It does the trick. I take a deep breath and relish in the feeling of having his calloused hand on mine. When I open my eyes, Duane’s eyebrows are creased in worry. I squeeze his hand one last time and put my hand back in my lap. I need to stay in safe territory. Having his skin on mine muddles my already-riddled mind.
“I’m sorry.” I apologize, composing myself.
Duane shakes his head. “No need. This is why I’m here. We’ll figure this out together.”
Together. I love the way that sounds, but I know that’s not what he means. Together, as in client and lawyer. Not
together
together.
I give him a smile. “Okay.”
He organizes his papers back to their original order, before my minor meltdown, and we get to work.
We go over everything that could possibly add up to my dad dying, or taking his own life, as the paperwork says. They have no concrete evidence that it was suicide, but no suspects either.
How can they have no suspects? No forced entry? The investigation doesn’t hint to anything of the sort. How can the police report say nothing at all?
What a botched, fucked up situation.
“Do you think maybe the cops are involved?” I know it sounds ridiculous, but I have to ask.
Now that there’s new light, it’s a real concern. The more I think about it, the more I think it’s possible. The holes in the investigation make me question everything.
Duane types something on his laptop and looks up at me apprehensively. “I can’t say, but God, I hope not.”
That doesn’t sound promising. I pinch the bridge of my nose and bite my lip.
Duane is immersed in his laptop, typing so fast I’m worried the poor keyboard might break, if he taps any quicker.
I look down at the floor and smile to myself. He’s really great at what he does. Totally committed. I’ve only spent thirty minutes with him in this setting, watching him work, and I can see that he really wants to find answers.
Maybe it’s Duane’s drive and passion that make me have an immense desire to confide in him. I felt the same way last night, almost like I could tell him about all of the dark holes in my life—the things I’ve hidden away. He makes me want to get better. He makes me want to
be
better. Duane makes me want to stop hiding and be who I really am, instead of acting like someone I’m not.
I never believed in love at first sight. Hell—I hadn’t believed in love at all since Kyle. Duane though, he makes me feel all sorts of things I’m not quite ready to decipher yet.
Of course, now that he is professionally involved in my case, I don’t even have that option to think about the ‘what-if.’
It’s a tug-of-war with my emotions. I keep going back and forth in my head. My insides twist. I should have kissed him last night when I had the chance. Now, I’ll never get the opportunity again.
Why does that thought make me want to throw up? Literally, makes me sick to my stomach.
Duane closes his laptop, and loads it into his satchel. No briefcase. I love that he has a satchel; it fits him. It’s business-like but also laid back—much like its owner. Mr. Delicious Lawyer man.
Ugh.
“I’ll look into it and see what I can do,” he says, swinging the bag over his shoulder.
I nod my head, unable to form any sort of intelligent words.
“Hey,” he cups my cheek, taking me by surprise. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry.”
Can he read minds? I lean into his hand, blurring the lines of our newly formed business relationship.
I kind of want to fire him. Solely for selfish reasons, of course. One being: I want to jump him and never let him go.
Geeze, I sound like a horny schoolgirl. Seven years is a
long
time.
No, I need to sort out my priorities. I can’t fire him; I have a feeling he is the answer to all this insane nonsense in my life. I push that thought away with the others and thank God I have him in my life at all. Last night could have been the last time I saw him. I’ll take what I can get.
My body is screaming at me to keep him close. So, I’ll do what I can.
I nod my head, still in his hand.
“Call me in the next couple of days. I’ll dig into your case more and we’ll discuss it,” he says.
There it is. Bam. Those lines are clear again. No chance of a relationship. None. End of story.
Instead of pouting like a three-year-old, which is what I really want to do, I agree. “Okay, I’ll call you.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and looks into my eyes.
This is torture. Does he know what he’s doing to me? Is he this comforting with all of his clients?
He looks conflicted. Pained. Much like myself, which is oddly comforting. He takes a deep breath, slowly steps away and goes toward the door. Giving me one last look, he waves and leaves.
I make my way upstairs to my room and slump in my reading chair, chewing on my fingernail. I hate when I do that. I quickly remove my finger from my mouth and frown. I have no idea what I’m going to do. My feelings are so clashed, I feel like I might burst from the confusion.
Incapable of sitting still, I start cleaning the loft. Starting in the kitchen, working my way to my back bedroom. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms, the loft is perfect for Liv and I—definitely a change from that one bedroom we used to share.
We designed everything up here as well. My front door is easily accessible from the shop and the door leading out back. Once you step inside, you’ll see my huge kitchen to your right, which opens up to the living room. We aren’t huge on TV, so most of the living room is adorned with walls of books. Three of the four walls house every kind of book imaginable.
Yes, you can say it. I’m a book whore. I’m not ashamed. I can honestly say I’ve read most, if not all, of the books that sit on the shelves.
How does one do that when one owns her own business? Well, my friend, I read while I bake, which is all the time.
I read until the timer goes off. I make a new batch, put it in the oven, read and do it all over again. You get the picture. Then, instead of watching TV like most people do, I read.
It’s a constant thing, my escape. I love to live within each book’s world. Doesn’t matter the story, I’ll read it. That’s the beauty of books. Within the pages, I make sense. I’m not a lost girl looking for answers to my father’s death, or the girl unable to let go of the past. I’m the heroin…or hero, depending on the book. I live their lives. They are my home away from home.
As I was saying, my living room does have a small TV; we do watch TV on occasion. Movies, mostly. We also have a huge leather sectional couch, and an ottoman. I honestly have no idea what the purpose of my ottoman is. I mean, honestly, I can’t set a cup on it, and it’s not long enough for anyone to lie down on—whatever. We also have beautiful end tables made by an artist here in Nashville, who carves the wood himself. They are gorgeous. He also made my sleigh bed and the bedside tables. The man can whittle like no other.
