"I was wondering if you want to come to the benefit tonight," he said, the idea springing into his mind. "It's for literacy, and it's at the landfill."
She sat up, completely oblivious to the way the sheet fell off of her. "Excuse me?"
"Texas Disposal Systems maintains an exotic ranch right next to the landfill. It's their way of giving back. It's not open to the public, but they rent the Pavillion out for events."
"That's completely cool. And I could see the animals?"
"Absolutely."
"But are you sure I can go? I mean, as your date?"
Regret stabbed through him. "Probably not. But I have an extra ticket. And you can be one of the guests. Someone I have to schmooze for later votes."
She laughed, then moved to straddle him. "I don't know. You schmoozed me pretty good already. I have no more votes to give."
He cupped her ass. "Right now, neither do I. But later I hope for a lot more schmoozing."
"Deal." She slid off him, then rolled off the bed. "I need to take a shower and get out of here. When is this thing?"
He sat up, more disturbed than he should be that she was leaving. Hell, he'd practically ordered her here last night without even thinking to ask if she had other plans. "Seven," he said. "You can't stay for breakfast?"
"I was going to grab a coffee and a donut on the way." She tilted her head. "Do you want to join me?"
"It's not even nine on a Saturday. Where are you going?" he asked, but she just smiled.
"Why don't we start in the shower, and you'll learn the rest when we get there?"
There turned out to be San Gabriel Park in Georgetown, a town about thirty minutes outside of Austin, where dozens of children under the age of thirteen were running from bouncy houses to craft stations to makeshift photo booths.
"What is this?" Easton asked as they walked from the car to the mass of kids.
"I work with an organization that takes foster kids out on excursions. Some foster parents can't afford to do much of that or are just overwhelmed. This gives the kids some interaction and the parents can come, too, if it works for them."
He glanced sideways at her. "That sounds like a great cause."
She shrugged. "There's a need."
They'd reached a small cluster of adults, so he didn't ask her about the tightness in her tone of voice. Instead, he accepted an assignment to go play catch with a group of young boys while Selma set up at a face-painting station and started to decorate a very long line of little girls.
By the end of an hour, Easton was exhausted, and begged the boys to stop for a bit. Instead of catch, he took them down to the river's edge. A few of the kids and chaperones were already there with stale bread for the ducks, many of which were so tame they ate right out of the kids' hands.
"You're really a lawyer?" A tall boy of eleven who'd told Easton he was Alfonse stood with his hands on his hips as he focused on Easton's face.
"I am."
"That's what I'm going to do, too. My dad beat up my mom. He's in jail and she can't take care of me anymore. I'm gonna be a prosecutor."
Easton's gut twisted with the kid's words, but he tried not to show it. But dear God, he'd thought his childhood with his parents' legal and financial problems had been rough? Talk about foolish. "I think you'll make a great prosecutor. You know what justice is and you've seen what prosecutors are fighting for."
The kid grinned, as if Easton had just anointed him as a district attorney right then.
"Yeah. My dad's a prick. But Gary's okay."
"Gary?"
"My foster father. He and Jessie are gonna try to adopt me." His smile was wide, but a little sad. "They want me. My dad didn't. And my mom?" He shrugged. "I don't think she really did, either. But at least she never hit me."
Dear God. What the hell could he say to this kid?
"Alfonse, everybody has a path. Some start out pretty crooked. But it sounds like yours is straightening out. Here," he added, then fished out his wallet and handed the kid his business card. "You keep in touch. I mean it."
The boy's face lit up, and he tucked the card in his back pocket before rushing to the riverbank to join a group of kids who were calling his name.
Easton went to the check-in desk and downed three glasses of water, his mind spinning.
He spent the next two hours on auto-pilot, but when they were back in the car, he'd processed enough to turn to Selma when they reached a red light. "Those kids--they have it pretty rough."
"Yup."
"Was that you?" he asked gently.
