Meet Cute(16)

“He was emotional and under duress. I assure you, he likely would not have hugged me under normal circumstances.” There was that one time in second year when we were on the same side for a class debate, and when we won he spontaneously hugged me, but it was excitement, nothing more.

Beverly gives me one of her knowing looks. I hate them, because it means she thinks she has something on me, something she thinks I want. Which is not Daxton Hughes. Maybe once upon a time, when I was young and stupid and easily influenced by a wink and a smile, but not now.

“Regardless, there’s a level of comfort and familiarity that you can capitalize on.”

Fine. She wants to play this game, well, I can play, too. If I’m going out of my way to bring the traitorous lion into my own den, I better reap the rewards. “What’s in it for me if I get him to come to the dark side?”

“The reward of knowing you’ve strengthened our team.”

“If I’m going to persuade Daxton to switch firms, I’d like to pick up another pro bono case.”

Beverly purses her lips. “You just took on a pro bono case.”

“That was months ago, and it’s been resolved.” I haven’t been able to stop thinking about a foster situation Holly mentioned last week. If I’m going to invite someone I loathe onto our team, I want something in return. This is the perfect opportunity to get what I want without having to fight for it.

“Fine. As long as it doesn’t interfere with you convincing Daxton to work for me, you can take the pro bono case. Any other negotiations?”

I flip my pen between my fingers, considering all the angles. I can’t believe I’m entertaining bringing the man who pulled the rug out from under me into my life and my building on a daily basis.

It’s not like I’ll run into him all the time. Entertainment law is on the opposite end of the floor. Although I may see him occasionally in the break room. I rarely eat lunch in there. I can deal with seeing him across the boardroom for weekly meetings. I think.

“I’ll let you know if I have anything to add to the list.”





Chapter Five





Life Repackaged


Daxton



I have no idea how people single parent without going insane. I don’t cook. It’s never been my thing. I order groceries from a delivery service and supplement with takeout. I have a menu for every day of the month. Surprisingly, it turns out thirteen-year-olds don’t love McDonald’s enough to eat it for an entire week. After six days of fast food, Emme boycotts it entirely.

“Well, what do you want for dinner?” I ask after she turns her nose up at every single takeout menu spread over the counter.

She crosses her arms, annoyed. “I don’t want takeout.”

I mirror her pose, equally annoyed. Since I have no intention of disrupting Emme’s life more than it already is, I put my condo up for sale this morning. I spent the rest of the day packing all my stuff, separating it into two stacks of boxes: things that will go into storage and things I’ll need. I ended the day by bringing a carload of things home. It’s amazing what one person can accumulate over five years. Tomorrow I need to work on getting rid of some of my parents’ old things to make room for mine.

“I’m bagged, Emme. I can’t do a restaurant tonight.” I also need a serious shower after all that packing.

“I want shepherd’s pie.”

Well, that’s rather specific. “Why don’t we go to the grocery store to pick one up, then?” That seems like something they’d have in the frozen food section.

“I don’t want store-bought shepherd’s pie. I want Mom’s.” Her bottom lip trembles, and I feel like shit for getting snippy with her.

“Why don’t we check the freezer and see what’s in there?”

She chews on her thumbnail, but nods and follows me to the basement. I’m relieved when I find more than one pan of our mom’s homemade shepherd’s pie in the chest freezer, and like the amazingly thoughtful mom she was, there are cooking instructions fixed to the lid. “It’ll be an hour.”

“That’s okay. I can wait.” She takes it from me, hugging the frozen brick to her chest as she heads back upstairs to the kitchen. She turns on the oven, setting it to convection—which apparently takes the cooking time down by about fifteen minutes.

I pop the cap on a bottle of beer while we wait.

“Can I have a sip?” Emme asks as she chops vegetables to make a salad.

I raise a brow. “A sip?”

“Of your beer.” She fidgets with the cuff of her hoodie.

Sometimes at dinner on the weekends my parents would let Emme have a sip out of their wineglass. They’d been the same way with me.

I pass her the bottle and she tips it up. She makes a face and hands it back, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “That’s gross.”

“It’s an acquired taste.” One I’m happy she hasn’t acquired yet.

She roots around in the fridge and produces a can of Coke, presumably to wash away the unpleasant flavor. “Are you going to move into Mom and Dad’s room?”

“Eventually.” I can’t sleep in the shrine to my teenage stardom years much longer if I want to keep my sanity. “Are you okay with that? Me taking their room?”