Page 13 of When You Give a Lawyer a Kiss

It’s intriguing to think about why a high-powered lawyer with a hard-nosed persona spends his weekends as a tattoo artist. How can someone who draws beautiful, whimsical, imaginative tattoos make grown men cry in court?

Dawson is a puzzle I can’t seem to solve, and the urge to learn more about him is only intensifying. I shift my gaze to Noah, who’s watching me intently. “Are we going to spend the time we have left talking about my work or studying?”

He taps his chin, a teasing smile on his lips. “It depends. Are you going to pay attention?”

“Only if we can dig into those chicken tenders you bought.”

Noah chuckles. “You got it.”

As I settle my textbook into my lap, his warning lingers, but my curiosity about Dawson only grows. His enigmatic nature draws me in, and I sense there’s more to him than meets the eye. Luckily, I should be able to steer clear of him at the office and stay on top of my priorities.

The house feels like an icebox when I get home later that night. I shiver as I hurry to my bedroom and throw on a sweater, fuzzy socks, and some fingerless gloves Grams knitted me for Christmas last year.

After the pilot light went out on the furnace last month, the heating technician told me I needed to replace it, which would set me back six thousand dollars. Since the furnace supplies the hot water too, I’ve had to make do with cold showers.

I climb into bed and huddle under a mountain of blankets, trying to ward off the chill. It’s autumn in New York and the weather has taken a turn. I shudder at the idea of going through a brutal winter without a functioning furnace.

One problem at a time, Reese.

I grab my old, battered laptop from the nightstand. Its surface is covered in scratches and dents, the screen flickers, the keys are worn, and most of the letters are rubbed off. During my freshman year of college, I found the thing in the bottom of a bin at a local thrift store and was pleasantly surprised when it actually worked. It’s been my trusty sidekick ever since.

Once it’s powered up, I check my bank account and sigh in relief when I see I’m not in the red. Between my monthly expenses, and the portion of Gram’s senior living costs not covered by her pension or Social Security, every dollar counts. Home repairs might as well be a luxury.

In addition to the furnace being out of commission, there are rotting floorboards in my grandparents’ old room, a minor moldissue in the bathroom, and a leak in the roof that causes trouble when it rains.

The house is a money pit, but I refuse to give it up. Grandpa bought it for Grams when they were newlyweds, full of dreams for their future together. He passed away from a heart attack when I was a teenager, and it would crush Grams to sell the house they lived in together for over forty years. Not to mention I’ve spent my whole life here, and the thought of moving is heartbreaking.

It’s also where my mom grew up, and I feel connected to her living here. She was an only child who excelled in everything she did—captain of the cheer squad, valedictorian, and full-ride college scholarship. When she came home to visit during her junior year of college pregnant, my grandparents were shocked but supportive. She never mentioned a man before, only that he was older and had no interest in being a father.

When I was a toddler, my mom was diagnosed with stage four Hodgkin lymphoma—a type of blood cancer. She passed away six months later. In preparation of her death, she documented every milestone, wrote me dozens of letters, and filled several albums with photos of us together to leave me physical reminders of her love. With no solid memories of my mom, these keepsakes are a lifeline, offering comfort and easing the pain of her absence.

I’m about to close my laptop when temptation gets the better of me. My fingers fly across the keyboard and soon, I’m scrolling through endless search results for Dawson.

He completed his undergraduate degree in New York and attended Yale Law School. He accepted a job offer at Thompson & Tate shortly after and quickly climbed the ranks to become the firm’s youngest partner. There are dozens of articles about his cutthroat reputation and how he’s become one of the most sought-after corporate attorneys in the country. Some reportseven suggest that his strategic investments have made him a billionaire, and his financial empire extends beyond his law practice.

In stark contrast, the tattoo artist I met three months ago has a talent for transforming ink into vibrant life and proudly shows off his own tattoos instead of hiding them under long-sleeved dress shirts. That man didn’t appear driven by the relentless pursuit of success or financial gain. It raises the question, which side of him is the authentic one—the ambitious lawyer or the artist who finds fulfillment in self-expression?

After tossing and turning all night, I take the subway to visit my grandma at Oak Ridge, the assisted living facility where she moved five years ago after she slipped and fell on a patch of ice. Her recovery was long following her hip surgery, and despite my offer to postpone going to college to help her, she was insistent on moving somewhere she could receive the care she needs while maintaining a sense of independence.

When I walk inside, I’m greeted by April, an enthusiastic fifty-year-old brunette wearing a woolen, sapphire-colored sweater. She’s sitting behind the reception desk, which is covered in posters advertising everything from puppy therapy to senior salsa classes.

She gives me a warm smile. “Hey, Reese. How are you doing?”

“It’s been a long week. I started my new job, which is exciting but also overwhelming. I’m still trying to figure out the coffee machine, keep everyone’s names straight, and my boss sendsme on a wild goose chase for a pastry every morning.” I chuckle awkwardly, realizing I might be oversharing. “These are for the staff.” I hand her the box of assorted freshly baked donuts I picked up on my way here.

I’ll have to cut a few non-essentials from my grocery list this week to balance it out—including pumpkin spice coffee creamer—but it’s worth it to show my appreciation for the staff. They’ve been so good to Grams and deserve to be recognized.

April places her hand on her heart. “That’s so kind of you; you’re always so generous.” She places the donuts behind the reception center, out of view of the residents. “Georgia is waiting for you in the sunroom.”

“Thank you,” I say, giving her a wave goodbye.

When I reach the sunroom, I find Grams sitting in a rocking chair by the window, reading. Her gray hair is styled into a bob that frames her face, and she’s wearing her favorite lavender cashmere sweater and matching skirt. She glances up from her book, a smile lighting her face when she sees me.

“Reese, darling. I’m so happy to see you.” She smiles.

I lean down to kiss her on the cheek, inhaling the comforting scent of peppermint and cinnamon. It brings me back to my childhood of early mornings spent in the kitchen helping make her famous cinnamon rolls, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice crooning in the background on my grandparents’ record player.

“Hey, Grams.”

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