The Divorce Attorney Page 4

  I’m so bewildered, I almost can’t come up with a good reason. “Look at me. Look at you. I’m dressed like a barmaid and working at a dive bar. Trust me, you don’t want to get involved with me.” I laugh mirthlessly. “I mean, Jesus. You saw it for yourself yesterday. My life is one big knot I’ve been trying to untangle for years. It’s messy.”

  “Maybe I’m looking for messy.”

  “Why?”

  He pauses. The hazel in his eyes deepens, darkens. The depth I saw in them yesterday is making itself known.

  He’s one intense layer after another. It takes quite a few years to acquire as many layers as I suspect he’s made of.

  “Because I’ve learned that an orderly existence can be a boring one,” he eventually answers.

  “You mean, you’ve learned that as a man of your age.”

  I almost recoil at my words but stand my ground. If we’re going to lay our cards out on the table, we’re going to lay all of them out.

  His upper lip curls. “And what do you think my age is, Sloane?”

  Ay, caramba.

  The way he says my name is a problem. It’s far too…smooth and edgy at the same time. What’s more is that his expression every time he says it might as well broadcast the words baby, if you burn at the sound of your name on my lips, just wait until you feel what my tongue can do.

  Oh, God.

  Just the thought of his tongue gliding along my bare skin almost sets me ablaze.

  “Thirty-five,” I say.

  “I’m thirty-eight. Is that a problem for you?”

  He’s fifteen years older than me.

  I should have a problem with that. I mean, that should be an issue. But why again?

  Nothing.

  Where’s my bitchy conscious when I need her now? That ho.

  Hedging the question, I ask, “Is it a problem for you that I’ve only been legal to work in a place like this for two years?”

  He slowly shakes his head. “Surprisingly, not one damn bit.”

  Surprisingly? So, he’s as thrown off by this energy between us as I am? Okay, that makes me feel a little better.

  Even more surprising, despite the age difference, I haven’t really felt a gap between us from the moment we met. For all the focus I’ve put on how out of my league he is, I’ve somehow felt on equal ground with him ever since we first locked eyes in his office. It’s strange. Our back-and-forth has felt easy, comfortable even. He hasn’t acted superior or looked down his nose at me. It’s probably the first time I’ve ever really understood that whole “age is just a number” thing.

  Because Carter’s age hasn’t prevented me from feeling a connection with him.

  Hasn’t snuffed out the flames I feel scalding my skin.

  Hasn’t dulled the arousal I feel pooling in my belly.

  As I stare at his ruggedly handsome face, framed by the almost boyish cowlick in his hair, I feel my guard weaken a touch. “What can I get you to drink?”

  Sensing my temporary capitulation, he relaxes his posture. “Elijah Craig if you’ve got it. Neat.”

  Of course, this man would order a not-fucking-around drink. Straight whiskey. No shortcut, no frills, no fuss. Just right to the hard stuff.

  That’s attractive as hell.

  A man that can handle a little burn, a little bite. One who takes life as seriously as he does his liquor but can also kick back when the time calls for it.

  Grant is a Bud Light guy.

  That guy. The one who orders it everywhere he goes. I never saw him drink anything else.

  That should have been a red flag in and of itself.

  I smile at Carter in approval. “I’ll be right back with that.”

  

  An hour later, any resistance I had toward Carter is dwindling at an alarming rate. In fact, I can barely recall the vehement words I spoke to Gretchen earlier.

  My other two so-called friends showed up about twenty minutes after Carter did. Gretchen dragged Harper and Quinn over to a table where my roommate no doubt filled them in on my little situation. They’ve been relentlessly peeking over at us every time I approach his table and unabashedly ogling him when I’m not blocking their view. And giving me the thumbs up whenever I’m idiotic enough to look their way.

  I’ve been flipping them the bird every chance I get.

  I think Gretchen was on to something with the Bitch Brigade name.