She didn't answer, and the light turned green. He continued on in silence, angry with himself for getting personal. Obviously, that wasn't where she wanted to go with him.
He pulled into his garage, then killed the engine. "Do you want to come in? Or are you heading home? You're still coming to the benefit tonight, right?"
She turned to look at him, her brow furrowed. Then she pulled off the plain white t-shirt she wore. There was nothing sexual about the act, and he wasn't surprised when she pointed to the small tattoo beneath her left breast, near her heart. The single word, please.
"You asked me about it, remember?"
He nodded.
"It was my first tattoo. I was twelve. Matthew and I had been in foster care for a while, and then we learned that the Herringtons wanted to adopt us. I snuck out of the house that very first night and managed to get to a tattoo parlor. I looked older than my age, and they didn't ask for ID--it's probably a miracle I didn't get hepatitis from the needle, the place was skanky. Anyway, that's what I got. That word over my heart. Please. Please let them be the ones. Please let it last."
Let it last. The words echoed like a clue in his mind.
"Did they ever find out you snuck out?"
She nodded. "Oh, yeah. My second day in their house and I got grounded. I figured that was the end. But then things moved on. I was so sure the end was coming--it always did--and then we were in front of a judge and they were officially my parents. My head totally spun."
"And now?"
Her laugh was harsh. "Now I know that I have a good thing--but I still expect it to come crashing down. I'm a glass half empty girl. Matthew is convinced we paid our dues and found Shangri-La. He's a glass half full guy."
He exhaled, lost under the weight of her story and Alfonse's dark, hopeful eyes. "I'm sorry you're still not sure." He took her hand. "Maybe one day you'll stop believing that the ground is going to fall out from under you."
"Maybe," she agreed. "But I'm not holding my breath."
Chapter Eleven
Selma hadn't expected the landfill to be as cool as it was. Somehow, her head hadn't managed to put together exotic animals and trash. But once she was there, she was mesmerized by the zebras, rhinoceroses, tigers, and other wildlife that she saw on the brief guided tour that the benefit guests were offered.
Since she wasn't technically there with Easton, she'd been in a different tour group, and now she was back in the pavilion, wandering the various tables--some offering information about literacy, some displaying the items donated for the silent auction--and sipping her glass of Chardonnay.
Honestly, while she thought literacy was a great cause, after her time with the animals, she was bored. A state of affairs she was certain would be remedied if Easton were beside her.
He, however, was nowhere to be found. Or at least, she corrected, he hadn't been. Now, she caught a glimpse of his dark hair and broad shoulders through the window, and she forced herself to walk toward the main door instead of skipping like an eager puppy.
She stopped short, however, when he stepped inside. Marianne was on his arm, her face lit up with pleasure.
Angry green monsters started to claw at Selma's insides, and she told herself sternly that she was being stupid. She had no right to be jealous. They were coworkers. She'd known they were coming to this together. He was running for judge. Of course he needed someone like Marianne beside him. After all, who could possibly
see her as a judge's wife?
Wife?
Where the hell had that come from?
Companion, then. Date. She was so not political material.
A fact that underscored the rationality of their original plan: Contract to sell the distillery plus a good time while they were negotiating equaled happy memories for both of them when they parted ways.
It was what they'd agreed, and it made sense.
And yet she couldn't deny that the thought of going their separate ways now left her feeling hollow. And the part where she watched another woman on his arm brought out some serious mean girl attitude.
Hell. She was definitely in trouble.
"Selma!" The eager voice yanked Selma away from her pity party, and she turned to find Elena grinning at her as she hurried forward, accompanied by an athletic woman with wild, curly hair and piercing blue eyes.
"Elena! Why are you here?"
"I'm schmoozing. I have an interview with the director of one of the historic preservation societies soon. Figured I should meet her socially first."
"Good plan." Elena was about to start a graduate program in urban planning, and she was eager to get as much related experience as possible.
