Page 32 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

When we first started working this case, the firm flew us all up to New York City to meet with technical specialists from the company we were representing, a tech company called McPherson Inc.

For that trip, we flew business, and it was the nicest flight I’ve ever had. As a girl from a small town in Texas whose childhood vacations consisted mostly of camping trips to the National parks, I thought business class to NYC was about as fancy as my life would ever get.

At the time, some of the other lawyers (yes, including Tripp), complained that they didn’t splurge for first class. I probably should have broken up with him then.

But the point is, a year and a half later, we won the case, securing patent rights for McPherson worth more money than I can imagine. And, to show her gratitude, Lily McPherson is sending us in her private jet to—and this is a direct quote—the cutest little resort.

Lily, who is actually younger than I am, can be a bit much. I get the impression she’s just a big goofball trapped in the body of a gorgeous heiress. She might be a little over the top, but as the staff ushers me into the terminal and offers me a mimosa, it’s hard not to admire the effort she’s put in to showing us her gratitude.

I spot some of the other people from Dushane & Dushane over in a lounge area equipped with sleek, modern furniture that looks better suited to a swanky bar than an airport. And there, standing just off to the side, is Nick.

He’s the only one in the group not holding a mimosa. Instead, he’s standing with military precision, hands folded behind his back. A worn, army green duffle sits between his feet. He’s got on a pair of aviator sunglasses and he’s wearing well-worn cargo shorts and another one of those testing-the-limits-of-physics T-shirts. He looks stunningly… gawd. I don’t even have the words for it.

And I’m a lawyer. I have words for everything.

There’s a clear distance of several feet between Nick and the rest of the party from Dushane & Dushane. A sort of social thermocline separating him from everyone else; evidence they don’t quite know what to make of him.

I don’t blame them. I’ve been around my brothers for years, so I’m used to the smartest-toughest-most-prepared-guy-in-the-room shtick, and I even I don’t know what to make of him. He makes all the other men in the room look like teenage boys just pretending to be real men.

Then he sees me. The aviators go up on his head, his lips quirk into a smile, and his posture relaxes, as if a general somewhere, in a voice only he can hear, told him at ease.

He cuts through the social thermocline, slicing through the pod of Dushane employees, and walks up to me. Before I can greet him, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me. The kiss is quick, but fierce. An inarguable statement that I’m his.

When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Hey, Butterscotch.”

“I… What…” I swallow, then try again. “What was that?”

He doesn’t move his gaze from mine as he says, softly, so that only I can hear him. “That was me making sure Sir Reginald Douche Canoe, Esquire knows you don’t miss him one bit.”

I stiffen, but before I can turn to look behind me, Nick slides his hands into my hair and kisses me a second time. I’m expecting another quick, but open-mouthed kiss. So I steel myself to be impervious and unaffected by the brief display. This time though, I’m not prepared for the soft, seductive slide of his tongue against the seam of my mouth.

I gasp in response, and he takes full advantage of my opened lips. The first touch of his tongue to mine ignites my blood and now liquid lust pumps through my veins. I grab his shirt and kiss him back. I know it’s fake. I know he’s pretending, but God help me, I don’t care. I want to climb this man like a jungle gym and ride him like a train. Thank God he ends the kiss before I make good on my terrible metaphors because I’m pretty sure my clothes were milliseconds away from spontaneously combusting.

This time when he pulls back, he barely lifts his head, so I can feel his lips moving against mine as he says, “Don’t turn around. They’re right behind you.”

I blow out a slow breath, trying to calm my nerves. Though honestly, I don’t know if the nerves are from this show we’re putting on—a very unplanned show, I might add—or if my nerves aren’t nerves at all, but are simply my body’s growing awareness of this amazing guy.

This amazing guy who just kissed me like he’s been wanting to kiss me for years.

This amazing guy who isn’t really mine and who wouldn’t have kissed me at all if there wasn’t an audience.

I blow out a breath and, still not looking behind me to see if Tripp and Delany are watching, I smile up at Nick, doing my best to sell the hell out of this.

I take a sip of the mimosa I was just handed and hide behind the flute as I murmur, “I told you I didn’t want you to come.”

His lips quirk. “No. You told me I didn’t have to come. That’s different. If you’d expressly said you didn’t want me here, I wouldn’t be here.”

Have you ever tried to fake a smile and glare at someone at the same time?

It’s hard. Trust me.

“Didn’t we agree you should leave lawyering the rules to the professional?”

“Nope. I don’t remember that at all. And if you really didn’t want me here, you wouldn’t have called the terminal ahead of time and added my information to the guest list.”

Hmm… he has a point there.

“I just didn’t want you to face the humiliation of being turned away if you showed up. I didn’t really think you would do it.”

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