Sustained (31 page)

“Hey.”

“Hey, how’s it going?”

My eyes land on Chelsea. “Pretty incredible, if you want the truth.”

He chuckles. “Good to hear. Listen, are you free for lunch tomorrow? There’s something I want to talk to you about. Stanton and Sofia too.”

“Yeah, I’m free. What’s up?”

“Well, the thing is, I own this building . . .”

“You own a building?”

“Yeah. It’s a nice building . . .”

T
he office I’ve worked in for the last six months is bigger than my old one—top floor with a corner window view. And I don’t share it with anyone. Legal volumes fill the bookshelves on one wall, and a bunch of family pictures sit proudly on my desk. And Brent, Sofia, and Stanton each have their own corner office on the top floor.

Being a founding partner has its perks.

That building Brent mentioned, the one he owned downtown? It’s been extensively renovated and now has a name stenciled in black above the front door.

The Law Offices of Becker, Mason, Santos & Shaw.

Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

When I kicked Adams & Williamson to the curb, Brent, Stanton, and Sofia started thinking about branching out on their own too. Calling our own shots, picking our own cases. It was a risk, but for the four of us, it was a risk worth taking.

Mrs. Higgens pulled a Renée Zellweger from
Jerry Maguire
when I left and came over here with me. She pops her head through the office door right now, pearls hanging off her ears, accenting the formal dress she’s wearing. “Jake—you’re going to be late!”

“I’m not going to be late. I’m never late.”

Then I check my watch. “Shit, I’m gonna be late!”

My leather desk chair rolls back as I stand. I check the pockets of my sharp black suit—keys, wallet, phone; I’m good.

“Go, go.” Mrs. Higgens waves. “I’ll shut everything down and lock up.”

“Okay, thank you. I’ll see you there, Mrs. Higgens.”

I jog the four blocks to the day-care center where Regan and Ronan spend part of their day. I greet the teacher through the Plexiglas window and sign the clipboard next to the kids’ names. The cheerfully decorated door opens a few minutes later, and the sound of Barney’s “Clean Up Song” echoes through it.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up—I have nightmares about that song.

A teacher’s assistant brings out the troublemakers, holding their hands. Ronan is about a year and a half now—a full head of blond hair, freckles on his nose, and a devilish look in his eye that reminds me of his brother. He’s walking, slowly and unsure still—which is why I scoop him up with one arm and Regan with the other. They wave good-bye to the teacher as we haul ass out the door.

“Today, we made paper flowers for the room, and mine was the biggest. Then Mrs. Davis brought a stuffed bear in for story time and I got to hold him. He was gray. And he had two black eyes, and two arms and two legs and a bow tie that was red and—” Regan grips my cheeks in her tiny hands and gives me the bitch brow. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, yes.” I jog across the street. “Two arms, two legs, red bow tie—I’m riveted.”

Eight months ago, Regan started talking more . . . and she hasn’t stopped since.

“And then we read
Stone Soup
and in the book, someone brought carrots, and someone brought cabbage, and someone . . .”

Ronan laughs as I run, jostling him around. A few minutes later
we reach the church without a minute to spare. I set the kids down, straighten Ronan’s shirt, and retie the yellow silk bow on the back of Regan’s dress.

“You made it. I was afraid you’d be late.” Chelsea comes walking down the church steps—and she looks mind-blowingly fantastic. Her dress is a dark blue satin that looks amazing with her creamy skin. It’s snug in all the right places and falls just below the knee, with a deep V neckline that literally has my mouth watering. Her hair is down and curled and shimmers in the sun.

I run a hand through it as I pull her closer. “I’m never late. And you look amazing. That dress is hot.”

She reaches up to my ear. “You should see what I have on underneath it.”

“Oh, I plan to. Top of the to-do list.”

I lean down and kiss her deeply for several long moments.

“Cha-ching, cha-ching,” a smartass voice rings out. “All this kissing, I can just hear the therapy bills adding up.”

I frown at Rory, who just smirks back.

