Page 27 of Say Yes to the Death

“You okay?” a familiar voice asked.

“Sawyer,” she choked out. The table and chairs looked like dollhouse furniture as he sat down across from her, dressed in a navy suit and surfboard-sized black dress shoes. He looked like a bodyguard, or maybe a professional wrestler.

“Sorry, my friends brought me this. I was expecting coffee and instead got a very strong hit of vodka,” she whispered, sliding the mug across the table to Sawyer.

He sniffed it and shuddered, then slid it back to her. His nose was broad and flat, as though he slept with his face smashed into a pillow and it had gotten stuck that way.

Claire shrugged and took a big sip before moving it off to the side. “I didn’t realize you’d be here. Makes sense, though.”

He nodded. “I did tase the bastard. How have you been?”

“Fine. No one’s broken into my apartment since the system was installed, so thank you for that.”

Sawyer smiled. His lips were large and velvety-looking, and his teeth were perfectly white against his tanned skin. His shoulders rippled as he took his phone out of his pocket.

“Have you given any more thought to self-defense classes?”

She smacked the table with one hand. “I have, actually. I’m sick of feeling powerless. I needed three people just to get me through the crowd and into the building today. I was going to call you next week to schedule a lesson.”

“Sounds great. It’ll be good for you. Help you feel a little more in control.”

“I do love to be in control,” she said, smiling wryly. She abandoned her notebook in her bag and picked up the gossip magazine. For once, her mind refused to focus on work.

“Care package from Mindy and Nicole.” She gestured to the magazine. “I don’t usually read these things.”

“Mindless garbage can be a great distraction. I watched two full seasons of Stepwives of Secaucus a couple years ago,” Sawyer said, gesturing to the picture of a brunette woman who was apparently sporting a new nose job on the cover of the magazine.

“My sister and I watch that show all the time. I didn’t have you pegged as a reality TV guy.” Claire raised an eyebrow. A loud yawn caught her off guard, and she wiped a hand at the corner of her eye, trying not to smudge her makeup. She had barely slept the night before and had woken in the middle of four different nightmares about Barney. But at least she hadn’t sleepwalked. That was a problem for another day.

“I’m not. It was a weird time. You look exhausted.”

She frowned. Apparently, her special green-tinted undereye primer hadn’t gotten rid of the bags.

“I don’t mean you look bad,” he corrected quickly. “You look great. You were just yawning and I figured with today coming up you probably didn’t sleep. I’m going to stop talking now.” He folded his hands and placed them on the table.

Claire laughed. He was so nice. An open book, really. It was a far cry from interacting with the perpetually grumpy and mysterious Luke. “It’s fine. I am tired.”

Tired of a lot of things.

“If you want to close your eyes and rest a little bit, I’ll keep an eye out,” he said.

A protest was on the tip of her tongue, but she yawned again, so violently that she shuddered. The swig of vodka was dragging her eyelids down. The sun filtering through the window distinctly reminded her of sitting in the Burger King sunroom as a child.

“I might do that. Thank you, Sawyer,” she said, promptly laying her head down on her magazine. Just a brief power nap.

“Unhand me!”

The shout startled Claire awake. She sat upright as though she had been electrocuted. Her cheek was damp, and the magazine clung to her face, swinging like a pendulum for a moment before dropping back onto the table. She wiped at the dampness on her cheek and glanced across the table, relieved to see that Sawyer had disappeared. Drooling on a gossip magazine outside a courtroom probably didn’t do much for her public image.

She stood, walked into the hallway, and took a step toward the courtroom.

The heavy wooden double doors burst open. A bailiff the size of a redwood stepped into the hallway, carrying a hot pink bundle over his shoulder.

“Put me down, you oaf! I’m not finished with her.” The hot pink bundle was Claire’s mom, screaming obscenities and flailing. One of her bubblegum-pink high heels flew off and knocked a personal item bin off the security table.

Sawyer, who had been approaching the doors looking ready for a fight, caught the bin before it hit the ground.

“Ma’am, you are not permitted to verbally assault the litigators.” The bailiff deposited her on a chair in the atrium.

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