"What about you? Why are you here?"
"Easton had an extra ticket. I, um, I'm considering it a client perk."
"Easton Wallace?" the other woman asked. "I've been looking for him. I'm Hannah, by the way. Hannah Donovan."
"Hannah comes to The Fix sometimes. She's friends with Shelby. You met her once with Nolan, remember? Mr. April?"
Selma did. And she also remembered Hannah's name from the day she and Easton had worked in the conference room, and those ridiculous green monsters started up their conga line again. "I actually just saw him with another woman from his firm."
Hannah made a face. "Must be Marianne. I think Judge Coale only wants her as Easton's escort because she's too bland to be offensive to anybody."
Selma bit back a laugh, her estimation of this woman rising a bit. "How do you know Easton?"
Hannah waved a hand. "Oh, God, we go back forever. We were study buddies in law school, then mock trial partners. We dated for about seven seconds, but it didn't stick. We lost touch for about a year--I ended up dating a woman who was jealous of every ex-boyfriend--and then I moved to Austin to do in-house work and we reconnected."
The last bits of jealousy faded away.
"You know him because you're a client?"
Selma nodded. "He's negotiating the sale of my business."
Hannah's lips twitched. "If you say so."
"What?" Elena demanded.
Hannah looked at Selma. "I probably understated what good friends Easton and I are. To be honest, until Judge Coale started him on this path to be a judge, we were thinking about opening a firm together. I'm itching to be in the trenches. In-house pay is great, but the work can be monotonous."
Selma frowned, not sure she was following. Hannah, apparently, was a rambler, and Selma assumed that if they worked together, Easton would do the trial stuff and Hannah the behind the scenes law work.
"Right, sorry. My point is, we talk a lot. He's one of my closest friends, although with campaigning and his recent extracurricular activities, we haven't talked as much as we used to."
"Oh." Selma actually blushed. And blushing really wasn't like her. "What exactly has he told you?"
Hannah lifted a shoulder. "Nothing embarrassing. But I'm happy for him. It's clear he really likes you. Sorry it has to be so clandestine. Politics are stupid."
"That's for sure," Selma said.
Beside them, Elena looked from one to the other. "What the hell are you two talking about?"
"I'm fucking Easton," Selma said, choosing her words intentionally because it was so much fun to shock Elena. "But keep it a secret, okay?"
"But you're leaving for Scotland soon!"
"Maybe he's my grand send-off," Selma said, although the words tasted bitter on her tongue. "Either way, we're having fun."
"Speak of the devil," Hannah said, as Easton approached.
"You three look like you're getting into mischief."
"Always," Hannah said, as Selma's phone chirped, the tone signaling that it was Matthew.
She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and went cold.
911.
"Excuse me." She stepped away, her heart pounding as she called her brother.
"Dad's had a heart attack," he said without preamble. Hell, she hadn't even heard the phone ring.
"Oh, God. Is he--"
"Fine. Stable. He's in a hospital in China. Mom says they're taking care of him. She tried to call you, too, but said it kept disconnecting."
"Are they coming home? Can I call her?"
"You can try. She said she'd email you when she had a moment. As for coming home, they're going to take a cruise back. She says it'll force Dad to rest."
Selma closed her eyes and nodded. When she opened them again, the women and Easton were looking at her with concern. "It's my dad. He's fine, but he had a heart attack." She aimed a thin smile at Easton. "Thank you for the ticket. I loved seeing the animals. But if you don't mind, I think I'm going to go home. I feel a little raw."
A thousand emotions seemed to shift over his face, and she knew that whatever he wanted to say, he couldn't in public. Right then, she didn't even care. She felt numb, and after she said her goodbyes, she drove home on autopilot, then curled up on her couch without even being certain how she managed to get inside.
She dozed for a few hours, then checked her email. As promised, her mother had sent an email updating her on her dad's status, which, thankfully, wasn't too scary. Honestly, it was the part her mother had tagged on at the end that made Selma's nerves twitch.