Chelsea rubs her lipstick off my lips with her thumb, and her engagement ring sparkles in the sun. A two-carat cushion-cut diamond, surrounded by baguettes, in a platinum setting with an antique feel. I gave it to her a few months ago, even got down on one knee. She was really enthusiastic with her yes.

These days Chelsea is finishing up her graduate degree in art history; she went back to taking classes this year. She even has a part-time job lined up when she’s done, at a small gallery, a branch of the Smithsonian.

She slides her hand into mine and nods her head toward Riley, who stands on the sidewalk with a tall, skinny, dark-haired kid in a clip-on tie. “Riley would like to introduce you to her date.” She drags me over.

“Jake,” Riley says with a smile. “This is Parker Elliot.”

The kid holds out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

I stare at his hand, then his eyes, my face hard and unforgiving. My gaze travels over him down to his shoes. I look back to his face—and shake my head with a disgusted sound.

Then I walk away.

“Don’t pay any attention to him, he’s like that with everyone,” I hear Riley say comfortingly.

Chelsea giggles beside me. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“Good. The last thing I want the little prick thinking is that I’m nice.” Then I lean down and kiss her again—because she’s so goddamn pretty. And just because I can.

We walk midway up the stairs and I hold out my arms, gesturing for my party of seven—eight if you count fucking Parker—to gather around. “Let’s go, team—huddle up.” Their heads turn my way, their little faces attentive. I clear my throat. “This is a very special day for Stanton and Sofia and we want everything to go perfectly for them. So for the next forty-five minutes, I expect you to behave like ladies and gentlemen. That means no whispering, no pinching, no hair pulling, no teasing, no fighting, no giggling, no nose picking, no name calling, no crying . . .” I whisper to Chelsea, “Did I miss anything?”

“No looking at each other,” she whispers back.

“That’s right,” I say louder, “no looking at each other.”

That’s kind of a big one.

“Consequences will be swift and severe.”

“Severe” to them is a weekend without TV or Wi-Fi.

“Do we all understand?”

They nod. I smack my hands together. “All right, let’s head inside.”

Chelsea carries Ronan and leads the pack into the church, while I hang back and make sure no one gets left behind. Raymond brings up the rear. He’s staring at the bride’s limousine, which just pulled up, at the gorgeous bridesmaids who climb out.

One junior bridesmaid in particular.

“Presley looks great, doesn’t she?” he asks in a sighing voice while he
watches the blond-haired, sunshiny thirteen-year-old hold up the back of Sofia’s dress as she gets out of the limo.

I’ll be damned.

“You know she’s older than you?” I ask him.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m gonna bide my time. Then, when I own my own multibillion-dollar software company, I’ll make my move.”

I smack him on the back and his glasses go crooked. “Sounds like a plan, Raymond.”

•  •  •

Stanton and Sofia’s wedding goes off without a hitch. Her dress is the perfect blend of sexy and stunning: ivory, beaded, and clinging with a teasing dip of cleavage that made Stanton stare. They both got choked up during the vows, and it was just damn good to see them both so happy.

The reception is an elegant, white-glove affair at the DC Ritz-Carlton. Stanton practically flew the entire town of Sunshine, Mississippi, in, and in addition to Sofia’s brothers and their families, she has a couple dozen relatives visiting from Brazil. Needless to say, it’s good food, good drinks, and really good people.

Rosaleen finds me by the bar, her hair curled into Shirley Temple ringlets, her blue eyes wide with excitement. “Jake! You didn’t say anything about my lip gloss! Riley let me use hers—isn’t it pretty?”

“You’re gorgeous, Gorgeous. As beautiful as your aunt.”

She grins even wider, and I laugh as she grabs Rory by the arm and pulls him onto the dance floor to dance with her.

Momma Shaw, Stanton’s mother, regards me with an appraising eye. “You know, Jake, I’ve seen you smile more in the last thirty minutes than you have the entire time I’ve known you.”

“Well, I have seven pretty amazing reasons to smile now.”

She pats my arm as I walk over to Chelsea. On the way, I pass Brent talking to Stanton’s sister Mary—channeling Pee-wee Herman.

“You don’t want to get involved with a guy like me, Mary. I’m a loner, a rebel . . .”

