Page 36 of Free to Judge (Amaryllis Heritage #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Our night starts with an argument over pizza toppings.

“Mushrooms are not a topping,” she declares, curling her dainty bare foot on her kitchen stool with a glass of cabernet in one hand.

“They’re fungus. Fungus is not conducive to romance.

Thus, while I don’t have a problem with the bride and groom wanting an individual pizza party buffet, I vehemently disagree with the inclusion of fungus. It’s wrong.”

I raise a brow as I watch her prepare a large thin crust pizza smothered with sauce, cheese, and pepperoni, which she insisted on cooking for us from scratch when I arrived—late, per usual. “Neither is pineapple, but you’re not banning that.”

“Because pineapple is a fruit. It’s tropical. Joyful.”

I lean over the counter. “It’s offensive. Like putting tie-dye on the Constitution.”

She laughs, the sound light and unguarded—something I’m fighting a war to protect. “Wow. You really went full 1L with that analogy.”

“I did not go first-year Harvard Law. All I did was protect human rights to not ruin a pizza.”

I didn’t tell her this was the first time I’d ever made a meal with a woman. Not takeout. Not half a cup of coffee so it didn’t seem like I was escaping like a dire wolf. Just this. The simple enjoyment of banter and good food.

She twirls her wineglass, watching the deep red swirl. “I bet you were insufferable in Con Law.”

“I dominated Constitutional Law.” I can’t help but brag.

“Why does that not surprise me?”

I flick my hands down my arms. “Because I’m your specimen of perfection?”

She rolls her eyes. “Let me guess, you quote Justice Scalia at parties?”

“Only when severely provoked.”

She slides the pizza into the oven, wipes her hands, and leans next to me against the counter.

She’s dressed casually in a ratty Brendan Blake T-shirt that has seen better days.

It hangs off her delicate shoulders, making me too aware of her smooth, creamy skin and the casualness of us being together, alone without any pretense.

I want to reach for her, but instead, I take a drink from my wineglass.

It’s getting harder and harder to resist her.

She looks up at me over the rim of her glass. “So…why Harvard Law?”

I tilt my head. “Is this your version of twenty questions?”

She shrugs, twirling the stemless glass in her hand. “I remember you at my graduation, but never really asked if you went there. I figure now’s as good a time as any.”

I could lie. Say what I always do: “Because it was the best,” but her eyes are too sharp, too knowing. She wouldn’t settle for less than the truth.

So, I give it to her. “Growing up was a challenge. My parents? Well, Dad was gone long before I was born and Ma? She was amazing until she got sick when I was in college. Couldn’t figure out how to work the system to get more assistance.

” I look down into the ruby red liquid and take another drink before continuing.

“Then she was gone, but she told me I could help more people than just her.”

“And then?”

“Then, I spoke with my next-door neighbor. He was a special agent with the FBI.” A pang hits my heart when I think about Director Holder.

Times like this, I want to reach out to him.

“As my world was falling apart, he was there. He explained my options. Law felt like order. Like if I understood it well enough, maybe I could stop things from happening.”

“So, you got your law degree?”

I nod. “Took the bar as a backup. Then, trained physically and mentally before my time at Quantico.”

“Were you a good agent?”

“I was…until I wasn’t.” Tanya’s head arriving at the office slashes through my memory. I shudder in revulsion.

Kalie, for her part, doesn’t press. Instead, she squeezes my arm, leaving her hand there for a brief moment before she moves away and faces the oven where our pizzas are cooking away.

Then, she opens up and gives me a gift I wasn’t expecting. Her voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “I wanted to speak for people who were hurt. That’s what I went to school for—criminal justice and psychology.”

“What changed your path?”

“Living it. I did my internship at a battered women and children’s shelter.

I wasn’t assigned to work with women who never had a shot.

Women like my family. Who were dismissed before they even opened their mouths.

” She takes a deep breath. “Instead, I was assigned—as an intern, mind you—to teach the batterer’s intervention program at the local jail. ”

My whole body stills. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No. They were underfunded, and there I was—smart, free labor.”

My spine tingles with awareness. “What happened?” Because I know something did.

She wraps her arms around her chest. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Liar. I coax, “Let me be the judge of that.”

She bites her lip before admitting, “One night, I was teaching a class about anger management. Overall, my class was made up of guys who were in for bar fights, B&E, things like that. But there was one…”

“One what?”

