Page 30 of Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

Caleb

I wake up to Serena pressed against me, her hair a dark cloud across my pillow, one leg thrown over mine like she's claiming territory even in sleep.

This. This is what I want every morning for the rest of my life.

It’s Friday morning, and she's wearing my Harvard shirt again, claimed it as her nightgown, and it's ridden up to show the curve of her hip. I trail my fingers along her exposed skin, feeling her stir against me.

"Mmm. What time is it?"

"Early. Six-thirty."

"Why are you awake?" She burrows deeper into my chest, her breath warm against my skin.

"Because you're in my bed." I kiss her temple. "Hard to sleep when all I want to do is touch you."

She looks up at me, eyes still heavy with sleep. "That's either romantic or creepy."

"Both?"

"Probably both." She stretches, the shirt riding up further, and what little control I had snaps like a rubber band.

I roll her beneath me, kissing her properly awake. She responds immediately, arms winding around my neck, legs parting to cradle me, and soon we're moving together, slow and sweet and perfect.

She moans, pressing her heels against my ass, urging me deeper.

There's a moment—a perfect, crystalline pause—where it's just us, bodies wound together, breathing the same air, existing in the space between heartbeats.

We move so slowly it's dreamlike, like we're afraid to break the spell of morning or this fragile thing growing between us.

Each thrust is a promise, each kiss an apology.

By the time she comes, pulsing around me with my name on her lips, the sun is painting golden stripes across the sheets.

My own release crashes through me, leaving me shaking and certain of one thing.

She's it. Not just the prize, not just the game. She's the entire fucking point. The reason to play. I'm ruined for anyone else, completely wrecked by this woman. It feels brand new and like it always existed, like I've always been heading toward her and everything before was just killing time.

She's asleep again before I can catch my breath. Mouth parted, one soft snore every fourth breath. Perfect.

I ease out of bed, careful not to wake her, and pull on sweats before heading to the kitchen. My phone's already lit up with messages.

Bennett:

Let me know when you're headed in. Logan has info.

I make a cup of coffee, resisting the urge to make a second and bring it back for Serena.

A few minutes pass. I'm scrolling through emails, half-dreading the meeting with Logan and Bennett this morning, when Serena steps into the kitchen.

She's barefoot, blinking in the soft white light, my t-shirt hitting her just above the knees.

There's something reckless about her, the way her hair is yanked into a lopsided bun, the absence of makeup and any type of constrictive clothing. She looks at me for one long, uncertain heartbeat, and I don’t know if she's expecting the world to tilt, or for me to flinch.

Instead, I just smile, raise my mug in a silent toast. She hesitates, scans the room for those trapdoors, then crosses the floor like she's taking her first steps in a new country. She slides onto the stool beside me, knees drawn up, arms folded in a makeshift hug.

I hit the button on the coffee maker, and once her mug is filled, I slide it across the marble. "You didn't want to sleep in?"

"No. I wanted to get up with you. Have breakfast together. If that's OK." She picks up her mug and uses it as a shield for her lips. Her hands are trembling slightly, but she doesn't spill a drop.

"OK?" I echo, waiting for her to elaborate.

Serena looks at me sideways, the edges of her mouth fighting back a smile. "I'm not used to waking up in someone's bed and not immediately sneaking out before daylight. Feels wrong to just... be here as much as I am. I’ve barely been home since Wednesday."

"You know you don't have to leave." I reach over, tracing the faint reddening on her chin where my morning stubble grazed her skin. "I'd chain you to the headboard if I thought you'd tolerate it."

She snorts, wiping her nose on her wrist, lingering somewhere between bashful and bold. "I believe you. But I'm also not the chainable type."

"Lucky for you, I'm very, very patient." I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her stool closer to mine. "What do you want for breakfast?"

She stares into her coffee for a minute, thinking. "What are you capable of cooking?"

"Good question." I look around the kitchen. "I can do toast. And I have been known to occasionally scramble an egg."

"Eggs and toast is perfect," she says. "No shame in the classics." She sips again, staring pointedly at the fridge. "My dad used to make Sunday-morning eggs that were so rubbery, you could use them as packing foam."

"I'm better than that," I assure her, grabbing a pan from the rack. "Prepare to be moderately impressed."

