Despite my suspicions and questions, I take pity on him. He’s lost his parents and is suddenly responsible for a thirteen-year-old. “Why don’t you leave your number with my assistant and we can set something up on Monday or Tuesday, when things are a bit more settled?”

  “That would be great. Do you have someone here I can talk to about the custody paperwork? My firm doesn’t do family law, so I’m at a bit of a disadvantage. Would it be you?” I don’t understand why he looks so hopeful about that, maybe because I’m a familiar face?

  “I don’t work with custody cases, but I’ll speak with Beverly and we’ll figure that out, as well. Can I keep these, or do you need me to make copies?” I tap the documents under my fingers.

  “Those are yours. If you need anything else, let me know. I just want to make sure my sister’s future is protected.”

  He pushes slowly out of the chair, and I rise as well. Even with my heels, the top of my head barely reaches his shoulder.

  I hold out a hand but he ignores it, stepping closer until the tips of his polished shoes nearly touch mine. And then he wraps his arms around me.

  I’m shocked by the affection, when all I anticipated was a handshake. He’s solid muscle, all hard ridges encased in an expensive suit. Even in his slightly disheveled state he smells divine. I’m annoyed that I notice any of these things. And at how nice it feels to be wrapped up in his strong, warm embrace.

  It takes me longer than it should to react—to either extract myself or return the comforting gesture. I’m stunned, frozen because the boy I crushed on as a kid is now a man and hugging me, almost exactly like I did to him eight years ago. Except he’s not telling me he loves me. Or fangirling all over me like an idiot. I choke back the ancient embarrassment and tentatively pat him on the back.

  His shoulders curl forward, arms tightening. A low tremor runs through him and he makes a soft, pained sound. I don’t know what to make of this, whether it’s authentic or contrived. Against my better judgment, I return the soft squeeze.

  He drops his arms and takes a step back, creating distance as he bumps into the chair behind him. “Fuck.” He drags a hand through his hair, sending it into further disarray, face turning a bright shade of red, eyes glassy. “I’m so sorry. I’m on autopilot. I think I’ve hugged five hundred people in the last forty-eight hours.”

  Right. Of course, he’s not thinking clearly. I put on what I hope is an understanding smile. “You’re fine. Totally understandable, considering what you’ve been through this week.”

  I motion to the door of the conference room. I need some space from this man. I might loathe him, but his situation pulls at my heartstrings, and he’s still hot as sin, which is something I should probably feel bad about noticing considering why he’s here.

  Daxton shoves his hands in his pockets and walks beside me down the hall, shoulders still hunched, eyes on the floor.

  Cara’s eyes go wide when she sees him, and she starts to fiddle with the buttons on her blouse and then with her hair. She looks like she’s trying not to hyperventilate by the time we reach her desk.

  “Cara, this is Mr. Hughes. Can you please take down his contact information? I need all the files pulled on this trust.” I hand her the papers. “And I’d like to set up a meeting early next week to go over everything and make sure all the details are clear and in order.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She takes off her glasses and folds them on her desk, then fumbles with her pen. I’ll forgive her the nervousness since I can relate. My palms are sweaty. I surreptitiously wipe them on my skirt, in preparation for his departure.

  I offer my hand again, along with a polite smile. “I’ll speak with you soon.”

  This time he takes it with a slow nod. His nails are ragged, but his hand is soft and warm, his grip firm. He covers our clasped hands with his free one, holding me captive. I meet his intense gaze; his tired eyes search my face. “Thank you again, Kailyn. I appreciate it. Everything.”

  “You’re very welcome. And I’m so sorry about your parents. We’ll make sure your sister’s trust is safe and secure, and so is her future.” I can be professional and civil with this man.

  His smile holds the kind of tension I’m familiar with—full of sadness, each condolence a reminder of the loss and pain that won’t dissipate anytime soon. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be in touch soon.” I squeeze his hand and withdraw mine, lest he hugs me again, and in front of an audience this time.

  I leave him with Cara and return to my office. I can’t believe I have to meet with him again. It’ll just be to deal with the trust, though, and then I can be done. It should be fairly straightforward. Anything to do with custody is on Beverly. At least it will be when I speak with her.

  I dump my cooled latte from the takeout cup into my Daxton meme mug. I’d like to heat it up, but that would mean having to pass him on the way to the break room, so I settle for lukewarm. I try to tune out Cara’s conversation with Daxton while I check my email, but it’s difficult to focus on anything but his presence outside my office door. Cara’s voice is high-pitched and overly sweet, but she manages to keep herself together until he leaves the office. She practically trips over her own shoes and almost face-plants into my desk as soon as he’s gone.

  “Oh my God. He’s so gorgeous. That’s so sad about his parents. He’s pretty much a single dad now. I think ovaries around the world will explode over this.” She drops into the chair on the opposite side of my desk and fans herself with her tablet. She glances pointedly at my mug. “I had such a crush on him as a girl. Or his character, I guess.”

  “So did every other teenage girl who watched that show.” I toss my pen on the desk so I don’t chew on the cap. I’m annoyed that I want to share in the freaking fangirling. He really was dreamy back then. Not much has changed, at least in the looks department.

  “He seemed to know you,” she presses.

  “I went to law school with him.”

  She leans forward, eyes wide, tablet clutched tightly in her hands. “Really? What was he like?”

  “He was an asshole.”

  “Oh, that’s…disappointing.” She fiddles with her glasses. “I wonder why he left acting.”

