“Yes, sir, that’s true.”
He holds up a hand to halt the exchange. “Would it be okay if we used first names? I don’t like the stuffiness of sir and miss.”
“That’d be great.”
“Then just call me Cade.”
“Thank you, Cade. Please call me Elle.”
“Okay then, Elle. Your resume is very impressive. You graduated top of your class with both your bachelor’s and master’s in social work from New Mexico State University.”
I nod, grateful that he didn’t mention the gap year I took after high school. I was afraid he might ask questions about that.
“And you’ve been here in Minneapolis working for The Defender for almost two years. You’re obviously a hard worker.”
“Thank you, s—” I almost call him sir again but catch myself. “Cade.”
“How’s the adjustment going, from New Mexico to Minnesota?”
I snort out a laugh. “Cold.”
He chuckles too. “You’ll get used to it eventually. You know, you come highly recommended. In fact, your mentor in New Mexico seemed very sad to have had to part with you. She said she’d never had a brighter intern. She had big plans for you but knew you’d do great things wherever you went. What made you decide to come here? To the Twin Cities?”
“A friend of mine from college has family here and moved back up after graduation. She’s been begging me to come. And honestly, having learned about your work here during my graduate studies, I knew I wanted to work for you. The two together felt like a sign.”
“You believe in things like that? Signs?”
I’m almost not sure how to answer. I decide to go with the truth. “Yes. I guess I do.”
“Good. So do I.”
I exhale a sigh of relief.
“Now, I also spoke to Jessica Lynch from The Defender. How have you been enjoying your work there?”
“It’s great. We take on almost any case that comes through the door. We serve the homeless, elderly and children in the foster system; we work in conjunction with human rights groups and help people navigate the state aid system. In one day, we’ve been known to assist someone applying for food stamps, represent or support another in court, and find shelter for an evicted family or an abused woman and her children. We’re the group that connects people to the services they need.”
“Sounds like you’re doing incredible work.”
“It’s necessary.”
He nods. “So, what are your life and career goals, Elle?”
“As much as I love working at The Defender, my supervisor knows my heart is with children. I’d love to work with you and your wife to really get a grasp on what you’re doing here, both at The Core and North House. I want to learn the nuts and bolts of the system you’ve created and become a part of the change you’re creating in children’s lives. This”—I sweep my hand through the air—“what you’re doing here, is a model I’d love see recreated across the country. You’re truly saving lives and making a difference.”
“Thank you for those compliments. I’m happy to hear that word of what we do is spreading and that others want to engage in it and copy it. I’m also excited to have someone as knowledgeable and dedicated as you on our team. I’d like to start off with you leading The Core’s yoga classes—as that’s one of your certifications—three classes, three days a week as you get caught up with our main curriculum and shadow our team to learn our counseling methods. As you already have your master’s, this will be a fully paid eight-week internship. Then after review, we’ll bring you on as a full-time counselor—with a raise. We’ll send over an official offer for you to review, but I think you’ll be very happy with our salary and benefits package.” He smiles broadly. “We’ll maneuver around your schedule at The Defender, as you transition.” He looks over to a group of men gathered around the sparring ring where two boxers exchange jabs. “Maybe we’ll even get a mandatory yoga class up and running for the instructors.”
“Did you just… offer me the job?” The words roll off my tongue as I try to figure out if I heard him correctly.
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“Yes!” I nearly shout. “I do… I want it.” It takes everything inside of me to compose myself and not start jumping up and down! “I’m so thrilled for this opportunity. Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome. We’re lucky to have you. I think you’re going to fit right in.”
“I GOT THE JOB!” I call out, setting the grocery bags on the kitchen counter.
“YAY! I knew you would!” Anya sings back to me. “Especially with my sterling recommendation. And since I knew you would, I already chilled the wine to celebrate.” She twirls to the fridge, light on her petite toes. Her mahogany brown hair swings around her shoulders as she moves. “How was the interview? Did he live up to the hero image you built up?”
“Cade is amazing. So down to earth. And the entire way he conducted the interview—he kept it a relaxed conversation as he showed me around The Core. I hadn’t even realized the interview had begun when he told me I had the job.” A shrill squeal of excitement bubbles up as I grab Anya into a hug. “This is a dream come true! Thank you for inviting me here.”
“Ah, sweetheart. You needed a change.” She squeezes me harder before reaching into the top drawer by the sink. “This is going to mean new and exciting adventures for you!” She procures a corkscrew then pulls two long stemmed wine glasses from the cupboard, hands me one, and fills both to the brim. “To your new job. May it swing open unexpected doors and experiences, may you make lasting friendships and may it lead you down the path of your life’s purpose.”
We touch our wine glasses together. The sound of clinking glass is festive, and all I can think about is how happy I am.
She smiles, lifts a Core magazine from the table with local heartthrob and activist Justin Lang gracing the cover, and dangles it in front of me like bait on a hook. “And you know how many muscle-bound, progressive-thinking, social-justice-fighting, sweat-dripping, sexy superheroes will be there.”
