Page 18 of When You Give a Lawyer a Kiss

I was placed in foster care when I was four years old. My birth mom was an addict and couldn’t handle the responsibility of taking care of me. Without any information on my birth dad and no family to speak of, she handed me over to Child Protective Services.

Due to my frequent tantrums and emotional outbursts, I wasn’t adopted. As a result, I was passed from one foster home to the next.

By the time I was fifteen, I’d had several run-ins with the cops and accepted the harsh reality that if nothing changed, my life would be defined by crime and poverty. However, I caught a break when Colby was assigned as my public defender, and in many ways, the Tates saved my life.

He persuaded the judge handling my case to give me one last chance, since the charges weren’t violent or drug related. I remember his advice like it was yesterday.You hold the power to change your future, son. Use this opportunity to make better decisions and do what it takes to become a version of yourself that you can be proud of.

His words of wisdom led me to change my mindset, and I promised myself that I would do everything in my power to make sure that I never went back.

Two decades later, I’ve nearly achieved it all: a luxurious house with a rooftop pool, a successful career, and enough money in the bank to fund a small country. Yet, the irrational fear of returning to poverty and drifting through life unnoticed still haunts me.

“Are you all right, Dawson,” Martha asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You sound exhausted. Do you need me to have anything delivered?”

“I’m fine. It’s just been a busy week at the office.” I get up from my desk to stand at the window that overlooks the bustling city streets below. “What are you both doing at home during the day anyway? Should I be worried?”

On Wednesdays, Colby usually represents his clients in court, while Martha runs her interior design agency out of their home in New Haven, Connecticut. When I was accepted into law school at Yale, Colby accepted a job offer in the area. After I graduated and moved back to New York, they chose to stay in New Haven because they loved their house and the peace and quiet their neighborhood provided compared to the hustle and bustle of the city.

“Today is the anniversary of the day we met, so I’m taking Martha out for a little adventure to revisit some of our favorite memories.”

I rub my hand across my neck. “That’s right. Happy anniversary,” I offer.

After everything they’ve been through, they deserve to celebrate every milestone, regardless of how small.

“Thanks, honey,” Martha says, her voice full of warmth.

Before I came into their lives, they had separated and were considering divorce. They struggled with infertility for years and were eventually told they couldn’t have kids. After reconciling, they applied to become licensed foster parents. They were approved just days before my case was resolved and agreed totake me in. Although it’s unusual for foster kids to stay with their lawyers, CPS made an exception for my case, and Martha and Colby adopted me a year later.

I shake off my wandering thoughts. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your date,” I tell them, not wanting to hold them up any longer. “Thanks for checking in on me.”

“We’re always here for you, son,” Colby says.

“Always,” Martha adds, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Have a great rest of your day, honey.”

“You too, talk later,” I say before hanging up.

Every day, I’m reminded of how grateful I am for the love, sacrifice, and support that Martha and Colby bring into my life. I will never take their generosity for granted.

I slide my hand into my pants pocket and look back down at the street to find it’s even busier than before. Lunch hour is wrapping up, so everyone is rushing back to their offices. I catch a glimpse of red hair among the moving figures below. Even from four stories up, I can make out the emerald-green scarf Reese was wearing when she brought me a file earlier this morning.

When I assigned her to report to both me and Rob, I assumed she’d spend half her time on my floor. Instead, she’s spent this past week at her desk downstairs, and our interactions are mostly through emails and texts.

I don’t normally share my personal number with employees, but for her, I didn’t hesitate.

There’s something about her presence that makes me want to keep her close. It’s an irrational thought, but that doesn’t stop me from contemplating how to remedy the situation.

One way or another, I’m going to find a way to see her more often.

It’s relatively quiet when I arrive at the bar. There are several empty tables and only a couple of patrons playing pool and darts. The bartender gives me a nod as I pass, signaling that he’ll bring my usual two fingers of brandy over shortly.

Harrison is settled at the far end of the bar, his Old Fashioned untouched, while he taps away on his phone. He glances up when I slide into the empty stool next to him.

“Took you long enough.” His muscular arms fill out the sleeves of his short-sleeve polo as he lifts his drink to his mouth.

“Something came up that I had to deal with,” I mutter.

“And they callmea workaholic,” he says.

Harrison assumes I spend my weekends like he does—building my ever-growing empire. He has no idea about Steel & Ink or the sleeves of tattoos concealed beneath my dress shirt.

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