  As if he hasn’t already knocked me off-kilter enough, Carter has been stubbornly holding conversation with me the entire time and in turn, holding my attention. During the brief breaks between checking on my tables, he’s asked me about graduate school and a number of other topics, actually sounding interested in my answers.

  “What are you getting your master’s in?”

  “I have dual degrees in both history and anthropology.”

  Acting as if I’ve impressed him, he waves at me, feigning upset. “And here I thought you were some wily temptress without a brain. Fantasy destroyed. I guess I’m done here.”

  My laughter comes out stiff. His words hit a little too close to my own thoughts for comfort.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, I get that all the time. Sorry to disappoint.”

  The way he throws his head back and laughs casts a spell over me.

  One it takes an unacceptable number of seconds to break.

  “Anyway, I already know I want to be a college professor.” That’s been my dream for years. “I want to teach in both fields. I’m just having a hard time figuring out how to incorporate both disciplines in my thesis.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  He sounds so confident.

  He doesn’t even know me.

  “I’m glad you seem to think so,” I mutter dryly. “You’re sort of in the minority.”

  The last thing I see before I walk away is his frown.

  As he dug into his food and ordered another whiskey drink, he’d seemed all too patient to keep talking while I was constantly distracted by my other tables. He never acted bothered, though. Not once. As much as I’ve wanted to ask him questions, too, it’s been hard enough just trying to come up with semi-intelligent responses to his.

  “Are you originally from Charleston?” he asks.

  “Born and raised.”

  And I have no plans on leaving anytime soon. I love this city, love its history, the people, the southern atmosphere.

  “You?”

  “I’ve lived here for going on fourteen years. I’m originally from North Carolina.”

  I digest that as he twirls the amber whiskey around in his lowball glass, pushing away his empty plate that once held a twelve-ounce ribeye. Gotta love a man with a big appetite. I wonder if that extends to his sexual cravings… Surely, a man of his experience is not the type to be easily, or quickly, satiated.

  “What about your family?” he asks, dragging my thoughts out of the gutter. “Parents? Siblings?”

  At the beginning of the evening, his gaze had been earnest as he listened to each response I gave him. But the longer we talk, the more and more…decided…that gaze has become.

  What the hell has he decided?

  And does he care to clue me in?

  “Parents divorced when I was three. Mama’s on marriage number four, and Daddy is about to get married for the third time. Hopefully, this one will stick.”

  Carter frowns again, as if that information bothers him.

  “I’ve got two half-sisters from Mama’s second marriage that I never see, and one half-brother from her third marriage. He’s like the little brother I never had, but he lives in Arizona, so I rarely get to see him. And two ex-stepsiblings from Daddy’s second marriage, though I was never close with them to begin with.”

  “So, you’re basically an only child,” he concludes, nodding. “Same here. I have some cousins in Florida I see every now and then, but not much extended family beyond that.”

  The more information he pries out of me, the more suspicious I’m b
ecoming. He’s showing a lot of interest for a guy who gave his number to a girl who never called him. And call me cynical, but that makes me question his motives. Clearly, Grant ruined me for decent men everywhere.

  But when Carter asks me out to an actual dinner—a date—I can no longer ignore that skeptical voice in the back of my mind.

  “Are you busy on Thursday?”

  “I teach a class on Thursday nights.” At his confused expression, I clarify, “I’m a teaching assistant. I teach an Intro to Anthropology class on Thursdays.”

  A gleam comes into his eyes, one I can’t put a name to. “How about Friday, then?”

  That’s when I decide to test him. I need to make sure this whole thing isn’t too good to be true because it’s damn sure feeling that way.

  I lean down, invading his space entirely, and practically shove my cleavage right in his face. Then I get bold. “Are you absolutely sure this has nothing at all to do with these, Carter?”

  I intend for my voice to come out challenging. Instead, it’s all silky and husky, the sound curling around his booth like sweet cigar smoke.

  He notices the change.