  I don’t know the answer to the last question, although I assume it was because he decided to go into entertainment law. “I have no idea. What can I do for you, Cara, aside from discuss exploding ovaries? Have you already pulled the Hughes files?” I know she hasn’t had time to pull anything. She’s still trying to get over meeting Daxton.

  She stops slouching and bolts upright. “Oh, Beverly would like to see you in her office.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. As soon as you have a moment.”

  “Did she specify what it was about?”

  She blinks twice. “Um, no.”

  I tap my pen on the desk. “Did you even ask?”

  She sinks in her chair. I should feel a little bad that I incite this kind of response, but any incompetence on her part directly affects me.

  “No,” she says meekly. “She called when I was speaking with Mr. Hughes.”

  “Ah, so you were distracted.”

  “No. Well, maybe a little.” She hangs her head. “Yes. I was distracted.”

  “It happens to the best of us.” I stand and gather my tablet. “Please pull any files related to the Hughes trust right away, and I’d like to email him a copy so he’s able to review it over the weekend. Did he provide potential dates and times to meet next week?”

  “He said he would make whatever we had available work regardless. I’ll pull his files now.”

  I leave Cara to collect herself, and head for Beverly’s office. I dislike going in to see her unprepared, and that’s how this situation makes me feel.

  As a senior associate I have a good working relationship with Beverly. Whitman and Flood is a small firm, giving me the opportunity to move up quickly. I’ve proven myself over the past five years, and pushed even harder since my dad passed, hell-bent on making partner before I turn thirty. My dad and I made a bet before he died, and even though he’s gone, I don’t want to disappoint him. I also like to reach for the top, always, and partner is the next step.

  I knock on Beverly’s door and wait for her to call me in. She gestures to the chair across from her desk and tents her fingers, resting her chin on them. “How did everything go with Mr. Hughes?”

  “Fine, for being unprepared. I need to review the trust files so we can discuss them next week and make any necessary amendments.”

  She nods and leans back in her chair. “I apologize for springing this on you without notice, and I appreciate that you were able to carve out some time to meet with him. It’s such a shame about his parents, and then having custody of his sister.” Her gaze drifts to the window. “I’m sure it’s been quite a shock. I can’t even imagine.”

  “It’s a lot of responsibility to take on.” And so much grief to manage on top of his own. I’m not sure how to feel about any part of this. “His sister’s trust is very substantial. He seems rather concerned about it, which makes me question if perhaps he’s after it for some reason.”

  She shifts her gaze away from the window, her expression unreadable. “I’m sure he has his own money.”

  “Unless he’s spent it all.”

  Beverly smiles. “Always a cynic.”

  I lift a casual shoulder, trying to keep the bite and skepticism out of my tone. “Well, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? He takes custody of his sister, and all that money is available for him to manage.”

  Beverly tilts her head a fraction, observing me closely. “How well do you know Daxton Hughes?”

  I sit up straighter, uncertain as to where the question is coming from. “We went to law school together, but didn’t associate with the same people. Why do you ask?”

  “He hugged you in the conference room.” I try not to show any emotion, but I must frown because her expression is smug. “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was passing by and saw the interaction. I wondered what your relationship was.”

  “There isn’t a relationship. We went to school together, and I worked on his sister’s trust fund when his parents set it up months ago. The connection is purely by chance.”

  Her long nails rap on the arm of her chair. “You’re meeting with him again, though? How soon?”

  “Early next week. Why?” Where is she going with this? She’s the one who sprang him on me; I assumed that means she wants me to deal with him. And it’s not like I have an actual choice since I’m responsible for the trust in the first place.

  “He seems to trust you, or at least have some kind of connection to you.”

  “I don’t know that he trusts me, he’s just grieving.” I don’t like the look in her eye. She’s planning something.

  “You might try to persuade him that working here would be beneficial for him when you meet with him next.”

  I’m at a complete loss for several very long seconds—in that time I consider how much I do not want to work in the same office as Daxton Hughes, regardless of whether he’s in a state of grieving. “We don’t even really know each other, and you want me to convince him to come work here?”

  “He felt comfortable enough to hug you.”

  “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?”

  She chews on the inside of her lip for a few seconds, mulling it over. “It’s bigger and not filled with all the stuff from ten years ago, so it makes more sense, right?”

  I nod, aware this is a conversation we need to have, even if it’s difficult.

  She rolls the can of Coke between her hands. “Are you going to give away all their clothes?”

  “Are there things you want to keep?” I could store some stuff in the basement until she’s ready to let go.

  “Can I help you clean it out, so I can pick the things I want?”

  “Of course, Emme.”

  When dinner is ready we sit at the island and dig in. The potato topping is a little dark around the edges, but it tastes so much like my childhood. Emme makes it halfway through her meal before she breaks down.

  She pushes away from the counter, already out of the room and rushing up the stairs before I can call her name. Her bedroom door slams shut a few seconds later. I stare at my half-eaten meal, no longer hungry. I don’t want to waste any of this, because soon all these tangible pieces of my mother will be gone.

  “Help me,” I mutter to the empty room, looking for the advice I so often sought from my dad on family dinner nights. “Someone tell me how to help her.”

  No one ever mentions how much harder everything is once the funeral is over, when everyone else goes back to living their lives and we’re stuck here, wading through years of memories and trapped in the relentless grip of grief. At thirteen everything is supposed to be fun and friends and what the hell you’re going to wear to school the next day, not packing up your parents’ things because they’re no longer alive.