“One who was in for sexual assault.” She shivers. “The others built a human wall to keep him away from me after he tried to corner me.”

I grit my teeth together. “Where were the guards?”

Her head lifts and her eyes meet mine. “Outside the room.”

I want to howl at the desolate expression on her face. “What did you do?”

Her mouth kicks up in a self-deprecating smile. “Exactly what you think I did. I told my father.”

“Good.” The word is ripped out of me savagely. “Tell me Keene went after the bastards?”

“Actually, I think he first got sentences reduced or thrown out for everyone who protected me. Then he went after the inmate, guards, the shelter—anyone who thought it was a good idea to send an intern into that situation.” Her expression morphs into one of regret. “Turns out it wasn’t the first time.”

Before I crush the delicate wineglass in my fingers, she plucks it from my hands and entwines her fingers with mine. “Something good came from it, Declan. I started my own charity.”

I look down at our hands—hers, smaller but no less strong. Squeezing gently, I ask, “What charity is that?”

“Brave Steps Forward.” Kalie goes on to explain how she personally healed from the trauma by taking a new step every single day. She used a good portion of her trust fund to help others to do so in a healthy way.

“That’s what you were doing the night I saw you? Running with your charity group?”

She smiles tremulously. “Though those are people who are now back on their own. They just support one another by getting together and running. My law school roommate, Layla, helps coordinate the efforts both here and in her hometown of Seven Virtues, North Carolina.”

“Have I mentioned,” I shift so she can slip into my arms, “you’re amazing?”

“No, you haven’t.”

“You are.”

Her smile is bashful. “You’re trying to charm me.”

“Is it working?” I want nothing more than to pull her toward me and kiss her, but the timing isn’t right.

As if to prove my point, the timer beeps on our pizzas.

She makes a show of fanning herself even as she pulls away. “Right on time. Plus, it smells terrific. Be still, my starving stomach.”

I stand up. Even though Kalie is taller than the average woman, she’s dainty compared to me. I lift her onto the stool and place her wine in her hand. “Let me. Just give me directions.”

Kalie takes great relish in ordering me around her kitchen. I pull the pizza out, letting it rest while accumulating napkins and cutlery. Then, I plate it with a flourish—making her roll her eyes before I take my seat on the stool next to her, our knees casually bumping into one another.

We spend the rest of the night comparing our Harvard professors, the ridiculousness of some of our assignments, and the worst oral arguments we’ve ever had to give in court.

I feel like I won a prize when I made her crack up over the Byrnes wanting to sue a gun manufacturer over bullets not being released fast enough so they sustained injuries in a shootout.

She, meanwhile, explains her daily duties at Amaryllis Events.

“I might be willing to trade you mobsters for bridezillas.”

I hold up my hands and give her a horror-stricken face. “No damn way. Those people are insane.”

That line made her laugh so hard she chokes on her wine.

But our discussion reminds her that she needs to send a file to her mother about a client. We wander up to her office. While she accesses her computer, I trace the spines of her legal texts with their gilded edges. When she finishes, she leans against her desk, studying me. “Do you miss it?”

“The FBI?”

She nods. “The mission.”

I walk over to her and slide my arms around her waist. My head rests on top of hers before I admit, “Sometimes. But they didn’t believe in me.”

She pulls back and her brow furrows. My lips curve sadly when I remind her, “About Tanya.”

I think I fall a little more when the light of battle illuminates her gorgeous blue eyes. She tugs me closer against her before declaring, “Then you’re better here with people who believe in you and in what you’re doing.”

Her words strike something deep inside of me. She’s right and suddenly everything before her feels like a different life that belonged to a different man. “You’re right.”

Kalie’s hand smooths up my chest. “That’s a very good line, Counselor.”

“You’re right? That’s the line you’re talking about?”

“Most women would agree with me.”

I throw my head back and laugh. “It’s not a line if it’s true.”

“Use it a lot. It’s a turn on.” Kalie rises on the ball of her feet and kisses me—soft, slow, unhurried.

For that moment, in her office full of pizza and wine, everything else falls away as I deepen the kiss. No threats are being made against this incredible woman. No mobsters, no shadows, no revenge.

It’s just us—two people who once saw each other in the crowd at Harvard Law graduation. Now, we’re clinging to something much more important than our once treasured degrees.

Each other.