Page 1 of The Heat Between Us

Chapter 1 - Chloe

I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes as I unlock the door to what will soon be my law office. 7:30 AM. Most of Cedar Falls is still sleeping, but I've got a day of scrubbing and organizing ahead of me.

"Good morning, future," I whisper to the empty space, my voice echoing against the bare walls.

The building is old but sturdy—red brick exterior, hardwood floors worn smooth by decades of footsteps, and large windows that will eventually let in beautiful natural light once I clean away years of grime. Right now, though, everything is covered in a layer of dust that makes me sneeze as I set down my cleaning supplies.

My parents would be horrified to see me here. Chloe Bennett, top of her class at Northwestern Law, scrubbing floors in a small-town office instead of settling into a corner office at Bennett & Associates in Chicago. I can practically hear my mother's voice: *"Twenty-two years old with your whole life ahead of you, and you choose to throw it all away on some small-town fantasy."*

But that's exactly why I'm here. In Cedar Falls, I won't be Andrew and Diane Bennett's daughter. I'll just be Chloe, the new lawyer in town who wants to help real people with real problems.

I pull my dark hair into a messy bun and survey my kingdom: approximately 800 square feet of potential. To the left, a small reception area where clients will wait. Straight ahead, what will be my office. And to the right, a tiny kitchen and bathroom. It's perfect.

The first order of business is clearing out the remaining junk left by the previous tenant—a tax accountant who retired after fortyyears in business. There are still filing cabinets against the back wall, and a desk that might actually be salvageable with some elbow grease.

I open the windows to let in some fresh air, coughing as a cloud of dust rises. The spring breeze feels good against my skin, carrying the smell of fresh-cut grass and something sweet from the bakery down the street. Cedar Falls smells nothing like Chicago, and I love it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Mom. Again. That's the third call today, and it's not even 8 AM. I silence it and get to work.

By 9:30, I've made decent progress on the reception area. The old vinyl chairs have been dragged to the curb, the carpet has been swept, and I've wiped down every surface twice. I'm on my hands and knees scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain when there's a knock at the door.

"We're closed!" I call out, then laugh at myself. Of course we're closed. We haven't even opened yet.

The knocking persists. With a sigh, I push myself to my feet, wiping my hands on my already filthy jeans. Probably someone who doesn't know the accountant retired.

When I open the door, I find an elderly woman with bright eyes and a plate of cookies.

"Hello, dear," she says, stepping past me into the office without waiting for an invitation. "I'm Mabel. I live in the apartment upstairs, and I wanted to welcome you to the building."

"Oh! Thank you, Ms. Henderson. I'm Chloe Bennett."

"Call me Mabel, everyone does. And I know who you are. Small town," she says with a wink. "The lawyer from Chicago who's going to save us all from our legal troubles."

I feel my cheeks warm. "I don't know about saving anyone, but I hope to help."

Mabel sets the cookies down on the counter and looks around appraisingly. "This place hasn't seen a good deep clean since Reagan was president. Do you have help coming?"

"Just me," I admit. "But I don't mind. It's my fresh start, you know?"

"Hmm," she says, in a tone that reminds me of my grandmother when she was about to meddle. "Well, I could make a few calls. There are always people willing to help a newcomer in Cedar Falls."

"That's very kind, but I'd like to do this myself."

I need to prove—to myself more than anyone—that I can build something from nothing, without my parents' connections or money.

Mabel looks skeptical but nods. "Suit yourself. But be careful with that old electrical system. Frank—the accountant—was always having problems. The wiring in this building is older than I am, and I'm no spring chicken."

"I'll be careful," I promise.

After Mabel leaves, I attack the office with renewed energy. By noon, I've cleared out most of the junk and am ready to start on the walls. The paint is a dingy beige that might have been white at some point, but now just looks sad.

I set up my portable radio on the windowsill, tuning it to a station playing upbeat pop music. As Taylor Swift fills the room, I pry open a can of primer and pour it into a tray. This is the fun part—transforming the space into something that feels like me.

The smell of paint fills the air as I roll the first coat onto the wall. It's satisfying watching the dingy beige disappear under clean white. This is exactly what I needed—a blank canvas.

My phone buzzes again. Dad this time. No doubt tag-teaming with Mom to get me to "come to my senses." I ignore it and keep painting.

By 3 PM, I've finished priming the reception area walls and have moved on to cleaning the grimy windows. The spring sunshine streams in, highlighting dust motes in the air and the sweat on my brow. I'm filthy and exhausted but happy in a way I haven't been in years.

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