Chapter 3

ONE MONTH LATER

I tolerateother people's bad moods much better than I tolerate my own.

I guess it's a good thing, since I'm currently three years into my graduate program studying to be a therapist. Nearly seven years, if you count my undergrad.

My point is this: I can put up with a lot of complaining, whining, bitchin' and moanin' from everyone except myself. That's a good thing, right? After all, it is my actual job (or soon will be), to be sympathetic, empathetic, and generally kind to my patients.

But when it comes to myself, when I'm in a bad mood, it just makes me more grumpy.

Which is why I'm in a foul mood when I step into the elevator of the Prescott Towers—a sky rise in downtown Austin where I just visited the lawyer of my deceased father. Not that I actually talked to the lawyer. I didn't make it past the receptionist.

Thus, the foul mood—and it's getting fouler by the second.

Since I'm familiar with this pattern of behavior from myself, I don't even try to fake it. I slump against the back wall of the elevator, arms crossed over my chest, a scowl worthy of a petulant teenager on my face.

The well-dressed businessmen already on the elevator give me a wide berth, as if my Doc Martens might snake out to trip them of their own volition. The derisive looks they give me … well, it's scorn men who earn six-figure salaries reserve for poverty-stricken grad students.

When they get off one floor down, I have to fight the urge to flip them off.

They're probably lawyers or something else equally horrible. Definitely people who think their time is too valuable to waste taking the stairs.

I have the elevator all to my miserable self for another floor or two. When the doors open, I'm glaring at the floor because I don't have the emotional energy to even meet another person's gaze.

This should be easy. Other people are rude to strangers in elevators all the time.

I have no social or moral obligation to be adorable and charming to every stranger, especially not the kinds of strangers who work in fancy-ass buildings and wear expensive leather shoes.

I expect the shoes to step onto the elevator and move straight to the opposite corner in order to steer clear of me and my tawdry display of outward emotion.

Instead, the shoes stop short between the open doors and a voice drawls, "Well. This is interesting."

My heart lurches. Because I know that voice.

Praying I'm wrong, I follow the shoes up to the pants, past the rumpled shirt, the askew tie, and smirking, full lips, to meet the gaze of … you guessed it, Martin Harris.

I can practically feel an inhuman snarl gurgling in my chest as I narrow my gaze at him.

What are the odds that I would run into him again ever, let alone anywhere other than the memory care center where we first met two weeks ago?

Seriously?

Who did I piss off in a past life to have luck this bad?

A beat passes while we just stare at one another, him still blocking the elevator doors, me instinctively straightening into a slightly more defensive posture, until the elevator doors beep, protesting the delay. His gaze seems to take in every detail of my appearance with what I can only assume is pure disgust.

I half expect him to step back out, to let the doors close and the car to move on without him.

Instead, he steps fully in, turning to press the button for the below-ground parking. Even though there's a panel on both sides of the doors, he reaches for the panel on my side of the car. And then, instead of adhering to basic human decency, he doesn't retreat to the farthest corner of the elevator. He stands in the dead center of the elevator and turns to face me.

I jerk my gaze from him, to glare wordlessly at the corner.

"You're the therapist who works with my grandmother."

I nod, trying not to look at him, even though he's the kind of man that people automatically look at. He's tall and bulky enough to take up space. Not huge, but definitely the kind of man you notice. Handsome, without being pretty. The kind of man who probably has women scampering to get closer to him.

Not me, obviously. But other women.

"I didn't catch your full name at the memory care center when we met." He gives me a beat to respond, an opportunity I don't take, before adding, "It's Trinity, right? That's what Margaret said."

He's being polite? Is he kidding?

After our bizarre, embarrassing, awkward first meeting at the memory care center, he doesn't even have the common decency to ride the elevator in silence like a civilized human? How dare he?

I give him the side eye, only to realize he's holding out a hand to me.

"Martin," he says. "Harris."

The instinct to shake someone's hand when they hold it out is so deeply engrained, that I take his hand, only to be immediately annoyed with myself, because something about touching this man is startling. His hand is warm. His grip firm but not bruising or dominant. Just … steady.

The handshake doesn't last long—certainly no longer than would be polite—but somehow the ghost of his touch lingers. It's all I can do not to wipe my palm off on the denim of my skirt. Instead, I push my hand into my jacket pocket and fist my hand.

