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Nick’s hand goes to my face, and suddenly his cheek is pressed to mine, his lips at my ear. “Wecan, Faith,” he says softly, leaning back to look at me; our eyes lock and hold; I feel the deep pull between us. “Together, remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts,” he says.
“Nick—”
“Faith.”
“We aren’t done with this, Nick Rogers,” I warn.
“You most certainly are for now,” Abel says, setting the pizzas on the counter. “Eyes on the guest and the food, people.”
Nick lifts his brows at me, offering me the power of decision: do I push for a talk I can’t really have in front of Abel or cave to the scent of spicy cheese goodness currently teasing my nostrils? The spicy cheese goodness wins. I rotate to face Abel, who rewards my attention by opening a box to display an impressive-looking pepperoni pizza. My stomach growls again, and I decide this delicious, calorie-laden lunch will either grow the brain cells I will need to negotiate a proper financial outcome with Nick “Tiger” Rogers or put me back to sleep, but the latter is a risk I will have to take.
Ten minutes later, we remain at the island, all with bottles of water and paper plates piled with slices of pizza in front of us. “How do you two know each other?” I ask, and one slice into my meal, I’m already feeling sharper and far more present in the conversation.
“We met in law school,” Nick offers, his answer seemingly simple, when I’ve come to know that there is nothing simple about Nick Rogers.
Or silent about Abel, I’m learning, as he adds, “A long-ass time ago. Fourteen years ago?”
“I got my tattoos in July of 2003, and we met that week,” Nick says. “So yes. That would be fourteen years ago.” He glances at me. “Which I remember because he talked the entire damn time.”
“Offering moral support when he almost backed out,” Abel interjects. “You know the whole ‘don’t be a wuss’ kind of support, though that wasn’t the exact word I used.”
“He’s a big talker in every possible way,” Nick says, holding out his bare forearms to display the black-and-orange tiger etched on one and the words “An eye for an eye” on the other. A phrase that I hate, and that still isn’t about him to me. I’m not sure it can ever be about him. “Two tattoos,” Nick continues. “Ask Abel how many he got while talking big? None. He was afraid it would hurt.”
“It’s a good thing you two aren’t competitive or anything,” I say drily. “Or else you might be enemies.”
“Speaking of enemies,” Nick says, shoving aside his plate. “Let’s get serious and talk about the winery.”
I stiffen instantly. “What are you doing, Nick?”
“Abel knows what’s going on at the winery,” he says, and before I can even register my shock at this announcement, he adds, “and he knows this because I’ve asked him to protect you from me.”
I face Nick, my feet suddenly unsteady again, and I haven’t even stood up yet. “What is this?”
“I promised you paperwork that protects you and the winery. And that needs to come from another attorney, who could be disbarred if he helped me deceive you.”
His friend, who just not-so-subtly accused me of using him for his money. “I’m giving you my check from last night,” I say. “That covers sixty thousand of the money I now owe you. After the L.A. Forum in a few weeks, I should be able to pay back the rest.”
“You owe me nothing,” Nick says, “which is exactly what Abel is going to guarantee.”
“Abel doesn’t decide this,” I retort. “And neither do you. I’m paying you back.”
“We can talk later,” Nick states. “Let Abel do his part in this now.”
“Abel’s been drinking,” I argue.
“Abel’s had half a pizza,” Abel says. “He’s good. You can ask him yourself, though, if you prefer.”
I inhale and face him, shoving my plate aside as I do. “I appreciate your efforts, but—”
“But I’m Nick’s friend,” Abel supplies, wrongly assuming, at least partially, he knows where my head is at right now. “Legally,” he continues, “once you sign this document”—he sets a piece of paper in front of me—“I’m your attorney before I’m his friend.” He taps the document. “It’s an offer of representation. And for the record, I might be a criminal attorney, but I had a few years of corporate experience right out of college, and I spend a hell of a lot of time with Nick Rogers’ cases. I know how to protect you.”
“Nick’s the one who needs to be protected,” I argue. “He paid six figures on my behalf.”
“That he doesn’t want back,” Abel replies, the simple statement contradicting his earlier tone, and I don’t like it.
