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He laughs. ‘No. That’s not really my style.’
‘That doesn’t sound like love then.’
* * *
I stare at my phone. Her number’s there, plus the few WhatsApp messages we’ve exchanged in the last week and a half. I run my finger over the screen, contemplating what I want to say.
And draw a blank.
Because I want to sleep with Camille Davis more than I’ve wanted just about anything in my life. I want her in a way that snaps me out of court. I want her in a way that robs me of the ability to think half of the time. I want her in a way that corrupts my dreams, that drives my actions; I want her in a way that is primal and all-consuming.
I want her in a way that I know foretells of addiction.
I want her more than I’ve ever wanted a verdict, a fee—more than I’ve ever wanted a drink, nearly more than I’ve ever wanted to see my father punished.
We landed last night and I want her again now. Her flight to Paris is booked; she’s leaving soon and I’ll be free of this oppressive lust, this need, this burning requirement of another person.
Dependency is bad. I’ve had a thousand demonstrations of that in my time. Dependency is the death knell to happiness. I won’t depend on anyone, or anything.
I want her, though.
I slam my phone down on my desk, pulling my tablet closer, reading through the latest evidentiary statement.
I hated seeing her cry, and yet I was fascinated by her easy emotions too. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything so deeply. I don’t remember grief. I don’t know if I’ve ever known it so purely and completely as Millie.
My eyes stray to my phone again. I turn it off.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE BAR IS PACKED. Worse than usual, because Ireland just beat France in a World Cup match and it feels like every man and his dog has crowded into O’Leary’s. We’re slammed.
Which is why I don’t notice Michael when he first walks in. Why I don’t notice him when he steps to the bar. Why I don’t notice him until I’m literally standing in front of him, mixing a cocktail, and he says, ‘You look good enough to eat.’
I jerk my head up hard enough to snap a muscle and I smile instinctively, widely, happily.
It’s been about fifteen hours, but it feels like a month.
‘Hey.’ I bite down on my lip. ‘Wait right here.’ I lift a finger. ‘I’ll be back.’ I add a wedge of lime to the cocktail, move down the bar and deliver it, completing the transaction as quickly as possible. When I look up, he’s watching me and my skin seems to catch fire.
We’ve got loads of staff in and I almost bump into another waitress as I weave my way back to Michael. I only have eyes for him. When I pull level, I fight an urge to lean over the bar and kiss him.
But heat fires against my spine as though I have. I feel his lips on my body like we’ve touched.
‘How’s your case going?’
His eyes spark with mine. ‘Fine.’
I’ve missed you. The words are tight in my throat. I don’t say them. In fact, I wish I hadn’t even thought them. Stupid, foolish, inappropriate. Ridiculous! It’s been one day.
One day.
‘The usual?’ My eyes roam his face hungrily.
He doesn’t say anything for a really long time and I feel as though I’m falling down a well shaft.
‘Sure.’ I have the feeling that he’s waging a battle within himself and goosebumps mark my arms. I turn away from him, reaching for the bottle on the highest shelf. When I turn back, Michael’s eyes are running over my body with a possessiveness that fills me with instant, crazy need.
I measure out his Scotch and place it on the bar. He’s put a fifty-euro note there.
