Page 103 of Bound To Be Mine

Manhattan was overwhelming in the daylight. So many people, so much noise. Everyone was in a hurry, like they had somewhere important to be. I felt like a tourist, gawking at the buildings and nearly getting run over by aggressive pedestrians.

I found a market and got what I needed. Fresh pasta, ingredients for a simple sauce, a salad, and a loaf of crusty bread. I even grabbed a bottle of wine, though we’d probably stick to one glass after our recent track record.

Back at the apartment, I got to work. I wasn’t going to win any culinary awards, but I could make a decent meal. I put on music and lost myself in the process.

It felt good. Domestic.

I was just pulling the bread from the oven when my phone rang.

I answered and felt my heart drop. It was not a call I wanted to get.

31

BRIGGS

The opposing counsel in the contract dispute was a man named Omar Phelps who had been practicing law for thirty-one years. He had a technique I could only describe as aggressive exhaustion. His whole strategy was to make the other side so tired of arguing that they conceded points not because they were wrong but because they were depleted.

It was not an effective strategy with me. I was not about to let him bully me. I respected him but I wasn’t going to run from him. Today was the opening number of the dance. We would do it all again tomorrow. I wasn’t excited, but I wasn’t dreading it. I liked the challenge. It felt good to exercise my legal chops.

I couldn’t wait to get home. And that was not a sentence I found myself saying very often. I missed Mandy. Knowing she was in my space waiting for me was a feeling like nothing I’ve felt before. Sitting in court all day, all I could think about was her. What she was doing. What she was wearing. What we’d do when I got home.

I stepped out of the elevator and into the foyer and paused. It was my apartment, but it didn’t feel, sound, or smell like my place.

Music was coming from the kitchen. Mandy was attempting to sing along to what I thought might be a Taylor Swift song. It was hard to say.

The smell of savory pot roast wafted around the space. I took my jacket off and draped it over the chair by the door. She had her back to me, standing at the stove with her doing a cute little shimmy as she sang. The lights in the kitchen were on but the rest of the living space was shrouded in darkness. Not complete darkness. I almost laughed when I saw several flickering candles on various surfaces. She was never anywhere without them. I stood and watched, saying nothing.

It was a look into a life I never knew I wanted. I never let myself imagine what it would be like to come home to someone. To have that settled feeling of a partner that cooked for me. Slept in my bed. Shared their life with me.

I did not want to go back to my old life. I knew that right then. This was what I wanted. I needed her to be a part of my life from here on out.

The song shifted. She reached for the phone to skip it and turned. She saw me and jumped.

“Oh—” She put a hand to her chest. “You have got to make noise when you come in!” She held up a wooden spoon like a potential weapon. “How long have you been standing there?”

“A minute,” I said. “Maybe two.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Thank goodness you’ve already been subjected to my horrible singing.”

“It smells good in here,” I said. “You’ve been busy.”

“I have.”

I walked into the kitchen, slid an arm around her waist, and kissed her.

“Good news and bad news,” she said when I stepped back.

I loosened my tie. “Good news first.”

“The pot roast is tender.” She turned back to the stove and lifted the lid on a pot that immediately produced a wave of hunger. “I’ve been checking it every twenty minutes.”

I looked at the pot. Then at her. “What’s the bad news?”

She put the lid back down. When she looked at me again, I was pretty sure I saw sadness. Regret. And that was never a good look.

“I have to go back to LA tomorrow morning,” she said quietly.

The kitchen stayed warm. The music continued. Someone singing about a Manchild.