Page 10

Chapter Ten

Tahlia

July 1st

T he smell of burnt coffee, toner, and various fragrances hangs in the air as I stare blankly at my screen.

The case file is open, notes are scribbled, and highlight marks are visible everywhere.

Still, none of it is sinking in.

You know what is occupying my mind this morning, Jake Reynolds.

He's the static I can't tune out.

I mutter, "You danced. You almost kissed. Now get back to work." The pep talk I need to push me forward.

It fails.

My phone teases me by vibrating when an alert comes through.

It knows what I'm looking for. I yank my attention back to my monitor and dig into the client file before me, trying to drown myself in legalese.

STATEMENT OF FACTS

On the evening of July 8, 2023, the defendant, Mr. Daniel Hayes, was observed entering the premises of 1143 Grant Street without permission. Surveillance footage obtained from a neighboring property confirms the time of entry at 11:42 p.m. No forced entry was evident, but the back door was found ajar. The property owner, Ms. Rosa Valdez, states that several personal items were missing, including a laptop and a designer handbag.

I've read this part a million and one times, I'm sure. My mind is focused elsewhere. Last night, the fundraiser was fabulous. That near kiss left me panting in my dreams; now, I can't seem to pull it together.

Against my better judgment, I unlock my phone and swipe down, only to reveal no messages.

A part of me wants to text him first.

But why would I do that?

What would I say?

What am I trying to convince myself of?

The bigger, smarter part wants to hurl my phone across the room.

"Focus, Carter," I whisper.

Recalling how I used to pep myself up during debate class when the contest was on the line.

But what if I missed his call?

So much for focus.

I thumb through my recent calls, thinking maybe, just maybe…

"Hey, Tahlia, you got those Latham depositions ready yet?"

Saved by the lawyer.

I look up from my phone and see Aaron—the firm's junior associate, with a smug grin and expensive cologne that smells way too eager. He's asked me out a few times, and I caved only once.

It wasn't bad. If you call a night where he insisted on talking about himself, his time in France, and how he loves to go out and get wasted after winning a trial.

Not really my vibe.

"Working on it," I say coolly, locking my phone as if I was just caught looking at something inappropriate.

Aaron leans against my cubicle wall, smirking. "Big case brings a lot of pressure. You sure you don't want… a little help?" His voice drops in an attempt to be seductive.

I give him a long, deadpan stare. "Aaron, the only thing I need from you is to stay six feet away and keep breathing quietly."

He chuckles like I'm joking.

I'm not, but I relieve his mental torment. "I'll get those depos dropped off to you in a little bit. Let me just finish this for Mr. Neal." I bury myself back into the same text and arm myself with a highlighter.

Thankfully, he gets the hint and slinks off toward the copy room.

"This isn't working." I shake my head, biting back a groan, and march straight for the break room in desperate need of caffeine.

On the way, I pass two paralegals and another junior associate, Marley. All three glance at me like I’ve grown a second head—or maybe showed up in heels made of dollar bills. Not rude, just… curious. As if someone changed my name in the group chat and forgot to tell me.

I check my shoes to ensure they are the same color and wave the weirdness off. Maybe it's my lack of sleep that has me trippin'. Or maybe I do have something in my teeth.

Whatever it is, I'm not letting that stop me and my quest for something to help me focus.

I storm toward the break room as though it's holding the answers to the Bar exam and inner peace in the same damn K-Cup. My brain's fried, my patience is dead, and if I don't get a hit of sugar or caffeine in the next sixty seconds, someone's going to end up in a deposition they didn't ask for.

Naturally, the vending machine chooses this exact moment to play me.

Now I'm elbow-deep in a vending machine disaster.

Why is the damn granola bar stuck halfway up the coil like it's clinging for dear life?

Joi breezes in, balancing two coffees like she moonlights as a barista goddess. She stops short, eyebrows raised.

"Okay… why is everyone looking at you like you slapped their mama?"

I glance over my shoulder. "No idea. But if this granola bar doesn't drop in the next ten seconds…" I resume smacking the side of the vending machine as if it owes me rent.

"So, how was last night?" Joi asks, clearly trying to distract me before I kick glass.

"It was fine. I won a guitar at the silent auction. I got the email this morning."

"A guitar?" she blinks. "You planning to serenade at the Bar exam?"

"Only if the granola bar fails me. Desperate times, you know."

"Okay, Gabriella Wilson. Did you win anything else? Like, I don't know, a six-foot-something centerfielder with a strong jawline and questionable boundaries?"

Why did she bring up Jake? He's the one thing I'm trying to forget.

