Page 21 of Getting the Grinder
“I have proof.” Carter turns his phone screen around, showing the guys the selfie Mara took of us.
Bash bursts out laughing. “What? How did you get her to stop hating you?”
“Well, Bash, when a guy has a big wrench and he knows how to use it, he can be very convincing.”
“You’re telling me you guys have ...” He looks over both shoulders and lowers his voice. “Fucked?”
I grin, enjoying his disbelief. “Many times. Many ways.”
Bash looks at Carter. “Why didn’t you mention this?”
“I just found out on my trip.”
Bash takes out his phone. “Does Lainey know?”
Shit. If he texts Lainey, she’ll text Mara, and Mara could come storming into this restaurant and blow my story.
“Mara wants to be the one to tell her,” Carter says, saving me. “I saw her earlier today and we talked about it.”
I shoot him a grateful look.
Anton looks almost sick over the news. “Addison’s gonna be crushed. She wanted to kiss you at midnight on New Year’s Eve.”
“We can still be friends,” I offer.
He nods weakly. “Yeah. I’ll let her know.”
I breathe a little easier, swiping a roll from the breadbasket as soon as it hits the table.
I’m saved. All I have to do is pretend I’m with Mara, and Anson won’t try to set me up with his Bert-look-alike sister.
Well, I have to get Mara to go along with it, too. I wonder if I can convince her the tacos, wine and brownies were worth a favor of this magnitude.
I should probably have an entire case of wine in hand when I ask. And more brownies.
Chapter Eight
Mara
* * *
“Are you sure there aren’t any new filings stacked up under one of our desks?” I lower my brows and look around the office I share with Jayden.
He gives me a wry look. “It’s not the 1980s, so if there were more cases, this handy invention called a computer would let us know. I think we’re?—”
“No, don’t say it! You’ll jinx us.”
“It’s because we had Robson this week instead of Hampton. Robson don’t play. She likes her courtroom efficient and on time.”
“Hampton wasn’t made for traffic court.” I run a hand over the empty spot on my beat-up old wood desk where pending case files are normally stacked.
Jayden snorts with amused agreement. “He wasn’t even made to be a judge. Performance theater is his game.”
Every time one of us says, or even asks, if our workload is caught up, it’s like a Bat-Signal to drivers in the county to speed, run red lights and drive while blindfolded. So we try to be cool about it and not tempt fate.
It’s 4:55 p.m., and we’re going to be able to leave for the day. I could take some work with me, but after a long day of hustling hard in court, I’m not feeling it. Maybe I’ll actually have an evening to relax.
“I think I’m leaving now.” There’s a questioning note at the end of my sentence because lately, Jayden and I take turns forcing the other to power down the computer by 5:15 so we can badge out before 5:30 and not get busted working late.
