Page 45 of When You Give a Lawyer a Kiss

The only thing I know for sure is that my day improves exponentially when Reese is there. Even the smallest interactions have me in better spirits. When she’s having a bad day or struggling with something, I want to be the one who makes things better. And the prospect of waiting until Monday to see her again is disconcerting.

After a quick search through the employee files, I find her address and then head down to the parking garage to get my bike.

An hour later, I’m sitting across from Reese’s house in Brentsville, a neighborhood in Brooklyn. From my understanding, she lives alone, and it’s unsettling to think she calls this part of town home.

The outside of her place is rundown, with cracked bricks, crumbling front steps and a rusted gate that is barely hanging on. Nevertheless, the yard is freshly mowed, and the leaves from the maple tree in the corner have been raked into a neat pile. Even though it’s well past midnight, the light in the living room is on.

As I stride up the driveway, the crisp autumn air cuts through my leather jacket, a reminder that fall is in full swing.

I rap on the door. “Reese, it’s Dawson,” I call out.

I hear shuffling footsteps and the faint click of a deadbolt being turned before the door cracks open and Reese peeks outside.

Her hair is piled loosely into a bun and she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup, giving me an unobstructed view of the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.

Damn, she’s beautiful.

Her eyebrows knit together when she sees me. “Dawson, what are you doing here?”

“Are you going to invite me in?”

Reese chews on the inside of her cheek and glances over her shoulder before turning her attention back to me. “Did I forget to take care of something before I left the office?” she asks, disregarding my question altogether.

I try to get a better glimpse inside, but she keeps the door slightly open, leaving only a narrow gap of light.

“After you left, it was impossible to focus on anything else. I didn’t want to wait until Monday to see you again, not with how we left things.”

Her expression softens and she gives me a small smile.

The distant sound of a honking horn has me glancing around, a reminder that she still hasn’t invited me inside.

“Can I come in so we can talk?” I ask.

“Why don’t we go somewhere?” Reese suggests. “I’ll be right out.”

Alarm bells go off in my head as she tries to close the door. I wedge my shoe in the gap to keep it open, making it clear we’re not going anywhere until I find out the reason she doesn’t want me to come inside.

“Red, please let me in,” I urge her.

She eyes me warily, sighing in defeat. “Fine,” she mutters. “But keep an open mind, okay?”

Reese’s words don’t reassure me, and when she finally opens the door, I step past her into the entryway, not willing to risk her changing her mind.

As soon as I cross the threshold, I’m met with a cold draft. The air is so frosty that I swear I can see my breath. That’s when I see Reese bundled up in a hoodie, layered with a jacket, wearing fuzzy socks and fingerless gloves.

What the hell?

Before I can ask her about it, my eyes wander to the living room on the left, which appears to be in the middle of a remodel. One wall has a fresh coat of gray paint, complemented by a refurbished bookshelf in the corner and a well-worn loveseat. The other half of the room is covered in peeling wallpaper and cluttered with piles of construction materials and tools. Theplace is a hazardous construction zone, not a suitable living environment.

My lips tighten into a thin line. “In the middle of a renovation?” I ask, glancing over at Reese.

She’s standing in front of the closed door, her face a blank slate, intently watching my response to seeing her place. “Sorry, it’s such a mess. I was going to wait to do this room until I could afford to paint the entire thing, but I found a gallon of gray paint on clearance at the hardware store last month and couldn’t pass it up.” There’s a tick in my jaw when she rubs her hands together like she’s trying to stay warm. “The sofa isn’t anything special, but it belonged to my grandparents, and I picked up the bookshelf at a nearby yard sale…” She trails off when she notices my incredulous stare.

“Why is it so cold in here?” I decide to start with the most straightforward question.

Reese’s cheeks flush and she tugs her jacket tighter, trying to shield herself from the biting cold.

“The furnace is out,” she explains.

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