Harder (Caroline & West #2)(6)

“No, we’re not done working on the complaint.”

“What about the Jane Doe thing?”

Filing as Jane Doe rather than Caroline Piasecki means my highly recognizable name won’t come out in connection with the case, and the public records of the suit won’t identify me.

Which means, in turn, there’s a chance that my entire economic and political future won’t be tainted by what Nate did and what I’m doing to get back at him.

“My dad knows someone who knows someone who says with the judge I’m going to be assigned, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“So when do they set your trial date?”

“After we file the complaint, which is any day now,” I say. “Dad says it will probably be at least twelve months until the trial.”

“It’ll be nice to see that f*cker raked over the coals for what he did.”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“It’s going to cost a fortune.”

“How much?”

“Maybe a hundred thousand dollars, according to the lawyer. Could be more.”

West whistles.

“And he says it could get ugly, like a rape case. They’ll attack my credibility. So I’m trying to get ready for all that.”

“Doesn’t sound easy to get ready for. Douchebag lawyers grilling you about your sex life.”

“Don’t forget my mental stability.”

“Your mental stability’s just fine.”

“I meant that they’ll grill me about my mental stability.”

There’s a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. “Fucking great. Have ’em call me, I’ll tell ’em what a basket case you were at the bakery last year.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

I press my hands against my thighs so I won’t press them into the ache in my chest.

It’s too easy. Talking to him. Remembering.

If I close my eyes and pretend, it’s almost possible to forget all the bad stuff between us and drop into my memories of those nights at the bakery when I was falling in love with West.

Maybe he feels it, too, because he leans forward to turn up the music.

I look out at the dark green shapes of the trees, the blurred branches. The trial drops away as I let myself think about why I’m here. What I want. My purpose.

West.

But after a while, even West slips away, and then it’s just dark.


Cold air coming in from the driver’s side of the truck snaps me awake.

We’re parked on the street in a neighborhood of nearly identical houses—all of them small, crowded on tiny lots.

West stands outside the open driver’s-side door. His face through the window is stark, shadowed.

“Is this where Frankie is?” I ask.

“Yeah, my grandma’s.”

He shifts so he’s holding the top of the car door with both hands, leaning into it, studying me through the glass. It’s as though he’s using the door as a shield so he can look at me, really look at me, the way he hasn’t yet.

He rakes his eyes upward from my shoes. Right turn at my knees. Left turn at my thighs. Lingering over the parts that used to be his favorites.

It’s like in my dreams—my mind too fuzzy and slow to defend me against the heat of West’s lava-dipped icicle gaze. I just want to crawl across the front seat of the truck on all fours until I crash into his body and he’s on me, over me, hot hands and wet mouths and every single thing I’ve missed that I need.

A few hours in the truck, and my lofty thoughts of friendship and loyalty are nothing but a sticky layer on top of weeks’ worth of longing.

West’s expression has gone dark. “You’re staying here tonight,” he says.

“What, to sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Out at Bo’s.”

“How far is that?”

“Twenty miles.”

“I want to stay wherever you are.”

He comes from behind the door and jacks his seat forward, pushing himself all the way through the space behind it so he can get hold of my bag.

When he starts rolling it up the walk to the front door, I get the idea that this decision he’s made isn’t negotiable.

I hurry after him. “Who’s inside?”

“Based on the cars, I’m guessing Grandma, Mom, Frankie, a couple of my aunts.”

I wasn’t aware he had aunts. Or, until he mentioned her earlier, a living grandmother. “Anything I should know about them?”

“Except for my mom and Frankie, I haven’t seen them in six years.”

“Seriously?”

He frowns. “You think I’m f*cking around?”

I don’t. My stomach hurts. “Sorry. How should—who should I say I am?”

“Tell them whatever you want.” He rings the doorbell.

I have time to take a breath and think, This is going to be weird, before the door is pulled open directly into the kitchen.

The first thing I notice is that there’s a woman sobbing at the table.

Like, sobbing.

Two other women and three kids are crowded into the room with her, but I don’t pay much attention to them, because the second thing I notice is that the woman who opened the door has West’s eyes exactly.