  He also notices my boobs. How could he not? They might as well be cradling his chin. But that’s the point. As if accepting my dare, his eyes languidly scan the plunging neckline of my dress, along with the pin I have to wear that has my name and The Suckling Pig’s logo printed across it.

  “It’s complicated at the moment,” he drawls out. “Because a little suckling sounds pretty good right now.”

  I guess he boarded the bold train, too. Choo choo.

  Why do I really like that? Kind of love it, actually?

  “You do realize you’re far from the first guy to ever come in here and drop that corny line on me, right?”

  My voice is full of undiluted provocation. But I’m quickly realizing that my opponent might just be equipped for any challenge I toss at him. And has the balls to rise and meet it…both literally and figuratively.

  His mouth spreads into a lazy grin. “Ah, but this is the first time you’ve ever liked hearing it.”

  I can feel my breathing turn ragged. And I’m pretty sure he hears it loud and clear. Standing this close to him, I can’t mask it.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you know I’m the only man who could actually follow through on it. All the rest who came before me were boys.”

  Oh, word porn.

  He can’t possibly know how his words are affecting me. How they’re making me want to squeeze my legs together. How they’re turning my insides into warm liquid.

  His nostrils flare, his jaw clenching. “And if there is one thing I learned about you yesterday, darlin’, it’s that you are so sick of boys.”

  Lord Almighty.

  He couldn’t be more right. Those were the exact thoughts that flitted through my mind yesterday in his office. Is he a mind reader?

  Not to mention, the way darlin’ rolls off his tongue is quite possibly the most tantalizing sound that has ever reached my ears.

  “So, does my attraction to you have something to do with those?” His eyes lower to my chest, his voice matching my husky tone. “Absolutely, it fucking does. You’re an unbelievably gorgeous woman. But my interest in you?” He shakes his head, his eyes now focused squarely on mine. “That has everything to do with your sharp wit, your clever mind, and your refreshing sense of humor. The fact that I’ve seen this much of your fantastic breasts two days in a row is just a lucky streak for me.”

  I literally cannot think of a single flirtatious or witty response—or hell, even a coherent one. I’m not used to dealing with confident men like him who actually have the right stuff to back up all his big talk.

  “Objection.”

  He pinches his lips together, clearly restraining his laughter. “I’m sorry, did you just throw courtroom jargon at me?”

  With mortification rolling over me, I rush out, “I have to get back to work,” and run off like a damn fool.

  Because I’m so desperate to get away from him, I don’t notice the other waitress holding the tray full of beers.

  That are now quenching the floor’s thirst.

  Taking in the scattered mess of shattered glass, I close my eyes and sigh as the bar explodes into a round of applause. And what else can I do?

  I bow my head and curtsy.

  Because I’m a good sport, dammit. Even though that will be coming out of my tips.

  The sound of Carter’s masculine laughter can be heard clearly over the ruckus, sending goosebumps rising over every inch of my skin. “I’ll see you on Friday, Sloane.”

  I don’t remember ever actually agreeing to dinner on Friday. But I’m also not sure I’m realistically capable of turning him down after the way his words just stroked me to near-orgasm.

  If I go on Friday, it will technically be our first official date.

  But…

  Whatever just happened here tonight feels an awful lot like a first date to me.

  I can’t help but smile as I go to retrieve a mop.

  That sneaky bastard.

  I stand in Gretchen’s kitchen, staring down at the latest dessert I’ve mutilated. I’ve studied it backwards and forwards, and I still don’t know how it happened.

  I sense her come up behind me. “What’s this one supposed to be?”

  I sigh. “Donuts with a berry glaze.”

  But instead of being circular, my donuts resemble the shapes of the melting clocks in Salvador Dali’s famous painting. And the runny pink glaze reminds me of the melting faces in Indiana Jones Raiders of the Lost Ark. Everything is just…droopy.

  Gretchen clears her throat. “They look, um…yummy.”