"And you are?" he asks, his tone gently chiding, as though he's dealing with a child.

"Trinity. As you already know."

"Trinity what?"

I drag my gaze back to his. "Is this necessary? Why the polite conversation? We had one very awkward meeting before now and once we get off this elevator, chances are we'll never meet again because you'll go back to wherever?—"

I'm mid-crazed-rant when the elevator jerks to a halt. The lights flicker and then come back on, but dimmer.

I break off in horror, my panicked gaze darting around the elevator car.

"What the?—?"

Martin is looking at me with that arrogant smirk of his. "I think you tempted fate by suggesting we'd never see each other again once we got off this elevator."

"I did not … this isn't my fault."

He chuckles. "Of course not. The elevators in this building are—" He seems to search for the right word. "Temperamental."

"Like, dangerous? Are we going to be stuck here for hours? Or plummet to our deaths?"

"Why do you sound like those two alternatives are equally horrible?"

"Well, are we?"

"Unlikely." He steps closer to the panel and presses the emergency call button. When a voice cuts through the static asking if we need help, he responds. "Hey, this is Martin Harris from the twenty-sixth floor. Car four seems to have stopped."

"Yep. We're aware of the problem," the voice replies. "It's the first really hot day of the summer. We're having a rolling brownout. You know what the power grid is like."

I step forward and brush Martin's hand aside so I can push the emergency button myself. "But you have a generator, right? You'll start it up or whatever and we'll be moving again in just a few seconds, right? Right?"

"Um … yeah… That's what's powering the emergency lighting and intercom system. We don't expect this to last long enough for us to turn on the bigger generator. It takes a while to get up and going. If the brownout lasts longer than thirty minutes, that generator will kick in."

"Thirty minutes? Are you joking?" When there's no response I look to Martin. "Is he joking?"

Instead of answering, Martin shrugs out of his suit jacket, folds it over his arm, and lowers himself to the floor. "You should make yourself comfortable. We might be here a while."

"He's not joking, is he?"

Martin stretches his legs out in front of him, one out straight, the other bent at the knee with his forearm propped on it. He tips his head back and closes his eyes.

Is he napping?

How can he be this relaxed?

I pull my crossbody messenger bag off and let it slide to the floor. I try to sit, but don't even get my butt to the floor before I pop back up and start pacing in tight circles.

"I can't believe I'm stuck in an elevator. With you of all people."

He cracks open his eyes. "Why me of all people?"

I gape at him. Why indeed?

Because he's Margaret's grandson. The rich one who pays for her care but never visits. The one who she talks all the time about how much she misses him. The one I had thoughts and opinions about before I even met him. And then I did meet him. And he was—is—disconcertingly handsome. Attractive in that nerve-wracking way that makes me act stupid. Which I did. And I handed him an egg.

Who does that?

The point is, I don't ever feel like a competent adult. I feel like a silly twelve-year-old cosplaying at being an adult under the best of circumstances. Maybe it's because I'm young at heart (to quote my mom) or because I'm still in grad school. Whatever the reason, I always feel like I'm one incident away from having my adulthood revoked. And people like Martin Harris—competent, suit-wearing, wealthy people—always make me feel more like that.

Even when I don't hand them an egg.

But you know what doesn't help?

The fact that I have all this nonsense swirling in my head about him and he had the gall to ask why him. Because now it's clear that I've been obsessing over our initial meeting for the past month, and he hasn't given it another thought.

Instead of answering his question, I ask one of my own. "What are you even doing in this building?"

He raises his head and opens his eyes. "It's my building."

"You own a building?"

"No." More smirking. "My offices are in this building."

Oh. Yeah, that does make more sense, even if it is clearly going to deprive me of the chance to bitch at him about his elevators being crap.

Still in a foul mood, I grumble, "Of course you would be something horrible like a soulless businessman or greedy finance guy or evil lawyer."

His smirk gets more … smirkier.

"Of course you are."

There's a buzz from the intercom and the voice says, "Mr. Harris, I forgot to ask about the woman in the car with you. Does she need me to notify her office that's she's delayed."

"She's a visitor to the building."

"What's that supposed to mean? Why would you assume I'm a visitor?"

Martin looks pointedly at my chest. It takes a second to follow his gaze and see the bright red visitor's badge.

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Visitor to the building." I mutter in a nasally tone. "Like I don't have just as much right to be here as you."

"I didn't say it like that. You're delusional."