Moving up the stairs and to the right is the master bedroom. I fought tooth and nail for Liv to have it, but she refused and slept on the couch until I agreed to sleep in the damn room. She’s one selfless, stubborn bitch. I love her dearly.
Painted in a soft yellow with white crown molding, I need my room to be bright and open considering the nightmares I live every night when I close my eyes.
My walk-in closet holds more shoes than clothes. Don’t get me wrong, I love clothes, but I hate laundry. If it didn’t cost so much to get someone else to do it every week, I would do it in a heartbeat. That’s not the case, so I buy shoes. Lots and lots of shoes.
I glance at my cell phone and see it’s well past noon. I scrub the cleaning supply chemicals off of my hands and head down to the bakery. I’ve wasted enough time, and I feel a little better. I’m sure we’re about to get swamped with customers, so Liv will need help.
Taking an apron off of the hook, I tie it around my waist and make my way toward Liv. Loading cupcakes and cookies onto a tray for the front display, she’s silently mumbling to herself that people need to slow down on the sweets.
I cover my mouth and look toward the main floor of the shop. Mia, the third to our Trio and a valuable co-worker, has long, curly, black hair and olive skin that makes me envious. One word: Tan. Being a redhead, you can understand why I’m jealous. Tan and I don’t mix.
She turns to look at me from across the shop and waves. Writing the customers’ orders down, she walks to me with a bounce in her step.
“Morning, Annie.” She grins and hugs me. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”
I smile at her nickname. She’s been calling me Annie since the first night we took her out drinking, three years ago, and she told me I looked like the redheaded orphan from the movie.
In my defense though, it was pouring buckets of rain and my already wild hair looked even crazier due to the humidity. She was probably right, so I was never offended.
The sight of her walking like an hour-old, baby horse out of the bar was enough ammunition for me to tease her for a good while after. She thought it was hilarious as well, and we still talk about it. It’s an ongoing joke in our friendship.
Wanting the scoop on last night, she practically bounces in her leopard flats.
I’ve grown to really love Mia. When she first started working at the bakery, she was a freshman at the University of Nashville. Super quiet, sweet and innocent, I knew she’d make a good addition to my team. The day she stepped into the shop, I sensed something different about her.
Since then, she’s been our cohort. The three of us are extraordinarily close. She doesn’t know everything about my past, just like Liv, but she knows it’s troubled and doesn’t push for information, which I am so thankful for.
She’s mentioned on more than one occasion she never really had any close girlfriends, and that she was kind of a loner in high school. I’d like to think Liv and I have opened her up to girlfriends. She’s no longer the quiet, timid girl I knew three years ago. She’s lively, sometimes loud and speaks her opinion.
She fits right in.
Now that she’s twenty-one, and living the busy life of a girl who graduated a year and a half early from college, works part-time at the shop and full time at a veterinary clinic, she goes out for drinks with us every Saturday.
It used to not be so legal though.
For her twentieth birthday, Liv chose to get her a fake I.D. Mia was mortified seeing it.
Liv being, well—Liv, thought it was a good idea to sneak her into a bar to have cocktails with us. Mia and I weren’t too sure the plan would work out at the time.
“I got you that fake I.D. for a reason, Mia. Let’s use it.” Liv begs, with big, puppy dog eyes that only work on poor, unsuspecting men.
Mia puts her hand up to block Liv’s imaginary magic stare. “Guys, I can’t pull this off! I may be twenty, but let’s be honest, I look twelve! No bouncer is going to believe me.”
Liv huffs and trills her lips. “You don’t look twelve, Mia. You look fourteen—maybe fifteen.”
Unfortunately, for Mia, Liv is right. She’s five feet tall in heels and weighs maybe a hundred and ten pounds dripping wet. She’s drop dead gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but she has yet to hit her woman growth spurt.
With that said, Liv needs to encourage her if she wants to pull this off, not make fun. I throw a pillow at her head, hitting my target. Score!
Liv pouts and throws the pillow back in my direction but misses me completely.
“Anyway,” Liv drones. “As I was saying, the I.D. is fool-proof. Did you study your information, Andrea Lowell?”
Mia blows a curl from her face and rolls her eyes. “Yes, Andrea Lowell, age: twenty one; home: Portland, Oregon; weight: 105; birthday; October twentieth, nineteen ninety.”
Liv nods and high fives Mia.
“Yep, you got it. Plus, if we need to, Ann and I can distract whoever we need to in order to get you in.”
I snort. “Riiight, you mean you’ll distract while I watch.”
“Whatever. Same thing,” Liv says.
Later that night, the bouncer took one look at Mia and let her right in. No questions.
Granted, Liv and I had played up Mia’s strengths. She may be short, but she has legs for days. Add in smokey eyes, a short black dress, nude heels, and BAM, you got one hot woman.
Men are so easy.
Mia’s green eyes sparkle again with anticipation of hearing my recent happenings and I hug her again.
She’s grown into her womanly looks now and is flat out gorgeous. Teenager no more.
“I’m okay. I just met with the lawyer. It brought up a lot of emotions,” I admit truthfully, though keeping her in the dark a bit. They were emotions I didn’t know I still had until I met Duane.
Shake it off, woman.
Mia’s eyes roam over my face, and she nods. “You know I’m here for you.”
“I know, and thank you. Maybe a girl’s night tonight? Just movies in the loft?” I ask.
It’s Saturday night, and we usually go out, but I’m not really up for it.