Page 45 of Bridesmaid to Bride

“This thing between us. I guess I want to be sure. Our fathers aren’t the only reason you’re here getting to know me, are they?”

He meets my gaze. “I make my own decisions, Eva. Fact is, you’re what I’m looking for.”

“And what is that?”

“You’re smart, beautiful, interesting, and you come from a good family.” He brushes a wisp of hair off my face.

“Thank you.” I smile. “I needed to know.” His words should make my heart leap, but they don’t. It’s like he’s checking off a list, so I keep probing. “Okay, so spill it,” I demand playfully, swirling the wine in my glass—a Pinot Noir with an attitude. “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever had to do for a case?”

Foster, looking every bit the dapper lawyer in his tailored suit, leans back in his chair, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He knows he’s got the floor now, and I’m all ears.

“As you know,” he says, his voice smooth. “Sometimes it’s about the details that no one else thinks to look at.”

I nod, taking a sip of my wine. The truth is, I hunger for these little nuggets of wisdom. Ever since the food business fiasco, I’ve felt like I was floundering in the deep end, trying to prove to my dad—and myself—that I have what it takes to be the shark in the courtroom.

“Go on.” I think back to the mountain of tiny decisions that led to my colossal food career nosedive.

“Okay.” He grins. “It was a murder case. The suspect had an alibi tighter than a clamshell. Said he was out for a jog at the time of the crime, even seen on security cameras.”

“Sounds pretty air-tight.” My fork is poised mid-air.

“Exactly. So I dive into the neighborhood HOA records,” he continues, clearly enjoying this story. “Turns out they have timed sprinklers set to go off like clockwork every night.”

“Let me guess. Our man should’ve been drenched.”

“Spot on. But when the cops picked him up, he was as dry as dust,” Foster declares.

I can’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the gentle lapping of the water against the yacht’s hull. There’s something about Foster’s storytelling, the flair with which he reveals his victory, that makes me want to give a slow clap.

I shake my head. “That’s some next-level lawyering. Using sprinkler schedules to take down a bad guy. Pretty freaking brilliant.”

“Why, thank you. Like I said, the devil’s in the details.” His gaze holds mine with intensity.

“Indeed.” I feel a mix of awe and that annoying twinge of envy. I wish I had the same excitement for the process that he has. “You really love what you do.” I stare at the view and ponder whether my brain is wired to enjoy creative justice-seeking.

“I absolutely do.” He nods with a wide grin. “But you—what you did with Thompson vs. Monroe—Jesus. That set a new legal precedent.”

“Thank you.” Yeah, even Dad was proud of me on that one. I study Foster for a moment, his eyes twinkling as he talks about our cases. Man, he might have enough enthusiasm for the both of us.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, his brow arching.

“Sure, just envying your passion.” I bite my lip, a nervous habit when my confidence decides to take an unscheduled vacation.

He chuckles, the sound warm against the cool night air. “Passion can be overrated.” He waves a hand. “It’s also about dedication and discipline to do the legwork.”

“Well, I’ve got that in spades.” I lean back against the plush cushion of the outdoor settee. But both those things are a hell of a lot easier when driven by the love of the game. I know because that’s how I felt when I launched my catering business.

He taps his finger against the stem of his wineglass. “Maybe you just need something to remind you why you became a lawyer in the first place.”

That would be my dad. Not exactly a motivating thought.

After our server opens a new bottle of wine, Foster offers to taste it, and after, squints at the wine bottle like it insulted his mother. “Ugh, this wine is bad,” he says with finality.

“Really?” I try to keep the surprise out of my voice. Then I ask the server for a small amount, and when I take a sip, I let it swirl around my mouth. It’s bold, fruity, and good. “It’s fine—let’s go with it.”

“Nope, definitely off.” Foster waves at the bottle with the disdain of someone who’s never tasted such horror.

“Sir, I assure you—” the server begins, but Foster cuts him off with a sharp hand gesture.

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