Page 53 of Defend Me

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

She pauses then sticks her tongue out at me, like she used to do when we were kids. I laugh and she grins.

“I was just thinking…this is nice,” she says.

“It is,” I say, though my spidey-senses are telling me that’s not really what she was thinking. “No one’s done something like this for me in…well, in a long time.”

“You’re there for everyone,” she says. “All the time, without question. You never take time for yourself.”

I shrug. “I like helping other people.” I didn’t realize she saw me so clearly. “I didn’t have you pegged as the Self Care Queen,” I joke.

She’s undeterred by my attempts to deflect. Probably the lawyer in her. Cutting through my bullshit. “It’s okay to do something just for you once in a while, you know.”

“I know,” I say, but then I start to wonder. I’ve spent my whole life working towards one goal, becoming a cop, helping others. But now what? Even if my name is cleared, what happens next?

I haven’t let myself think past the trial. Even now, my brain skitters away from the future, like ripples across the lake. Von seems to understand. She turns her face away, the sunlightdappling her skin, creating patterns across her cheeks and shoulders.

We drift on the water in silence for a while, as the sounds of the park fill the air around us.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

VON

The next three weeks are unlike any I’ve had in recent memory.

With no other cases on my desk besides Noah’s, I find I have more time on my hands. I can get home from the office in time for dinner—and if I ever work late, giving a helping hand to any junior partner who might need it, Noah leaves me leftovers in the fridge, covered in foil, usually with a Post-it note with a smiley face on it.

Doing something nice for him felt good. Surprisingly good. I find I want to keep doing it. I wrote down all the things he mentioned at the lake. It becomes, in my mind, like an IOU off. Whenever Noah does something nice for me, I return the favor. Noah fixes the leaky sink in my bathroom. I take him to the firm’s box at Yankee stadium. Noah completes his intuitive revamp of the kitchen. I book us tickets to a Broadway matinee.

We’ve done Korean barbecue and bought a duck in Chinatown (Noah cleans out my linen closet and donates the sheets I haven’t used in years). The Peking duck was a failed experiment,but it was kind of fun trying. He let me help out and I learned that I have zero natural talent when it comes to cooking. We ended up ordering Indian takeout instead.

He invites me to this book club he joined in the building—a gay couple, Roger and Sanath in apartment 11C. I tell him I haven’t read the book but it turns out, book club is just an excuse to drink wine and gossip about other people in the building. I bring a bottle of Everton cabernet franc, which is well received. Noah reveals that Virginia, an older woman in 9F, has been not so subtly hinting at having an affair with him when her husband goes out of town. I choke on my wine at that, but Roger laughs and Sanath says, “Oh yeah, she hit on me too when we moved in before she realized she’s barking up the wrong tree.”

Trying to out-nice Noah has made me understand that he doesn’t realize he’s being nice. It comes naturally to him. I always thought it was something he did on purpose.

And what I said to him at the lake rings truer and truer each day: he doesn’t think to take time for himself. He’s always checking in with his grandfather, or asking Caden about how the transition at Everton is going, or letting Isla bounce ideas off him about what pastries to make for her next client. So when I suggest the Yankees game, or the matinee, or golfing at Chelsea Piers, he gets this look like I’ve offered to take him to the moon. And honestly, it feels pretty great.

I find myself making excuses to touch him, whether brushing past him to get a glass in the kitchen or leaning close as we look at the case files together. I keep reminding myself he’s with Charlotte—and that’s a good thing. I’ve heard them on the phone together a couple of times. She must be a really cool girlfriend because she doesn’t seem to care that he’s basically living with another woman. Whatever these feelings are that squirm in my stomach or blossom in my chest when he laughs, or scratches at his beard, or pins me with a sardonic look, they’re nothing more than a passing phase. Errant thoughts and feelings. I repeat mylist over and over again in my head: He’s my client. He’s Caden’s best friend. He’s got a girlfriend.

I feel deeply aware that our time in New York is coming to an end. September is drawing to a close, and October looms in the distance, the pretrial hearing, the move back to Magnolia Bay. As I return from the office on Friday, I try to think of what else I can do for Noah this weekend. I check the list. Ugh. Looks like the Empire State Building is the only thing left.

When the elevator doors open, I step inside to more jazz music. I think it’s Dave Brubeck this time. An idea hits me—I should take Noah to a jazz club. Maybe Smalls or the Blue Note. I bet he’d like that. And it would be nice to do something I thought of myself—something not on his list.

The familiar scent of roasting food wafts over me. This is what I’ve come to expect over these past few weeks—my apartment full of music and delicious smells. I’ll miss it when the trial is over, and things go back to normal.

But I glance around and realize something else is missing. Noah.

“Hello?” I call. I walk over to the oven and see a rack of lamb inside that makes my mouth water.

I check the terrace, but Noah isn’t there. I walk back into the living room just as the timer on the stove goes off. I hear a door open down the hall and a muttered, “Shit.” I laugh softly to myself as footsteps pad toward me. I’m about to call out and tell him that I can turn the oven off when Noah skids into the kitchen and my brain goes entirely blank.

He’s only wearing a towel.

His chest is bare, drops of water clinging to his skin and leaving faint trails over the hard swells of his pecs, some catching in the smattering of coarse hairs. My gaze slides over the dents and curves of his abs, snagging on the teasing V at his hipbone. His hair is all mussed and tousled, and his bicep bulges as he holds the towel in place.

I can’t think. I can’t move. My pulse pounds too loud in my ears. It feels like he’s everywhere, filling the kitchen. Or maybe the kitchen is shrinking around him. I don’t know. I’ve shrunk myself, cratered down to nothing but the insistent throb between my thighs. He’s so…sculpted. Like the statue of David come to life. I have a sudden desire to lick the droplet of water that clings to his left collarbone. My ribs ache and my scalp prickles.

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