Page 17 of Muddy Messy Love

Wish you were here.

Beth:

I know. Me too, but I’ll see you tonight. Thai Five. 6 p.m.

Oh crap, my mandatory birthday dinner. I’d completely forgotten. Thai Five may as well reside on the Everest summit, tucked away inside my freedom. I switch my phone to silent, hide it in my bag, take another Beth breath, and straighten my shoulders. I can do this.Cole Benedict. He’ll find me. He has my photo on file.I repeat Beth’s instructions from this morning and search the foyer. What if he doesn’t find me though? What if I miss my hearing? What if I’m in the wrong building entirely?

My hands grow clammy, and I eye every suit who passes, skimming over a young couple sitting slouched against the far wall. The guy’s knees sit spread like he might give birth, the crutch of his baggy stonewashed jeans pulled taut midway down his thighs. The girl chews gum like a horse would toffee, her hands clasping his shoulder where a figurative chip throbs red and angry. I look away but not fast enough, and she sneers, nudging up her chin. “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?”

Her words bounce across the vast space and smack me in the stomach. I scramble for my phone like it will somehow protect me and bury my face, scrolling the screen in an absent frenzy while praying they leave me alone—praying my lawyer hurries the fuck up. If I can’t survive the foyer, how will I survive juvie? The thought hammers through me, and an invisible python winds itself around my chest, threatening to squeeze.

Not here. Not now. Please.

Those kids are a different breed. I’m not like them at all. Yet that’s bullshit because here I am. I crossed the same red line after flirting with it for months, savouring its wicked charm as it sparkled in the dark. I chose the same path, and that split-second decision has carved my eighteenth birthday into a slab of shame and rendered the thousand rules I did follow—the years ofAs and obedience—worthless.

If it were anyone but Slade, I would have said, “What are you doing? Don’t steal that.” And the words were there, tingling my lips and gathering power. Only, before they took flight, Slade leant in and stole them too. His warm mouth devoured every trace while Mia’s laptop glimmered under his arm and frost on her front lawn climbed the bottoms of our jeans. He broke the kiss with sparkling eyes and shallow breaths and stared at me like I waseverything. Like in that moment, Zoe’s fate was sealed. I’d finally paid my dues and passed his test. I was, at last, Slade-worthy.

Fuck, I really am my mother—sacrificing all sense to impress a guy.Was he worth it?A snarky voice sounds in my head, and heat swells in the pit of my stomach, creeping up the side of my neck. Hot tears fill my eyes, and I swipe them away with the back of my hand, tensing as I touch the eye Zoe hurt, despite it having finally healed. Slade’s smirk materialises in my head, tainting the shame with a pathetic longing, and I sigh. I wish my heart would make up its goddamn mind.

Pushing away his image, I glance up from the corner of my eye while keeping my head hung low. They’ve gone. Thank fuck. My shoulders slump on an exhale. I need to pull myself together, and fast. Distraction neededstat.

I type Cole Benedict into Google and hit search. It would help to know what he looks like. The law firm Benedict Kane pings as the first result, and I click the link to land on a home page built for kings and queens—the upper crust of society. Golden letters adorn a montage of hands shaking, the scales of justice, and white smiles in designer suits. Claims of innovation, success, and the latest legal news follow beneath, along with the history of Benedict Kane’s inception.

Cole Benedict isn’t the head honcho, despite his surname. That privilege belongs to the firm founder and managing partner—a gentleman named Gerard—who has coiffed silver hair with enviable volume. Cole is probably his brother or son. The relative who hangs from the coattails of family success, taking the glory of the name while only being competent enough to fetch coffee and watch cat videos. I mean, he’s helping me for free. Even if Beth seemed thrilled, how much can I expect? You get what you pay for in this life.Except in thrift shops.They are a treasure trove of limitless potential where paupers can live like royalty with enough skill and taste.

Stumbling across Cole’s name listed as one of two senior partners has me eating my words, and when I click into his profile, my mouth falls open.

Distraction wanted. Distraction granted.

I bring the phone closer and stare into green eyes that pierce the screen with an ethereal beauty. His pale irises are ringed in black, fanned by dark lashes, and guarded by straight brows. And he has hair the colour of dark rum, with sharp, angular features that should be immortalised in bronze. I find myselffiddling with the top button of my blouse. He’s so young too. Why didn’t Beth warn me?

Slade’s face appears in my mind, and pain jabs the back of my throat. I shouldn’t be ogling another man.Why? It’s not like Slade is the beacon of loyalty.The little voice returns, and my forehead furrows. Who is she? And why choose today of all days to be heard?

I shake my head and exit Cole’s profile, expelling the unease tingling in my stomach. Instead, I scroll through the remaining staff. There are fifty at least. Benedict Kane isn’t small or boutique, dressing up mediocrity in fancy clothes—no, it’s big, bold, and shiny. Every staff member wears confidence like a uniform. An accomplished smile. A chin held high. These people have mastered life and fit their skin in a way I never will.

Tucked away at the bottom of the list is a link entitled “Staff Summer Retreat,” and I click through to find a series of group photos set amongst glistening gum trees and dry amber dirt. Men and women climb ropes, hike, and soar through the treetops on zip lines, with hard hats, sweat-sheened skin, and exhilarated grins.

But it’s the tug of war, three rows down, that stops my breath. Cole Benedict stands shirtless and smeared in mud, yanking one end of a blue rope as it circles his low-slung shorts. His virile frame is lean and toned. Skin, smooth and olive. Determination strains his face and rips through his body, defining every single muscle, while colourful ink swirls the length of one arm. Since when do high-class lawyers have tattoos?

That is him, isn’t it? I zoom in closer and bite my bottom lip.

Oh my.

“Miss Avery Masters?” A deep voice jolts me, and my phone jumps from my hand, plummeting to the ground with a crack.

“Fuck.” I scramble to pick it up, and dust off the shattered screen on my skirt, overplaying my distress to garner theprecious seconds needed for composure. If his photo twists me in knots, what will a flesh encounter do? And shit, I can’t believe I just fucking swore. I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe it wasn’t as loud as I thought. Maybe the snaps are photoshopped to unrealistic perfection, and he is a mere mortal after all.

A throat clears above me. “Language, Miss Masters.”

I fall still, staring at his long, polished shoes and sharp hems while the reprimand slides down my shoulders like warm, fragrant oil.

Double fuck.

With a deep breath, I drag my gaze up the deliberate crease in his charcoal pants—past the briefcase clenched in his fist, and the long fingers resting over the buttons of his blazer—to meet eyes that sparkle like shattered quartz. Light stubble graces his jaw and circles his mouth, worshipping lips too pretty for the intense stare dissecting mine.

I close my mouth and swallow. “I… I’m sorry. My screen broke.”

His gaze softens and drops to my phone, but then he stiffens with a frown, one vertical line pressing deep between his brows.

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