Page 12 of The Scent of Happiness

“They’ll tell you that if she brings a suit, you’re unlikely to win. Not easily, anyway. And the longer you drag it out in court, the more you have to pay your lawyer. We bill in six-minute increments.”

“Ah,” Brooke said. “So you won’t take it on because it’s not an easy win.”

“Correct. You need to be practical.” Theo centered his pen on his legal pad and steepled his fingers. “I can help you negotiate your settlement. It will cost you less than a lawsuit. That is your win.”

“But I’m innocent.” Didn’t that count for anything?

“I honestly can’t care about that.” He caught her gasp and sharp look, then amended. “What I mean is, your guilt or innocence is irrelevant to the issue at hand. It doesn’t matter.”

“It should matter.”

“It should, but it doesn’t, so are we going to keep going around in circles, or are you going to let me help you?”

“Bye, Theo.” Brooke opened the door.

“Wait.” He stood, pulled a business card from his drawer, circled the desk and pressed it into her hand. His fingers were cool against her overheated skin, scrambling her senses once again. “If you change your mind, give me a call.”

“I won’t.”

Theo snatched up the gift basket. “Don’t forget this.”

She shook her head. “Call it a present from an old friend.”

“Were we ever really friends?”

“An old classmate then,” Brooke said. “Keep it. You can give it to your girlfriend.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Imagine my surprise.”

As she made her way back to reception and out the door, she breathed in gulps of outdoor air, trying to calm down. Theo’s scent had played tricks on the primitive area of her brain, making her think irrational thoughts, but she knew better. Theo was handsome, and he smelled wonderful, but so what?

He was a very bad lawyer.

As she walked to her car, she held Theo’s business card under her nose, expecting it to smell like him. But it only smelled of paper and ink.

Chapter Six

After Brooke left, Theo propped his office door open and cracked the window, trying to air out the place. He glared at the gift basket. Four scented rectangles were each wrapped with a band of paper listing the name of the soap on one side and the ingredients on the other.

He pushed the basket away. It was Friday night. He’d planned to hit the gym and then watch some mindless TV, forgetting all thoughts of work. He wanted things to be straightforward, not complicated by a gorgeous woman from his past trying to jumble his thoughts with fragrances that overpowered his senses.

He picked up Brooke’s soaps one by one and inhaled. They had names like Arctic Sapphire and Pixie Wings but when he closed his eyes, he could tell that the arctic one was blue. It was sharp and cold and elegant. The pink pixie one was floral and powdery. Somehow the scent was invoking the color in a spooky dialogue that he didn’t understand.

He sniffed the yellow Citrus Ginger bar last. That was his favorite of the four, because it was the only one with a straightforward name.

No, that wasn’t why. It was the one that smelled like Brooke.

Why had he been so mean to her? He’d told her she smelled like a salad. No woman wanted to hear that. And it wasn’t true, anyway. Brooke smelled like sunshine and sweetness, with an undertone of spicy heat. He wanted to fill his lungs with her, breathe her in, and feel her in the very depths of himself. He wanted to exhale, and give himself to her.

His whole body was betraying him, not just his nose. It made no sense. Brooke had sat as close as possible to the door and had bolted out at her first opportunity. She obviously wanted nothing to do with him. Thinking about her that way—thinking about her at all—was ridiculous. What was happening to him?

And a bigger question. What had happened to Brooke?

As teenagers, Brooke, Ashley, and Chloe had been interchangeable, in matching leggings and those dumb fuzzy boots. They had the same hairstyle, the same jewelry, the same mannerisms. Their identical voices used the same slang. They were in the same clubs and on the same committees. And where you found one, you’d find the other two.

But today, no one would ever mix Brooke up with another woman. She had a style all her own. She wore a loose dress and a heavy sweater, but not even thick tights could disguise those great legs. Her skin was flawless, practically glowing from within, and she’d piled her chestnut-colored hair on top of her head in a messy bun that looked effortless but probably took her twenty minutes to get right. She’d topped off the look with the kind of dark-framed glasses that hot women wore to be taken more seriously.