"You are unhinged, Joi."

"And yet, not wrong."

I shoot her a look. "Nothing happened. It was just a fundraiser. I ate overpriced hors d'oeuvres, lost a bidding war for a sewing machine to someone's grandmother, and went home. That's it, that's all."

"Uh-huh."

"I mean it. It was… normal."

"Girl, you are in so much denial. It should be illegal," she says, handing me one of the coffees with a raised brow.

I give the vending machine one final defiant whack.

The granola bar drops like it's waving a white flag.

"Yes," I mutter, grabbing it and stuffing it into my pocket as Joi cackles.

"What now?" I ask half-suspicious, half-finally paying attention.

Joi grins as if she holds the answers to the universe and the Wi-Fi password.

"When you arrived this morning, you were floating on cloud Reynolds. Just smiling and humming and shit. It's sickening and not of your character."

I open my mouth to argue but stop short when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I grab it, heart kicking up a notch, smile threatening to make me feel good.

Jake: Coach said media's coming to watch us practice ahead of tonight's game. Wanna see what we actually do when we're not signing balls and making noise?

I scoff. Typical.

Joi peeks over my shoulder. "Ooooh. Practice invite. He wants you to come drool at him while he swings bats and flexes in slow-mo."

I glare. "You are insufferable."

I type back:

Me: You do realize I have a job, right?

Jake: You work downtown. Not Antarctica. Bring your blazer and your judgment. Practice starts at 2.

Joi bumps my hip. "Girl, you better go. Watch your man strut around all sweaty and heroic."

"I don't have a man," I mutter, already feeling my resolve cracking.

Joi sings, "Not yet."

I roll my eyes, but the smirk gives me away.

She winks, bumping her shoulder into mine as she heads toward the elevators.

"Call me when you admit you're obsessed," she calls over her shoulder, coffee in hand as if she’s just won something.

"You'll be collecting Social Security first," I shoot back.

She laughs all the way down the hall.

I chug half my coffee and stroll back to my desk like I'm not absolutely going. All eyes on me again as they are pointing at something on their screens.

They must've emailed the list of who's helping with the next case.

I rush back to my office to pull up the information, but as soon as I sit down, my phone buzzes again.

Jake: You're still coming, right?

I smirk at the screen.

Me: Hard to stalk you if I'm stuck in a deposition, Reynolds.

He fires back immediately.

Jake: Skip it. Tell them you're observing future criminal behavior.

I shake my head, laughing under my breath.

Joi peeks around the corner, eyes wide with fake innocence.

"You're smiling at your phone like you just got a Nobel Prize."

"I thought you were gone back to your office. Get out," I mutter, flipping her off playfully.

She blows me a kiss and disappears down the hall.

I look at my phone and throw logic out of the window. I grab my bag, shove a few files in, and tell myself this is purely for… academic observation.

Yeah, right.

Me: I'll be there.

By two o'clock, I'm at the stadium.

I pull up to the entrance, squinting through the glare bouncing off the security booth.

A guy in sunglasses steps out and leans toward the driver's side. "Name?"

"Tahlia Carter."

He checks a clipboard and nods once. "You're good. VIP's lot is straight ahead, third row on the left."

"Thanks."

He waves me through, and I ease forward, weaving between a few cars and a line of Gatorade-stickered golf carts.

I find a spot tucked near the end and kill the engine. The second I open the door, the Nashville heat punches me in the face. It's not just hot—it's disrespectful. It's like the sun has a problem with me and has decided to air its grievances through my pores.

I step out of the cool confines of my car into the thick, sticky air, paired with the smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with melted nacho cheese and sunscreen.

And yet…

Somehow, it feels electric.

I pass through the side gate leading onto the field.

Spectators' seats are mostly empty—just a few family members and early media setting up equipment.

I spot Christy Freeman chatting with a security guard. She was super sweet last night at the event, helping me feel at ease.

She waves me over, friendly and composed, like someone who knows what to say and when to say it.

"Tahlia," she greets, handing her visitor lanyard to security. "Can't get enough of Jake, huh?"

I smirk. "It's purely for research purposes."

Christy laughs. "Right. That's what I tell myself every time I Google my own boyfriend."

Did she say boyfriend as if that's what Jake and I are? No. No. No.

She steps a little closer, flipping her phone around. "By the way. Did you see the society page this morning?"

I frown. "No. Why?"

She taps, scrolls, and then holds the screen out to me.

And there it is. The reason everyone at the office was looking at me with whispers.

