Page 21 of The Wedding Situation Romance

“I heard you have a new case. One that might be looking into both sides before you fight.”

“And why would I do that?” I ask, picking up my pace to shorten the conversation. I have known this man for the majority of my career. We have battled many times in the courtroom. I am usually defending someone who wants a divorce. And he is usually trying to save it, as he puts it. It’s a vigilante move if nothing else. Needless to say, sometimes he wins. And sometimes he does not.

“Because you only have one side of the story,” he answers, casually jingling his keys in the pocket of his slacks. It’s one of the things about this man that drives me insane. He’s casual about everything, a naïve approach to law. But what do I know? I’m only one of the most successful lawyers in the state of New York. I’m not bragging; those are facts. Check them if you’re uncertain.

“Isn’t that how this works? Knowing both sides would only lead to bias. Though I do usually tend to lean towards the prosecuting side.”

“Because you have no faith in love,” he states still jingling.

“Because I rely on logic and realism. Feelings can muddy the waters of better judgment, often making people reckless and usually making them bitter. My job is to get them out of that fairytale of a situation with as little damage as possible, and the most wins.”

“Even the cost of their hearts?” he asks as we come to a start, facing each other like two bulls ready to fight.

“By the time people come to me, their hearts have already been compromised. Again, my job is collateral damage. And your job is to stay out of mine.”

With that, the valet brings my car to me, and I step inside it without looking back. Grant Bowen has always been a thorn in my side. While we both work in divorce law, he is always in favor of trying to prevent divorce. It makes zero sense to me, especially as a man who isn’t even married from what I’ve seen. Half the time I think he just does what he does to make me angry and to compete with me. It’s a losing battle.

After that conversation, I find that I have a little too much adrenaline running through my veins to go home. I can thank my new court case and my old rival for that.

So I make a pit stop at Rydell’s, an upscale brewery and restaurant downtown. Don’t get me wrong, like any other man with good taste, I love whiskey. It’s my poison of choice. But at the same time, sometimes a good, ice cold, craft brew just hits. And this is one of those times.

I find a seat at the bar and order an East Coast double, salivating as I watch the pour. The honey-colored liquid bubbles over the edge of the chilled glass, and the bartender wipes it off before setting it on a coaster in front of me.

“Are we thinking food?” he asks.

“In a minute. Right now, this is all the sustenance I need.”

He grins. “Cheers.”

And cheers is right. Cheers to a good case closed. Cheers to prospective wins. Cheers to being the wealthiest, most successful, most–

“Is this seat taken?”

My hand jostles a little at the familiar voice, spilling at least an inch worth of the precious fluid onto the bar top and splashing on my shirt.

I turn to look at Quinn, clearly unamused.

“Yes,” I state.

And she sits down anyway. Why am I not surprised?

“Sorry about that, I’ll buy you another. But I need to talk to you,” she says, setting down no less than a mountain of belongings, including a giant, oversized purse (pink of course), a wallet (also pink), her phone, her keys, a sweater…

“Jesus Christ, move in, will ya?” I mutter.

“Listen, I don’t have time for small talk,” she says. “Hunting you down was no easy task.”

I am about to ask why. My name is literally plastered on the high-rise across the street. But then I realize she knows me as Reid and not August Remington, and I’d like to keep it that way, so I bite my tongue.

“Finally, I just decided to hit up every bar and grill within a mile of the courthouse, and low and behold, you’re here,” she says with an exhausting smile.

“You went barhopping to find me?” I ask. “And yet you accusedmeof being the stalker.”

“Actually, I got lucky on the first try. Talk about fate,” she says as she looks over the beer menu before flipping it over to the wine side. Of course.

“How about we just talk about why you’re here,” I say.

“Fair enough,” she says, setting the menu down. She orders a glass of merlot, the cheapest on the menu. But I intervene.