Appealed (The Legal Briefs, #3)(4)

Waldo scribbles on his notepad. “And is that something you want in your life? Marriage, children?”

I narrow my eyes. “Has my mother been calling you again?”

“Every month.” Waldo sighs, rubbing his forehead. “But you know I don’t discuss our sessions with her.”

My dear mother should probably schedule some sessions of her own—considering last month she asked their butler, Henderson, to make inquiries into her adopting a grandchild. Since I—her only son—have been so very derelict in my duty to give her one. Cue the guilt trip.

I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “All right, here’s the thing—I’m happy for them, of course. But there’s a part of me that thinks now they’re trapped. Tied down with all that responsibility. I, on the other hand, have my work to keep me busy—but I can still jet off to Switzerland to go bungee jumping, or fly-fishing in New Zealand. With one phone call I can f*ck two hotel heiresses six ways to Sunday, then watch them go to town on each other while I recoup for round two.”

FYI: there is no TMI in a therapist’s office.

“If I’m jonesing for a family fix, I can swing by my friends’ houses for dinner and be the favorite uncle to their kids.” I open my arms to emphasize the brilliance of my theory. “All the perks, none of the obligation. Life is short—I want to live it. And I really like living it free.”

He regards me for a moment and says, “Mmmm.”

Then—nothing.

“Mmmm, what?” I ask. “I think we’re past ‘mmmm,’ don’t you, Waldo?”

He taps his lips with the end of his pen. “Well, it’s apparent that you believe what you say. That you think you want this self-focused, low-responsibility lifestyle. The way Pinocchio wanted to cut his strings so he could be a real boy.”

“But?”

There’s always a but.

“But I wonder, deep down, if you’ve outgrown that philosophy. If you actually crave something more profound in your life. Commitment isn’t always a burden, Brent. It can also be the source of unimaginable joy and satisfaction.”

I clear my thoughts and search my mind—the way Luke Skywalker did when Obi-Wan was teaching him the ways of the Force.

Nope—I got nothing.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree on this one.”

He shrugs. “Then ask yourself this: As “tied down” as your friends may be, do you think any of them are dreaming of rubies in the sand?”

Have I mentioned that Waldo can also be one shrewd son of a bitch?





2


I’ve seen my last name inscribed on libraries, hospital wings, and the like, but there’s an extra thrill seeing it on the Law Offices of Becker, Mason, Santos & Shaw. Because it’s mine, not my family’s, something I did on my own. When you grow up in the shadow of all the accomplishments of those who came before you, that’s a big deal.

Jessica, our summer minion—also known as an intern—welcomes me with starry eyes and a stack of messages. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mason.”

I take the messages and avoid eye contact, keeping my face neutral. It’s a well-practiced move. Because interns are hungry, enthusiastic, willing to bend over backward.

And that’s particularly true of Jessica.

The way she stares, the way she accidentally brushes her tits against my arm, the way she walks by my office when I’m working late, says she’s willing to let me bend her any which way I want. And Jessica’s not your average-looking minion—tall, redheaded, with hips every man would imagine holding onto doggie style. She’s hot.

She’s also twenty-four.

I don’t know when twenty-four became too young—I just know it is.

“Thank you, Jessica.”

I walk up the stairs to the top floor. Dark-wood floors, original crown moldings, and bold-toned window dressings give the area a professional, historical elegance. Two desks—one occupied by our secretary, Mrs. Higgens, and one for our paralegal—are stationed along opposite walls, with two long, brown leather sofas facing each other on the remaining ones.

I nod to Mrs. Higgens and head into my office to work the rest of the afternoon.

? ? ?

At four o’clock I stick my head outside my office door to collect my client, Justin Longhorn. He’s a typical millennial slacker—brown messy hair, beat-up skinny jeans, a retro Nirvana T-shirt over a lanky form, his thumb busily sliding over the latest iPhone.

Before I can greet him, sixteen-year-old Riley McQuaid walks down the hallway. She’s been working here a couple of hours a week this summer. Riley is the oldest of the six McQuaid kids.

Jake’s McQuaid kids.

If you don’t understand the significance of that, you will in a second. Because what happens next feels just like watching a car crash in slow motion.

Or the mating dance of pubescent ostriches. There’s some really weird stuff on YouTube.

Their eyes drag over each other, head to matching-Converse-sneaker-covered toes.

Justin lifts his chin. “Hey.”

Riley pushes her curly brown hair behind her ear. “Hey.”

No good can come of this. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.

“Heeey,” Jake says—in a low growl from his office doorway—where he looms large with crossed arms and quicksilver gray eyes.