But his lips are twitching, like I'm "delusional" in a cute way or something. Which makes me feel even more like a child.

"Okaayyy…" the voice from the intercom says. "Well, it sounds like you two have some things to talk about while we work on getting the elevators moving again. And don't forget that we have cameras in the elevators."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?" But the intercom has gone silent again, so I look at Martin. "What did he mean by that?"

He snorts, clearly amused. "No idea. Maybe he was worried you were planning on stabbing me."

"I wish."

Martin tips his head back again and closes his eyes.

Suddenly, it feels like he's taking up even more of the elevator. The elevator that already smells faintly of bergamot and soap. I catch myself staring at him. Studying him. Taking in his perfectly straight nose and full lips. Men should not have lips like that. But it's more than just his good looks and obvious wealth that I find disconcerting. It's the easy confidence.

I am a jittery bundle of nerves pretty much always. But this is man is just … himself. Relaxed and confident enough to lounge while trapped in an elevator.

"Seriously?" I ask, my feelings of inferiority bubbling over. "Are you napping?"

"I'm closing my eyes. It's not the same thing."

"Hmm …" I pace some more, but his long legs eat up most of the space in the elevator, limiting my range.

"You might as well sit down, since he said it could be a while," Martin says without opening his eyes.

"I'm not a sit down and rest in stressful situations kind of person."

"I never would have guessed."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I glance over at him.

His eyes are open now and he's watching me.

"Nothing." He swallows and lets his eyes drift closed again. "You just seem … high strung."

"I'm not high strung. I'm perfectly strung." But the pacing isn't helping, so I lean down and do a quick forward bend before stepping back into downward dog.

"What are you doing?" he demands, his tone horrified.

"Sun salutations. They help me relax."

"Jesus."

I hold downward dog, rocking my hips back, shifting my weight in my palms. The space is too cramped to do full sun salutations, but familiarity of the position calms me almost instantly. "So, which is it?"

"What?" he asks in a strangled voice.

"Which is it? Soulless businessman, greedy finance guy, or evil lawyer?"

"What makes you think it's any of them?"

"That smirk you gave when I said it the first time."

"I didn't smirk."

"Pul-ease. You're the kind of guy who only ever smirks. You probably think it makes you seem cooler. Or that smiling is a sign of weakness or something ridiculous. Or that?—"

"I'm a lawyer. Before you can make any more sweeping assumptions about my character."

"Of course you clucking are."

"Did you just … say ‘clucking'?"

I blow out a breath, but don't answer. "I should have known."

"Known what?"

"That given any three horrible options, you would be the worst."

He gives another one of those snort, almost laughs. "Glad I could live down to your expectations. What do you have against lawyers?"

"You mean besides the fact that they prey on people's vulnerabilities for four hundred dollars an hour?" I step back into a forward bend and then straighten to mountain pose.

"Do you have some kind of tragic backstory where your parents were murdered by a ruthless gang of lawyers, or do you just believe all the stereotypes you've ever heard?"

I should let this go, right?

I mean, I don't have to respond.

I can just inhale and exhale. Drop back into downward dog. Wait for the elevator to start back up.

Find my center. Release the emotions that are threatening to get the better of me. Let my?—

"Or maybe it's just your overactive imagination that?—"

I spin back to face Martin, hands propped on my hips. "My dad died without updating his will, which allowed my dick of a half-brother to cheat my mother, my sister, and I out of our inheritance. That's why I think lawyers are evil."

Martin, who had been in the middle of talking when I turned and cut him off, is sitting there on the floor, mouth agape, staring up at me. He snaps his mouth closed and scratches the back of his nails down the stubble on his jaw as he slowly stands up. "See, that sounds like more of a problem with your father than with lawyers in general."

We're facing one another now, standing only a couple of feet apart. His brow is furrowed, his smirk gone. His eyes are such a dark brown, I can't see where his pupils bleed into his irises. If I didn't know he was an evil lawyer, I might even think he was concerned. I'm not sure how, but he seems even taller than he did when I was slumped in the corner, leaning against the wall.

"Oh, I agree. Definitely a problem with my father, first and foremost. He absolutely should have handled his shit better. But don't worry, I still have plenty of reasons to be pissed off at the lawyers who took advantage of the situation. Like the probate lawyer my sister hired who convinced her she has a case against my brother and who is slowly bleeding her dry. And also my father's lawyer who knows this isn't what my dad really wanted but refuses to even meet with me. And his receptionist, who says he can't do anything about it since my dad never got around to writing a new will."

