tension with sex. I want to hold the silence open until she fills it with something of her own.

"Have you always been the guy with the charm and the looks?"

"Pretty much," I admit. "I mean, I had an awkward phase around thirteen, but?—"

"Right. An awkward phase." She laughs, but it's bitter. "I had an awkward decade."

I stay quiet, letting her find the words.

"The moment I hit puberty, my body turned against me," she says quietly.

"I gained weight like it was my job. Sixty pounds in two years.

My face was a constellation of acne. I had glasses thick enough to see the future.

" She traces the rim of her mug. "I went from being invisible to being visible in all the wrong ways. "

"Kids are assholes."

"Kids are honest." She shrugs. "They called me Pizza Face. Shamu. Four-Eyes. Michelin Man. Creative bunch. And honestly, my mother wasn’t any kinder. She’d leave diet pamphlets on my pillow.

She signed me up for Weight Watchers when I was fourteen.

Said no man would ever want me if I looked like that.

" Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion, which is somehow worse than tears.

"And for a long time, she was right. The guys who did show interest..

. they wanted me in the dark. In their cars.

Never in daylight. Never where their friends could see. "

My jaw aches from how hard I'm clenching it. Every word is a gut punch. This is the source of the shame, the reason she hides. It’s not just teenage bullies; it was her own mother.

It was every man who treated her like a dirty secret.

I pull her off the stool, settling her onto my lap so she's straddling me, my t-shirt a tent around her.

I wrap my arms tight around her waist, holding her against me.

"They were fucking idiots," I say, my voice a low growl against her hair. "All of them."

"I'm not telling you this for pity," she says quickly. "I'm telling you so you understand. You've always been..." she gestures at me, "this. Tall, handsome, probably had girls throwing themselves at you since middle school, kind of guy."

"That's not?—"

"Let me finish." She takes a breath. "I wasn't the object of anyone's desire. I wasn’t the prize.

If anything, I was the source of ick. But when I was in college, everything came to a head.

I could barely stay awake, exhausted all the time, gaining more weight despite barely eating.

Finally found a doctor who didn't just tell me to 'eat less, move more.

' Turns out my hormones were completely fucked. PCOS, insulin resistance, the works."

I don't interrupt, just hold her as she speaks.

"It took two years to get the right medication balance.

Two years of different pills, shots, different doses, blood tests every month.

But it worked. The weight came off. My skin cleared up.

I got contacts." She looks at me. "And suddenly, people saw me.

Men noticed me. I went from invisible to visible, but this time in the 'right' way. "

"That must have been?—"

"Confusing as hell." She laughs shakily.

"But here's the thing no one tells you about losing that much weight—your skin doesn't always snap back.

It's not like those before-and-after photos where everything's perfect in a smaller package.

I got slim, yeah. But the old me is still there, hanging off me like a deflated balloon.

I traded one embarrassing body for another. "

"It's not embarrassing?—"

"To you, maybe. But I lived in that first body for twenty years. I know what people really think about women who look like that. And now I'm in this body, which looks acceptable in clothes but underneath..." She gestures at herself. "I'm like a poorly wrapped gift no one wants to open."

"That's not?—"

"Don't argue. Just listen," she says, voice softer now.

"You can say all the right things, and honestly, I believe you mean them.

But you've never lived in a body you were taught to apologize for.

You have no idea how many ways the world tells women like me that we can only be loved if we're extra—extra smart, extra funny, extra humble, extra accommodating. Never just… enough as we are."

She stops, looking sideways at the infinite skyline outside my windows, lashes wet. The pause stretches, but I don't move to fill it. She's doing this brave, terrifying thing—handing over a part of herself she's spent years hiding. I won't dilute it by rushing in too soon.

"Even now, when you say my name, when you make me coffee, when you tell me I'm beautiful, I can't help but wonder if there's a punchline.

Or if you're just waiting for the moment I disappoint you.

Because that's what happened, again and again.

People said they wanted to know the real me, but only until it stopped being pretty.

Then they bailed. Or worse, they pretended I wasn't the same person they started with. "

She shrugs, not looking at me. "So, yeah, I've been engineered at a molecular level to expect the trapdoor. That's what my shrink called the 'inevitability of shame.' It's always waiting under the floor you just swept clean."