A full-color shot of me and Jake from the fundraiser—his arm around my waist, both of us mid-laugh, frozen under twinkling lights. My green dress glowing.

My stomach flips.

I didn't expect this, and I definitely didn't plan for it.

Christy tilts her head, reading my face. "Welcome to the media circus, love," she says. "You're officially on the radar."

Before I can respond, the sound of cleats on turf pulls our attention.

Jake is jogging toward me like he's got all the time in the world.

Christy gives my arm a gentle squeeze. "See you later… counselor."

And just like that, she's gone.

Jake jogs over between drills, a towel slung around his neck and shades on to block the sun. His black practice jersey clings to sweat-slicked skin, muscles flexing with every easy stride.

He slows to a stop in front of me, grinning wide.

"Didn't think you'd actually show, counselor."

I cross my arms, tilting my head. "Didn't think you had real practices."

He puts a hand to his chest as if I’ve wounded him. "Brutal."

"Try harder," I smirk.

He chuckles and steps closer—close enough that I catch the salt and heat on his skin.

"Did you know about the picture?" I add, cocking a brow.

His grin stretches wider. "The one where your hand is on my chest like you own me?"

"No. I mean the one where you had your arm around my waist like you were marking your territory."

He shrugs, unbothered. "I thought we looked good."

"You're ridiculous, Reynolds."

"And trending," he shoots back.

I roll my eyes. "Congratulations. You're famous… again."

His gaze lingers for a second too long. Softer now. Focused.

"Seriously, you really did look good in it, Tahlia." His voice dips. "But you look even better now."

And before I can react, he nudges my elbow.

"You staying for the game?"

I shake my head. "No. I came here to watch you practice, but I really need to go home and study. I've ignored it long enough."

His mouth twists as if just told him puppies aren't real.

"C'mon. One game. I'll even hit a homer for you."

"As if you can promise that."

He leans in slightly, grin going cocky. "Bet I could if you asked nicely."

I open my mouth to fire back—but stop.

The faint scar above his right eyebrow catches the light.

Barely visible but sharp. I wonder where it came from. Was it an errant ball? I table that for later.

"How about I'll clap if you strike out?" I say instead, deadpan.

He laughs, warm and boyish like it never even occurred to him that I could say no.

A coach's whistle slices through the moment, sharp and final.

He glances back toward the field, then looks at me again.

"If not for the game, just stay for a bit." His voice is quieter. More real. "I like having you here."

That stupid little flip in my stomach again.

I hesitate… then nod.

He jogs back, tossing a grin over his shoulder that hits harder than it should.

I climb into the stands and watch him warm up—laughing with Kelton, tossing the ball like it weighs nothing, completely in his element.

The rest of the practice blurs past in a hum of shouts, whistles, and cleats scraping turf.

I slip out before the media descends, giving Jake a quick wave, which he catches mid-drill. He flashes a smile—quick, private, just for me—and somehow, that tiny glance lodges itself right under my skin.

The walk to my car feels heavier than it should. The sun is lower now and baking the asphalt.

I unlock my door and slide inside. The interior is hot enough to sting since I forgot to put up my sun visor.

I crank the AC, but it's not the heat that's making it hard to breathe.

It's the guy who once kept me awake with noise complaints… and now keeps me awake for reasons I can't even name.

I sit there for a second, keys in my lap, engine humming.

How did I get here?

I wasn't supposed to get drawn into practice fields and lazy smiles and slow-burn glances that crack my focus wide open.

Not now. Not when the Bar exam is four weeks away. Not when everything I've worked for is within reach.

And yet.

Somehow, he's getting in anyway. Sliding under walls, I didn't even realize I built until he started scaling them without permission.

I pull out of the lot, weaving through downtown traffic. Home is only a few blocks away, but it feels like I'm crossing into another life.

When I reach my building, I park, grab my bag and head upstairs.

The condo is still and quiet. I kick off my shoes, dump my keys on the counter, and snag my study notebook off the couch.

Bar prep. The safe, predictable future.

I pop the cap off my highlighter, ready to dive into another hundred pages of case law.

But when I flip the notebook open—there, in the margins of a half-filled page, I've absentmindedly written:

Jake.

I stare at it. Tiny, almost invisible. But it's there. A crack in the plan. A name I wasn't supposed to need. A problem I don't know how to solve.

I slam the notebook shut, heart thudding. I pull our picture up from the Google search, and it's not only the one Christy shared; there are more: the arrival, the meeting of his teammates, the dance floor where we almost shared our first kiss.

I wasn't supposed to fall for anyone right now, but somehow…

He's already in my margins.