Of course, that’s not why I’m there, but she is right. The Core is a central hub for activists, athletes, and bodybuilders making a name for themselves, volunteering with the kids—sometimes it’s pure publicity, but many local and national celebrities come and lend a hand to Cade North’s work.
I whip the mag out of her hand and drop it back to the table. “I’ll be focusing on my job and the kids… and my own self-improvement,” I throw in for good measure.
“There will still be time to play,” she coos.
“Yes, that’s when I’ll be focusing on my self-improvement.”
She frowns as her brow furrows, then a look of pure enlightenment comes over her expression. “Yeah, to hell with that. We’re going to have to start thinking like teenagers again and carry condoms in our purse.”
A spray of wine comes bursting through my lips. “WHAT?”
“And you should encourage me not to be so miss-goody-two-shoes all the time either. We’ve both been burned enough by lousy ex-boyfriends, lived through enough pain and suffering, and mired through enough shit! It’s time to live wild and on the edge… be alive. To have fun with abandon and not think so goddamn hard and seriously all the time.”
“A little more fearless?” I suggest.
“Yes!”
“I could see breaking some old stale habits that have kept us with all the wrong men.” Thoughtfully, I trace the rim of my glass with a fingertip.
“And having fun…,” she coaxes.
“Yeah, fun,” I agree. “Make our own rules.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, baby.” She almost sings the words.
“We deserve good men.”
“And men who are good in bed.”
I laugh. “And good at having a conversation.”
“No commitments necessary.”
“Just fun.”
“You feeling strong enough?” she quizzes me.
<
br /> I nod. “And we have each other.”
She agrees. “For checks and balances.”
“To keep the other safe—”
“If one of us veers off course.”
“We’ll never let each other go through a bad relationship again.” I nod my head, firm with the commitment. We both had exes that put us through the ringer—drank, lied, cheated, stole and abused. Anya’s had even begun to hit her.
“Damn straight!” Anya declares, and we both sip from our drinks, resolute. She adds, “Now, how about I finish putting these groceries away and we go out to celebrate? Dinner, dancing and drinks!”
“Sounds perfect.”
Anya’s the best.
Connor
GRIMLY, I LOOK over the pages of the Prescott file, now strewn over my dining room table, and read through my hand-scrawled notes.
“Children’s parents died in a car accident six months ago, and since then have been placed in separate foster homes across the state due to overcrowding.” I wince.
These kids have needed each other more than ever, and instead of being able to have some sense of normalcy and mourn together, they’ve been thrown into chaos and further trauma.
It only gets worse as I go on. Jackson, twelve years old and the eldest Prescott sibling, has run away fourteen times from ten different foster homes.
I massage my temples as I read aloud. “Each time in efforts to locate his younger brother and sister.”
I continue to read while making mental notes.
Now the children’s grandfather, Whitmore Prescott the third, is petitioning the court for guardianship of Jackson. But due to his age, Mr. Prescott feels unable to care for the younger siblings. Still, it’s in the court’s best interest to place Jackson with him. And Mr. Prescott does seek to set up trust funds for Maxwell Prescott (nine years old) and Lily Prescott (five years old)—half to be used toward their care in the foster system now and half to be received when they reach eighteen years of age. Mr. Prescott cites that Jackson will have access to the best private schools and universities. He requests that each of the children’s case files be sealed and that he is not named on the trust but remains an anonymous benefactor.
These are the fucking blurriest of gray lines.
Lines I’m sure no one wants to cross. I try not to think this is the reason I was given the case.
I have more questions than answers and my file notes are slim. I’m only getting the bare bones information Harrison wants me to have. I recall how he told me this case was a personal favor to him—and, by extension, the firm—thus offering me partnership.
But why me? He knows my background.
Could it, for some reason, be because of my background? Or is it just because he assumes I’m so hungry for partnership I’ll work a more unsavory case?
God, they just lost their parents. If there was ever a time kids need their family, now is that time.
And Prescott wants no visitation. Why doesn’t he want the younger ones to know him? What the hell? He doesn’t even want them to be able to see each other!
Frustrated, I hop up and begin a steady pace to help me think. As proof that this is my normal, there’s a well-worn groove in my apartment’s living room carpet.
Elle Hayes’s words and fury wrap around my mind and refuse to let go—along with the scent of jasmine and the cloudless sky of her eyes. She’s taken up residency in my head and I can’t get her out.
Then there’s the matter of the pendant! It’s a coincidence, it must be, I try to convince myself. But damn, she looks exactly how I imagined the girl I remember would look today. What are the chances? The odds are beyond ridiculous. No way.
Taking a deep, centering breath, I regard the file again. I obviously don’t have all the facts yet, but personal judgement aside, Whitmore Prescott is offering Jackson the chance of a lifetime, one he’s not going to get as a ward of the state. In fact, if he keeps running from foster care, he’s going to bounce himself on the inside of a high-level lockdown.
And if someone gets hurt or when he starts stealing, he’ll get a juvenile record.