I hold her tighter, my throat thick with a rage so potent it’s a miracle I can speak. I want to hunt down every person who ever made her feel like less, starting with her mother. But that won't fix this. Only I can.

"I'm not going to tell you that you're wrong to feel that way," I finally say, my voice raw.

"Because what they did to you—your mother, those assholes—it was monstrous.

" I pull back just enough to force her to meet my eyes.

"But I will tell you this. There is no trapdoor here.

Not with me. No conditions. No fine print.

" My thumb strokes her cheek, wiping away a tear.

"I love you, Serena. All of you. The girl with the glasses and the woman in my t-shirt. There is no shame here. Only us."

She goes completely still. "You can't just say that," she whispers, sliding off my lap so she’s standing in front of me.

“Say what? That I love you?”

“Yes!”

"I just did."

"We've been together for a week—barely."

"If we count from the moment you walked into my office, it’s two. But, if I’m honest, I've been falling for you for months. I just finally hit the ground."

"That's not love. That's?—"

"What? Infatuation? Lust? Temporary insanity?" I shake my head. "I've had all those. This is different."

She's trembling now, caught between running and staying. I can see it in every line of her body—the way her shoulders tense, her fingers grip the counter, eyes dart toward the door then back to me.

"You don't know what you're saying."

"I'm a lawyer. I always know what I'm saying.

" I stand and cup her face gently. "I love your brilliance.

Your sass. The way you fight for yourself and stand by your friends.

I love that you watch serial killer documentaries to relax.

I love that you stress- bake. I love your body—every inch, every mark, every story it tells. "

"Stop."

"I love that you're terrified right now but you're still here. I love that you trusted me enough to tell me about the kids who called you names, about the way your mother treated you, about the doctors—all of it."

"Caleb, please?—"

"I'm not asking you to say it back. I'm not asking for anything except that you believe me." I press my forehead to hers. "No trapdoors. No escape plans. No punchlines. Just me, loving you, exactly as you are."

She's crying now, real tears, and not the pretty kind. Her shoulders shake and she makes these little gasping sounds that break my heart.

"What if I can't?" she asks. "What if I'm too broken to believe you?"

"Then I'll keep telling you until you can. Every day if I have to."

"What if I never?—"

"Then I'll love you anyway." I wipe her tears with my thumbs. "That's what love is, Serena. It's not conditional on you being perfect or confident or even believing you deserve it. It just is."

She kisses me then, desperate and messy, tasting like coffee and tears and months of wanting. When she pulls back, she's still crying but she's also smiling.

"You're insane," she says.

"About you? Absolutely."

"This is too fast."

"This is exactly the right speed."

"I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I. We'll figure it out together."

She takes a shaky breath. "I'm not saying it back yet."

"I don't need you to."

"But I..." She stops, searching for words. "I feel things. Big things. Scary things. Things that make me want to run and stay at the same time."

"That's enough. More than enough."

My phone buzzes again, insistent this time.

Bennett:

911. Get to the office. Now.

"Shit." I show her the text. "I have to go."

"It's fine. I should probably go home anyway?—"

"No." I pull her closer. "Stay. Please. Raid my fridge. Use my ridiculously huge TV to watch your serial killers. Order food if there's nothing here you like. Just be here when I get back."

"Caleb—"

"I just told you I love you while you're ugly crying in my kitchen wearing my favorite t-shirt. You think I'm letting you run now?"

She laughs, watery but real. "Fine. But I'm going to take a bath in that huge tub of yours and use all your fancy products."

"Use everything. Reorganize my entire apartment. Set fire to my suits. Graffiti the walls. I don't care as long as you're here when I get back."

"How long will you be?"

"Few hours max. I'll bring lunch. Thai food from that place you love."

"You want me to text my Thai order?"

"I'm pretty sure you told me once already. Let's see… Pad Thai, extra peanuts, medium spice even though you want hot but it gives you heartburn."

"Your memory is creepy."

"That's love."

She shakes her head but she's smiling. "Go. Before Bennett sends a search party."

I kiss her once more, pouring everything I am into it. "Don't run."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

As I grab my keys and head for the door, she calls out, "Caleb?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For everything you are."

"Of course, sweetheart."

I leave before I can change my mind about going to the office at all. The last image I have is her in my kitchen, drowning in my clothes, looking like she belongs there.

Because she does.

She absolutely does.