  “Maybe they’ll still taste okay,” I say hopefully. “I mean, that’s all that matters in the end, right?”

  Gretchen stands back a good distance, looking on warily, as I take a bite out of one of the lopsided pastries. Coward. What does she think will happen? That I—

  I run to the sink and spit everything out, gagging.

  “Dammit, not again,” I mutter, dropping my forehead to my arm.

  Gretchen pats my back on her way to the coffee maker. “You’re getting there. At least these looked somewhat edible. And you didn’t start any fires. And nothing exploded. Progress, babe.”

  I hate failing at anything, but doing it over and over again at the same thing is getting old.

  “This is ridiculous.” I stomp over to the trash can and dump out the entire pan of creepy, melted blobs. “I’m a reasonably intelligent person. How can I be this bad at something I keep trying to be good at? When you constantly practice doing something, you’re supposed to get better at it.”

  She stirs sugar around in her mug, glancing up at me. “And remind me again why you keep torturing yourself like this?”

  I start cleaning up the flour, sugar, and smashed berries I’ve smeared all over her countertops. Really, I just need something to keep me busy so I don’t have to look at her during my inevitable moment of vulnerability.

  “Because Grant always said desserts are something I royally suck at.”

  And I’m seriously beginning to think he was right.

  It’s just never been in my repertoire. It’s like I turn dyslexic whenever I have a dessert recipe in front of me. I always end up screwing up the ingredients somehow, substitute incorrectly, use the wrong amount of something, leave it in the oven for too long—despite what the recipe clearly instructs—or altogether just forget to add something. I’m a decent enough cook, but desserts have always eluded me.

  Can’t tell you why exactly.

  It’s one of life’s great mysteries.

  Grant bluntly brought it to my attention after I attempted to make a cheesecake for his family’s Thanksgiving dinner the year we got married. I messed up something with the cream cheese filling, and it definitely tasted odd. I tried really hard on it, too, wanting so badly to get it right so I could show off my skills to his
family. My second mistake was not taste-testing it before we got to his parents’ house. When I realized how bad it was, I was just going to make a joke of it. I tend to get sarcastic and self-deprecating when I’m disappointed or embarrassed. You gotta laugh at yourself every now and then when there’s nothing else you can do, right?

  I learned that day that Grant doesn’t share my way of thinking.

  When he gets embarrassed, his default is to get pissed.

  And because I embarrassed him in front of his entire family, he lashed out at me. It was probably our biggest fight up until the hellacious fallout right before our divorce. He’d made me feel about two inches tall, saying I shouldn’t have even bothered with the dessert if I’d never made it before.

  The criticism hadn’t stopped there either.

  He never again let me make dessert for any more dinners, parties, or gatherings whatsoever. Since then, I’ve made it my mission to become the best damn baker this side of the Mississippi.

  But at this point, I’ll be content with getting a single, solitary dessert right.

  Just one.

  “So, you’re trying to make a point to your ex-husband?” Gretchen asks, stampeding through my memories with that wretched term.

  Two years ago, I thought hearing that I had a husband—that I was a wife—sounded weird. But that doesn’t even come close to hearing that I now have an ex-husband.

  “No, I’m making a point to myself,” I insist. “I’m not going to let him tell me I can’t do something. He doesn’t get to be an ass and be right about it. I will figure this out.”

  It just feels symbolic somehow. Like if I can conquer baking, then I can finally put Grant behind me forever and not feel like I’ve completely wasted four years of my life. And yes, it’s also a matter of pride. That jackass telling me I can’t do something makes every cell in my body revolt and fight to prove him wrong. To show him that I can. Even if he’s no longer a part of my life.

  “Who cares what that dickbag thinks?” Gretchen blusters.

  I don’t want to actually confess to her how inadequate Grant has made me feel over the years. I think I’ve put most of it behind me, but some aspects of his assholery still remain, like the desserts.