Suddenly I'm aware of two things. First, my voice has been rising, so by the time I'm done talking, I sound banshee-level shrill. Second, I'm near tears.

My throat is closing up, my hands are shaking, and the tremble in my voice is unmistakable, despite my banshee shrieking.

You know the one thing I hate more than being in a bad mood?

Crying in front of other people.

Ironic, isn't it?

You would think that—as a therapist in training—I would be more at peace with displays of emotion. And I totally am. When those emotions belong to someone else.

It's my own emotions I have trouble dealing with.

And as much as I don't want to cry in front of anyone, I really, really, really don't want to cry in front of the heartless, soulless, lawyer who doesn't even visit his grandmother enough!

So I just stand there, glaring up at him, grinding my teeth so hard I'll probably need dental work, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth as if that force alone can shove those damn tears back up my tear ducts, meeting his gaze with all the fierce defiance I can muster.

I refuse to cry in front of him. But I refuse to cower either.

I expect him to back down. Because what man in his right mind doesn't back down when faced with a near-hysterical banshee who maligns his profession? But instead, he just studies me, like I'm a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

After a long minute passes, he gives a nod. "Dobson, Garza, and Hobbs?"

"What?"

"Your father's lawyer. Someone from Dobson, Garza, and Hobbs, right?"

"How on earth could you possibly guess that?"

"You were upset before I even got on the elevator, which seems to indicate you just visited with a lawyer. There are six law firms in this building. Only two of them on the floors above mine. One does criminal defense. The other is Dobson, Garza, and Hobbs."

I blink in surprise, my mouth dropping open. "Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Hardly. Just a man who's been in this building for long enough to know who else has offices here."

"Right." I take a step back and sag against the wall, suddenly more tired than I've been in a long time. But at least I don't feel like crying anymore.

"Yeah," he says with mock seriousness. "Also, we meet up once a month as part of the league of super villains."

I roll my eyes at his pathetic attempt to make me laugh. "So you admit lawyers are super villains?"

"Oh, no. We're just normal villains, but we do pro bono work for underprivileged super villains. To make it fair."

I give a huff of laughter, despite myself. Darn it, I do not want to be amused by him!

It's bad enough that he's physically attractive and so … so competent. If he's funny too, I would … well, it would be unthinkable!

I refuse to be attracted to a lawyer. Especially not one who doesn't visit his grandmother enough!

Then something occurs to me, and I straighten. "Wait. You said you've worked here long enough to know the lawyers in the building."

"Yeah."

"How long has your office been here?"

He shrugs. "Five, six years. Why?"

"Here in Austin for five or six years?"

He takes a step back, like he's bracing himself.

I take a step closer to him. And then another. Then I poke a finger in his chest. "Because your grandmother thinks you live in Dallas. She thinks that's the reason you never visit her. But you don't, do you? You live right here in Austin. And you lie to your grandmother to get out of visiting her."

He wraps his hand around my finger to stop me jabbing him in the chest. "It's not as bad as?—"

"Not as bad as it seems?" I finish the sentence for him. "Because it seems like you're the closest living relative of one of the sweetest women I've ever met."

His lips press into a flat line, and he releases my finger.

"You are worse than a lawyer. You're a bad person."

I wait for him to deny it. But he doesn't.

Before he can, the elevator lurches back into movement at the same time that the intercom crackles and the voice says, "Hey, looks like we got power again."

Neither Martin nor I respond. Instead, we both turn to pick up our belongings and ride down to the lobby in silence. I'm tempted to say something else when I step out of the elevator, but when I turn back to do so, the doors are already closing.

The last time I see him, Martin is looking at the floor, his hands tucked in his pockets, his shoulders slumped.

If I didn't know better, I'd think something I said got to him.

But that can't be possible.

So why do I feel like I should apologize?

Shit.

This is why I hate being in a grouchy mood. I end up saying and doing things I shouldn't.

Did I, with all my training, really just tell a man he was a bad person?

Seriously?

God, I can just imagine what my professors would say. Or my advisor.

I know better! I'm supposed to take a nonjudgmental stance on things like this. I'm supposed to assume positive intention.

I should apologize. I will.

Definitely.

But it's not like I'm ever going to see him again.