Chelsea’s arms wrap around my neck and we sway on the dance floor to some slow song.

“Guess what?” she asks.

I brush my nose against hers. “What?”

“I was just talking to your mother. She and Owen offered to take the kids back to the house tonight and stay over. Soooo . . . I booked a room here, for you and me.”

“Fuck, you’re brilliant,” I murmur. “Have I ever told you how much I love your mind?”

“I thought you loved my body,” she says teasingly, pressing it against me up-close and personal.

“Oh, I do, believe me. I’ll give you a thorough demonstration of how much I love it tonight—and tomorrow.”

“And we’re sleeping in tomorrow—Mr. Five A.M.,” she says insistently.

I smirk. “Well, we’ll be in bed . . . but there won’t be much sleeping going on.”

Chelsea rests her head against my chest. “Sounds perfect.”

It does, doesn’t it?

I don’t mean to brag, but like everything else in my life these days, it sounds perfect because . . . it really. Fucking. Is.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at Brent’s story in

APPEALED

The third book in
New York Times
bestselling author Emma Chase’s sexy Legal Briefs series

Coming Fall 2015 from Gallery Books!

O
nce upon a time, in a land not so far away . . .

“Kennedy?” Brent Mason’s voice whispered. “Are you awake?”

She wasn’t supposed to be; her mother had tucked her into bed long ago. A wonderful bed, fit for a princess. Hand-carved mahogany columns at each corner, with an arched satin canopy that hovered above her like a puffy cloud, draped with white sheer curtains on the sides. Her head rested on the fluffiest down pillow, and cashmere blankets kept her snug and warm. It was one of the many beds, in one of the many rooms, at Mason Castle. No one else called it a castle, but that’s how she always thought of it, with its winding gardens, grand double staircase, the two-story library, the endless hallways, and especially, the ballroom.

“Kennedy!” The whisper was louder now, bouncing with impatience.

“Shhh! Yes, I’m awake!”

Kennedy slid from the bed and donned her slippers and tied her pink robe, all without turning on the bedside lamp, which might give them away.

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to make out his robe-clad form just inside the room, beckoning her with his hand.

“Did it start yet?” she whispered, reaching him.

The dark, wavy hair that hung over his forehead swayed as he shook
his head. “But before we go, you have to swear on your eyeballs you won’t tell anyone about the new spot. I’m the only one who knows about it
—
and now you’ll know.”

“My eyeballs?”

Brent’s blue eyes were solemn as he explained, “That means if you break your promise, your eyeballs will explode.”

Kennedy’s hands reflexively rose to her temples. She didn’t want them to explode. She also liked the spot they had used for the last four years: the velvet-cushioned window seat in the red bedroom at the end of the east wing, which allowed them to see everything.

But Brent had told her yesterday that he’d found a new secret place
—
the very best. He’d been so excited, and now she was excited, too. “I swear on my eyeballs, I’ll never tell.”

Brent nodded, then he cracked the door open to look and listen. Everyone
—
guests and servants alike
—
was downstairs, making their way from the ballroom to the rear veranda for the big show.

The Mason’s New Year’s Eve party at their estate on the Potomac River was a legendary affair. It was also tradition
—
their families, and close friends like Kennedy’s family, were invited to spend the night and the days that followed. Unlike Kennedy’s older sister or Brent’s numerous cousins, the two of them were considered too young to stay up for the midnight festivities.

But they had a secret tradition of their own.

With Brent leading the way, they padded quickly to the east wing of the house, through the little door at the end of the hall
—
the entrance to the third-floor crawl space. On her hands and knees behind him, Kennedy felt just like Alice from
Alice in Wonderland
, and her heart thrummed with anticipation. They arrived in a small, dark, windowless room. They stood up and Brent switched on his flashlight. There was a staircase in front of them, steep and dusty.

“Be careful,” Brent warned. “Some of the steps are uneven.”

They climbed the steps single file and Kennedy gasped when they arrived at the top. Alice may have crawled into a beautiful garden
—
but this was so much better than a garden. It was an attic. There were boxes and trunks, paintings and mirrors, furniture and books, and more dresses sheathed in protective plastic than she could count.