Appealed (The Legal Briefs, #3)(63)

“You’re not even going to ask me if I want to go home?” she inquires with a smile and a raised brow. “Kind of presumptuous, isn’t it?”

“I prefer to look at it as deductive reasoning.” I hop out of the car, come around, and open her door. She takes my hand and I pull her straight into my arms. “Plus, you have to shower, I have to shower, there’s a drought . . .”

“In California.”

Ever so slowly, I lower my lips to hers—just a teasing touch. “We all need to do our part.”

I feel her smile against my mouth. “You sound like my uncle Jameson.”

This disturbs me. From what I remember of her conservationist uncle, he was a cross between General Patton and Cheech & Chong. An odd-duck, militant hippie who I don’t want her thinking of while I’m kissing her.

So I ditch the bullshit and go for honesty.

“I don’t really care about saving water.” I skim my nose up her neck, scratching the delicate skin along her collarbone with my beard, leaving goose bumps in its wake. Then I whisper in her ear, “I just want to f*ck you in the shower until neither one of us can stand.” My tongue traces the shell of her ear, making her shiver in the best way. “Is that wrong?”

When she answers, her voice is shaky. “That sounds . . . not wrong to me.”

I pull Kennedy tight against my side and smack her ass. “Let’s get on that, then.”

? ? ?

The first thing I’m aware of the next morning—before I open my eyes—is the sensation of soft, smiling lips trailing up my jaw, the tickle of breath against my neck, and the teasing brush of hair along my shoulder.

And this time, it’s definitely not the cat.

Kennedy buries her face in the crook of my neck and inhales me. I stretch my arms back, grab her, then roll over so I’m facing her, cocooned in my arms. I kiss her properly on the mouth—morning breath and all.

Then I notice what time it is. The sun is up—but just f*cking barely.

“I have to go into the office,” she says.

I smooth her hair down and smother her face against my chest so she’ll stop saying silly things.

“Shhh . . . you’re dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

“Brent,” she says with a laugh. “I didn’t get any work done yesterday. I really have to catch up today.”

Unhappy growls tumble around in my throat. Kennedy soothes them with gentle hands and a kiss for my mouth.

“I’ll come back tonight. But I’m going to bring the boys with me.”

One eye cracks open. “They have food and water. Cats don’t need anything else.”

“They need love. Attention,” she insists.

“Cats disdain love and attention. It’s beneath them.”

She laughs again. “Not mine. I’ve been neglecting them—and if this is going to work out, I don’t want them resenting you.”

The woman knows how to deliver a convincing argument. “Fine. The cats can come.”

A sweet peck of a kiss gets planted on my sternum. And then she slips away . . . like sand through my fingers.

I must have dozed off again, because in the next instant Kennedy’s dressed. Her clothed breasts press against my back and she whispers good-bye as she kisses the bed-warmed skin at the nape of my neck.

I mumble back, still half-asleep, “Bye, baby. Love you . . .”

? ? ?

It’s past noon by the time I drag my ass out of bed. I don’t have to tell you this is completely f*cking weird for me. My only defense is that Kennedy was a wildcat last night—completely wore me out. A few hours and one Red Bull later, I have enough energy for a run, and head down to my favorite jogging trail near the National Mall.

Afterward, I walk back to the townhouse, grinning like an idiot every step of the way. Because I’m thinking of a certain tiny blonde who totally owns me. I’m looking forward to hearing her bitch and moan about her day, watching her eat, listening to her laugh. She has such a great laugh.

Damn, I’m pathetic. I’m starting to annoy my f*cking self.

When I get to my front steps, Jake, Stanton, and Sofia are there, waiting. Looking way too serious for a Sunday afternoon.

“Why the long faces?” I joke. “Who died?”

Not one of them cracks a smile, and a cold chill slithers up my spine.

Stanton averts his eyes and Jake watches me, ready and tense, like he’s anticipating a reaction. Sofia steps forward.

“Brent, sweetie . . . something’s happened.”





18


The automatic doors to the emergency room slide open and I head straight for the reception desk. “Kennedy Randolph.”

Behind the desk, the dark-haired woman’s mouth hangs open slightly before she recovers. “Um . . . there’s no Kennedy Randolph here.”

She’s lying. Even if she wasn’t bad at it, spotting the automatic tells people do when they’re nervous or hiding something is necessary for my job. This is the second hospital we’ve come to—and the receptionist at the first one wasn’t lying.

One of Jake’s contacts, a private investigator, called him after seeing the whole thing go down. He saw the pretty blond prosecutor get into a dark sedan with government plates, a driver at the wheel. And just a few blocks down the road, at an intersection, he saw that sedan get T-boned by an SUV—and flipped.