“It is not lunch with my partners.”
“If this is some networking ambush thing, where I have to smile at men named Preston while they ask whether I still practice, I will file for divorce.”
“You’d lose.”
“I’d poison your coffee first.”
“You say that every month.”
“Because every month, you deserve it.”
He reaches over and unbuckles my seat belt before I can slap his hand away. Then he opens the door on my side himself because, apparently, today he is both manipulative and chivalrous.
He places a steadying hand on my elbow and guides me toward the entrance. The doorman greets him by name, nods respectfully to me, and opens the heavy glass door. Inside, the lobby gleams with marble floors.
I’ve been here dozens of times. Holiday parties. Fundraisers. The occasional lunch when Rowan wanted to “borrow me for an hour,” which usually meant feeding me and then kissing me in his office until both of us were late for something.
And once, years ago, to watch Hale & Brooks implode after all the partners were disbarred in spectacular fashion.
But today feels different.
Today, he is too calm.
The receptionist brightens when she sees us. “Good afternoon, Mr. King. Mrs. King.”
“Claire,” Rowan says with a nod. “Has everything arrived?”
Everything?
“Yes, sir. About twenty minutes ago.”
My head turns sharply toward him. “Everything?”
He presses the elevator button. “Questions later.”
“I hate this version of you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he is right.
We step into the private elevator, and the doors slide shut around us. The second we’re alone, I turn on him.
“What is happening?”
He studies me for a moment, then reaches forward to smooth the line between my brows with his thumb. “You wrinkle here when you’re suspicious.”
“I am suspicious.”
“You’re beautiful suspicious.”
“Flattery is not a defense.”
“It has worked before.”
I hate that he is right about that, too.
The elevator rises. Instead of pressing the floor for his office, Rowan hits the button one level below.
