I haven’t lifted my head from my laptop since I walked through the door. My heels lie discarded beside the entrance, my damp beige trench coat is strewn across the floral armchair where I tossed it, my umbrella is propped in the corner, dripping. Sherman’s stretched out in front of the picture window, his big browns eyeing the raindrops that pour down the window pane. Elton’s Greatest Hits 1970–2002 has been playing as I draft one motion to suppress evidence, another asking for change of venue, and still a third—a response to the district attorney’s attempt to charge my seventeen-year-old client, the son of an esteemed lobbyist, as an adult for drug possession with intent to sell.
The back of my neck aches as I roll my head, trying to loosen the protesting muscles. I set the computer on the couch cushion beside me and rub my shoulders as Elton croons “I Want Love.”
And it’s then I finally let myself think about all the things I was using work to avoid.
Stanton is leaving. Going to Mississippi to fight for “his girl.” There was no uncertainty—letting Jenny Monroe marry someone else was never a consideration. He was adamant, bold, determined as I’ve ever seen him. And I have no doubt he’ll march down there and remind her of everything she’s obviously forgotten.
I imagine him bursting through her door, lifting her with those strong, sculpted arms—like Tarzan claiming his Jane—and convincing her, with his irresistible smile and shrewd charm, to give him another chance.
And when she does—and I’m sure she will—my arrangement with Stanton will be over.
I close my eyes. Because my stomach is tight and there’s a heaviness on my chest—like the feeling you get after swimming in a pool for too long.
This isn’t my first trip around the block. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old single woman. I’ve had several one-night stands. In law school they’re about all you have time for. They fill a need, leave you in a good mood, and help you focus.
One hand literally helping the other.
That’s why I said what I did this afternoon—snapped him out of his shocked funk. Got him on the right track. Because before anything else, Stanton is my friend. I wouldn’t say I’m self-sacrificing—but I’m loyal. And that’s what good friends do. They help each other.
What we have—what he and I do together—is fun. Physical and convenient. And above all else, it was supposed to be simple.
But the sick feeling in my stomach, the tinge of sour jealousy on my tongue—there’s nothing simple about that.
I shake my head at myself, determined to shake off this melancholy right along with it. I’m not one of those girls, the kind ruled by emotions. I’ll just put it aside, like last season’s handbag. Maybe Stanton going away for awhile is the best thing. It’ll give me the space I need to clear my head. Because falling for your “friend with benefits” would be a dumb move, and I’m no dummy.
Sherman lifts his head a moment before there’s a brisk knock on the door. He gets to his feet, but stays silent like the good watchdog he is, as I cross the room. I open the door, and there—his saturated arms braced on the frame—stands a panting, dripping Stanton Shaw. Raindrops cling to his thick lashes as he looks up at me, bent at the waist. A translucent white T-shirt sticks to his torso, outlining ridges of solid muscle and the path of hair that leads lower beneath his drenched running shorts, leaving little to the imagination of what he’s packing beneath. His golden locks lay flat on his forehead, dark and wet.
There’s a Latin phrase—omne trium perfectum—that means everything that comes in threes is perfect. This stands in direct contrast to the commonly held belief that deaths and catastrophes also comes in threes.
It seems only fitting that Stanton utters three words. He’s said those same words to me before in a raspy plea, as a harsh order—each time with his hands grasping my slick body and the air between us heavy with desire.
And in this moment, just as all the ones before it, they’re my undoing.
“Come with me.”
• • •
Dripping in the middle of my living room, Stanton takes my offered towel, rubbing it over his head and down his tan arms.
“Explain it to me again?” I ask, because I just can’t wrap my head around his plan.
“I want you to come with me to Mississippi. I’ve got one shot at this—I can’t afford to screw it up. If I go off like a rocket on Jenn like I did this afternoon, she’ll shut down. That girl’s as stubborn as a whole pack of mules. You can help keep me calm—focused—just like we do in court. Plus, you can give me pointers on how to show her she’s making the biggest mistake of her life.”