Sweetie, I know you're tired of hearing the same song from me, but I have to say it to you one more time--please stop playing Hopscotch through your life. I'm afraid that this close call with your father will push you the opposite direction. That you will imagine the pain of losing him and once again push everyone close in your life away simply so that you will have done it to them before they do it to you. You think I don't see that, but I do. I'm your mother, yes, but I had the benefit of watching you at first with a stranger's eyes. And I see you better than you think I do. And I love you for everything I see, but it worries me as well.
I want you to be happy and settled, but settled doesn't mean that you can't still travel and have fun. I want your life to be exciting and memorable. But don't hop about so much that you only land on the mountaintops. Take time to explore the ground beneath you. Live your life, Selma. Don't just bounce through it. Take time to love and to learn. I promise you, any pain that comes with it is a small price to pay for being connected.
I love you always and Dad and I will see you when we make port in the US. Until then, think of us sunning and relaxing on the deck of a ship. And also think about what I've said.
Much love and kisses forever,
Mom
* * *
Selma tried to read the email twice, but with the tears filling her eyes, she couldn't. Instead, she hugged her phone close and closed her eyes, willing sleep--only to sit bolt upright when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry." Easton's voice washed over her. "You left your door unlocked."
She sat up, groggy, and realized she'd been dozing. "What time is it? The benefit's already over?"
"I left early. I would have been here sooner, but I didn't know your address. I had to swing by the office and look it up."
"Home sweet home," she said, indicating the efficiency apartment that took up part of the distillery's second floor. She frowned. "You left early?"
"I was worried about you."
"Oh." The words warmed her, pleasing her more than she'd expected. "Who is Marianne to you?" She blinked. She hadn't intended to ask that question.
"No one," he said, his words giving credence to what Hannah had said. "My mentor thinks she's the perfect wingma
n for political events."
"She likes you. And not as a wingman."
He shook his head. "Not an issue."
"Maybe not for you. But I saw the look on her face."
"Again. Not an issue."
She ran her fingers through her hair. "What about Hannah?"
"Am I hearing jealousy?"
She met his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "Yes."
"Oh." He actually flinched a bit in surprise. Not that she blamed him. Considering their deal, that pronouncement was definitely out of character. Hell, maybe her mother's words were getting to her more than Selma wanted them to.
"Good," he added, then grinned. "I think I like knowing you're jealous."
"Rat bastard," she said mildly. "Seriously, who is Hannah to you?"
"One of my best friends."
"That's what she said. I like corroborating evidence." His chuckle washed over her and she pressed on. "Why aren't you opening your firm with her?"
"I'm doing the judicial thing."
"Again I ask, why?"
"A lot of reasons. The path makes sense, and I can help people."
"But it's not you. I mean, I've seen some interesting sides of you, and they're not particularly judicial. And as for helping people, don't judges deal with attorneys and not the actual clients?"
He said nothing, and when he did answer, his words were unexpected. And a bit unwelcome. "Why do you keep haggling over minor terms in the sale contract?"
"What? I'm not--"
"You are. We could have closed this deal days ago, but we keep going over the same ground. And I don't think it's just because you want to spend more time with me."
"I want the best deal."
"Maybe the best deal is no deal."
"Dammit, Easton, we're not doing the psychology game."
He lifted a brow. "Aren't we?"
"Fine." She stood up and thrust out her hand. "Truce?"
He tugged her toward him, then lifted her onto his lap and kissed her, the feel of his lips against hers and his body hot and hard beneath her settling her more than it should. "Truce," he murmured, then put his arms around her and hugged her against him.
For a moment, they stayed like that, with her clinging to him and soaking up his strength. After a moment, she pulled back, her eyes searching his and, thankfully, what she saw reflected there gave her the strength to say the next words. "I don't want to think that this is more than it is," she began. "I mean, we had a deal. But I want--"