I won’t pretend to imagine how tough it would be to be separated from your siblings, but it’s a damn sad reality for many kids that get thrown into the system. Cade and his brother Colt know all too well this harsh reality. Unless a miracle happens, and someone steps up to foster all three children, they’ll stay separated.
As terrible as the situation is, at least each of the kids will have a fighting chance with a little bit of money when they age out of the system, and Jackson will have a life. He’ll have food and shelter. And the best education money can buy.
Yeah, overall, it’s unfair.
Life is fucking unfair.
Sitting on the sofa, I pull my laptop onto my knees and compose an email to Ms. Hayes.
I believe we can settle this one out of court, in the best interests of all involved. I request a meeting with her, asap.
I’m struggling as I wait for Ms. Hayes in the courthouse mediation room that I’d reserved: a quiet, empty space except for a few cheap circular tables and folding chairs and my loud, conflicting thoughts.
My sleep has sucked the past few nights thinking about this case, and her.
Usually when I’m here, the adrenaline I feel is excitement. It fuels me, makes me supercharged and ready to beat my opponent. But I don’t feel that way now. The churning in my gut rumbles like a percolator.
I’m uncomfortable. And I don’t like it.
Then there’s that pull toward Ms. Hayes and the high I feel knowing she’s about to walk through that door.
I want to see her again. It’s indescribable.
And an absurdly ridiculous desire. She already doesn’t like me and soon, after this meeting, she’s going to fucking hate me.
Why couldn’t we have met up before this? Before this mess of pain.
Christ, Connor! Get your head in the game.
The kids’ plight gnaws at my insides. I can’t see clearly if they’ll be saved with Prescott’s offer. And that matters to me. Yet, here I am presenting it to her as if I believe in it.
This isn’t even my field of law, goddamn it.
There will be no civility between us after this, and yet I have to know who she is.
When she walks into the room, I’m overtaken. My professional side takes another hit as I remember the electricity in her eyes, the passion with which she spoke, the scent of her perfume and the waves in her hair. Her nearness sets me on fire, and all I can think about is somehow getting closer. She’s wearing a form-hugging black sweater and a plaid wool skirt with a pair of black wool leggings and her Sorrels.
Not stylish dress boots for court or shoes she changed into after she arrived, but heavy, clunky Sorrells.
Why does that make me smile?
“Ms. Hayes.” I extend my hand to shake hers.
“Mr. Callahan.”
Her hand is warm, and her touch sends a surge of electricity shooting up my arm and through my chest.
“Thank you for meeting me.” I force myself to get a grip on my reactions to her.
She takes off her navy peacoat and drapes it over the back of a chair. Her long wavy hair is a wind-tossed, disheveled mess around her head—it only serves to make her more beautiful—and only makes me long that we were on the same side of this case.
In a couple minutes, she’s going to loathe me. She’ll march out right of here, and I’ll never find out if it’s her.
“Of course.” Her reply is all business. “I’m hoping we can come to an agreement too—out of court.” Her stance commands a professional demeaner, but her voice trembles slightly.
She’s so deeply invested and emotional about this case. And more than frustrated the children don’t have actual legal counsel. Her nervousness in dealing with me bothers me, and I wish I could put her at ease.
We take seats across from each other at one of the tables.
God, I haven’t had a woman affect me
like this since… hell, I can’t remember when.
Maybe never.
Maybe once.
I begin, “I’d like to understand your preferred outcome for the Prescott children.”
She nods curtly. “As representative for Jackson Prescott, I can tell you it is his desire for all three siblings to be reunited and relocated into one home to be raised together. He is against all proposals from his grandfather Whitmore Prescott that would keep the siblings apart.”
I try to understand how she got involved. “You specifically represent Jackson Prescott?”
“Yes,” she states proudly.
“How did that come about?”
“He came into The Defender four months ago—on his own—after running away and sleeping out in the streets trying to find his brother and sister. He asked for help.”
My poker face is cracking. When it comes to kids, I don’t have much of one.
“I’ve kept in close contact with him since then. And Lily and Max too—until just before Christmas, when they were suddenly moved to new foster care placements. The kids didn’t even get to see each other for the holidays.”
I nod slowly, understanding how delicate this situation is, but also knowing the reality these kids are facing, and I wonder if she really gets that. “I’m terribly sorry for the Prescott children’s loss. The life they’ve been thrust into is a harsh one that too many children face every day. Our foster homes are cramped, and often it seems like there’s not enough kindness to go around. Let’s look at the situation realistically, Ms. Hayes. The chances of the children being housed by one foster family for their duration in foster care is exponentially slim at best—in fact statistics find that only five percent of children find a forever home. Three children finding the same one together?” I shake my head because it’s fucking crushing. “It’s awful, and I wish I could fix the system, but my client Mr. Whitmore Prescott has a viable offer for all three children. Although it may not seem the optimal solution, it’s a head start these children aren’t going to get anywhere else.”
“What is his proposal?” she inquires skeptically, her brow pressing into a frown.
Risk: An Enemies to Lovers, Second Chance Romance Standalone (Brothers of Ink and Steel) Page 3