“I don’t even know Jenny.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter—you’re a woman. You know how they think. She’s obviously not satisfied with our relationship, so I need to pull out all the stops. Big romantic gestures. You can be my resource—my wingman.”
His wingman—great. Like Goose in Top Gun. The less-than-attractive sidekick. The little buddy. The Expendable.
His shirt makes a wet, sloshing sound as he peels it from his body. I soak in the sight of his deliciously wet, warm skin that tastes like salty heaven on my tongue.
That’s just not fair.
I close my eyes—he’s not the only one who needs to work on his focus.
“Stanton,” I begin with a sigh. “Don’t you think it’ll be weird bringing me home with you while you’re trying to win back your ex?”
He actually takes a moment to consider the question. But doesn’t get it.
“Why would it be weird? We’re friends.”
And I’m forced to point out the obvious. “Friends who have sex!”
Wild, sweaty, unforgettable sex that leaves me exhaustedly, wonderfully sore. Sex we could be having at this very moment . . . if an envelope hadn’t arrived that shot it all to shit.
Rubbing the towel across his ridged torso, he agrees. “Exactly. We’re friends who fuck—that’s nothing like what me and Jenn are.”
The breath is knocked from my lungs—but he doesn’t notice. And I want to punch him in his stupid boy mouth, so he can’t say any more stupid words.
But it’s his expression that stops me from doing it. Innocent, bewildered curiosity shines in his wide green eyes, making him look young and guiltless. Sherman gave me the same look after he mauled a pair of six-hundred-dollar shoes.
A look that says: Huh? What I’d do?
I switch tactics. “I can’t possibly take off from work. My schedule’s packed.”
He doesn’t believe me, because he knows my schedule as well as his own.
Damn him.
He steps closer, grabbing my cell phone off the table behind me. “What’s your code?”
I tighten my lips deliberately.
He just rolls his eyes and punches in a few numbers. He gets it on the first try.
Bastard.
“Your birthday?” he says with a mocking snort. “You should take your security more seriously.”
He accesses my calendar. “You don’t have any court dates. You have one deposition and one client consultation. Brent and Jake could cover those for you.”
Stay strong, Sofia.
“I don’t want them to cover for me.”
Stanton changes tactics too. “You grew up in Chicago, went to school in Boston, and now you live in DC—you’ve never been to the country, never been to the South. You’ll love it—it’ll be like a vacation.”
I snort. “Mississippi in June? It’ll be like a vacation in hell.” Before he can counter, I add, “Besides . . . I don’t fly.”
He wasn’t expecting that. “What do you mean?”
I point to my right side, where the jagged scar adorns my rib cage. “The plane crash, when I was a child? No one in my family has stepped foot in a plane since.”
He gazes off to my left with squinting eyes, reevaluating his plan, and hopefully my role in it. Then his jaw clenches with conviction. “We’ll drive. We’ll get there in two days—later than I’d wanted, but still enough time. And hey, you can drive the Porsche! I’ll be able to make good on that bet: two birds, one stone.”
All out of excuses, I tell him softly, “I think me coming home with you is a really, really bad idea.”
Stanton holds my stare for a moment . . . then he lowers his chin, breathing deep. And he looks . . . defeated. Sad. Completely not like himself.
And there’s a pull—the desire to put my arms around him and tell him it’ll all be all right. To see him smile that beautiful smile again. The part of me that really is his friend wants to help him.
Unfortunately, the part of me that wants to keep being his lover votes to drop-kick her on her ass.
“I know I’m asking a huge favor,” he says in a low, scratchy voice. “But I’m only asking because this is hugely fucking important to me. And you’re the only one who can help. Please, Sofia. I need you.”
Three words. Again. The only ones he really needed to say.
Damn it.
This time I lower my head with a defeated sigh.
“Okay.”