The old Serena would have turned that into a joke. This morning, she just hugs her coffee and watches me crack the eggs, her gaze almost... proud? I want to keep earning that look for the rest of my life.

I'm halfway through scrambling when she says, quietly, "Do you think you'll end up regretting it?"

I pause, spatula hovering. "Regret what?"

"Getting involved with someone like me." She keeps her face down, eyes on the swirl of her coffee. "With... baggage."

The question stings a little, something I didn’t expect. "You think I'd give you a key to my apartment if I thought I'd regret it?" I let my words carry just enough humor so she knows I mean it. "Have you ever known me to do something I didn't want to?"

Her face softens, and I notice the way she rubs her thumbnail against the side of her mug when she's anxious.

"I guess I’m just trying to wrap my head around all of this.

Most men don't want to meet my monsters," she says, voice breaking at the end like it's supposed to be a punchline. “And when they do, they certainly don’t keep insisting I stick around. I guess I’m just trying to work out where the boundary is. I don’t want to wear my welcome out.”

I set the spatula down and turn off the heat, the soft hiss of the pan the only sound in the room. I move to stand directly in front of her, taking the mug from her hands and setting it on the counter.

"The boundary," I say, my voice low and steady, "is you leaving.

That's the only line you're not allowed to cross.

" I take her hands, running my thumbs over her knuckles.

"There is no welcome to wear out. There's just you, here.

And me, wanting you here." Her eyes are wide, searching mine for the lie.

"And as for your monsters? I've met them.

They don't scare me." I lean in, pressing my forehead to hers.

"They make me want to fight for you even harder.

So you can stop looking for the boundary, because it doesn't exist."

She doesn't cry, but her eyes go glassy, and a shaky breath escapes her lips. A small, wounded smile follows.

"You're going to ruin my entire defense system," she whispers. "All my best material is about men being trash."

"I'll buy you new jokes," I murmur, kissing her softly before I turn back to the eggs and scrape them onto plates, adding a piece of toast to each.

We eat in a comfortable silence, the only sounds the scrape of forks against plates and the low hum of the city waking up outside.

She takes a bite of the eggs and makes a small, appreciative noise, and it feels more satisfying than closing a ten-million-dollar deal.

This should be what my father meant by 'something meaningful.

' Not pro-bono cases or charity galas. This. A quiet Friday morning, a woman I love in my kitchen, and the simple, grounding act of making her breakfast. I reach across the counter and brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth, my thumb lingering on her lip. She leans into the touch, and for the first time, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence.

"You undersold yourself,” she says after the last bite. “This wasn’t just 'better than packing foam.' It was, like, Michelin star-level eggs."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're easy to please."

"Only at breakfast." She steals another bite and glances sideways. "You heard anything from Logan or Bennett yet?"

"Bennett texted. Short version: Logan has new info on the badge situation, but we're going to go over it together this morning."

"Do I need to be there?"

I consider. "You can be. Or you can stay here, finish your coffee, and send me dirty texts about what you want to do later."

"You mean after work or over the weekend?"

"Both. Or for the rest of our lives, but yeah, let's start with dinner."

Her cheeks go faintly pink. She's still so terrified, but I can see the part of her that wants to hope that a life with me is her happy ending, and that's enough for me. For now.

Draining the last of my coffee, I clear away our plates and check the time.

“Do you have to finish getting ready?”

“I do. But we have time for a shower first.”

She grins. "We?"

"Of course," I confirm, as if there was ever any other option for us again.

We barely make it through two minutes of teeth-brushing before I have her pressed against the vanity, mouth full of toothpaste foam and hands half in her hair, half on the smooth curve of her ass.

Her eyes crinkle, laughing as she wipes her chin and shoves me back, but she's the one who drags me into the shower, and this time I don't need to convince her to stand in the light.

I get dressed while she watches from the bed, still wrapped in a towel, looking thoroughly debauched and perfect.

"That's a nice suit," she observes as I button my shirt.

"Tom Ford."

"Of course it is." She stretches like a cat. "What's your day look like?"

"I have that meeting with Logan and Bennett first. Then a deposition at two, client dinner at seven." I work my tie into a Windsor knot.