Page 23 of Wistful Whispers
Ugh. Mom is probably right.
I lean back against the headboard, closing my eyes. “I’ll try to make it soon. I need to get through this trial.”
Mom exhales because she doesn’t believe me. She’s heard it before. There are always other cases.
“Please don’t work yourself into the ground, Chellie,” she says softly. “Your job might be important,mija. Living a balanced life matters more.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I love you, Mama.”
When I end the call and sit there in my barren apartment, staring at the open laptop on my nightstand, I wonder—what the hell is my end game?
Whoa!
I’m alone. My pussy is threatening to dry up.
My love life has come down to dreaming of a potential defendant—albeit the best-looking man I’ve never met—going down on me in the stairwell?
For the fourth time in a week?
Yet the dream lingers, curling heat in my stomach. My body is still thrumming with an actual orgasm I had in my sleep. Maybe the most powerful of my life.
My mind screamsnooooooo.
Jesus Christ.
It’s getting ridiculous. I can’t go on like this.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
My body doesn’t seem to know it, though. My skin is too tight and my thighs squeeze together before I can stop myself. My panties are soaked.
It’s time to get up. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stare at the floor, grounding myself.
Tomorrow, I’m going to sit across from the man I’ve been fantasizing about and I cannot—will not—let this nonsense affect me.
I force myself to shower, drink coffee, and shove the dream into the deepest, darkest part of my brain where it belongs.
Then I go to work.
Ethan and Natalie are already in the conference room when I arrive, hunched over Bryce Caldwell’s deposition transcript. The table is covered in legal pads, highlighted passages, and evidence binders.
I set my bag down, rolling up my sleeves. “Tell me we have something useful.”
“Not useful. Definitely interesting.” Ethan pushes a page toward me.
I scan the text, recalling this part of the deposition. Caldwell didn’t distance himself from what happened in the OR—he tried to erase himself from it.
“He’s framing it like he had no control,” Natalie mutters. “Acknowledges McGloughlin’s warning. Claims it was distracting. He ignored it, though.”
I shake my head, tossing the transcript onto the table. “Utter bullshit.”
“Big time.” Ethan tosses his pen to the table.
“Look. Caldwell was in control. He was lead. The responsibility was his.” I flip through the notes, scanning the details of Caldwell’s history. Two prior malpractice suits in the past fifteen years. Two dismissals. Settled before trial, buried before they could make a dent in his reputation. I lean back in my chair. “Did he have a resident assisting in either of these cases?”
Natalie’s fingers fly over her keyboard as she pulls up the old filings. “Looks like—yes. In both, the resident was named but not personally sued.” She glances up. “Caldwell shifted the focus to them, argued their actions played a role in the poor outcomes.”
