Chapter 5

There is havinga bad day and then there's losing-your-practicum, trying-to-maintain-your-dignity-while-walking-out-of-the-building-with-actual-chicken-shit-on-your-pants, running-into-the-hot-guy-you-always-embarrass-yourself-around, and then bursting-into-tears having a bad day.

I know it's a lot—I know I'm a lot—so let me know if you need me to break that down for you again.

It's been more than a month since the whole trapped in an elevator together experience and I was starting to assume that I would never see Martin Harris again. After all, why would I?

It's not like I normally spend my time hanging out in fancy-shmancy lawyers' offices downtown. And as we previously established, it's not like he visits his grandmother in the nursing home. Ergo, it seemed logical that, in a city of million people, we simply would never run into one another again.

But apparently I didn't count on the momentum of my bad day. Because of course I would run into Martin today, when I have chicken shit on my pants, and I've just lost the volunteer position that I need to complete my research.

I'm juggling my normal collection of pet carrier and messenger bag, while trying to hold back tears, and waiting for Stacy to remote-open the front door so that I don't accidentally set off the alarm. You would think, given her (finally successful) campaign to get me booted from Precious Meadows, that she'd be faster.

When I finally hear the latch of the door opening, I barrel through it and run smack into Martin Harris's chest. I know it's him before I even look up. Maybe I recognize his familiar rumpled shirt and askew tie. Maybe it's the scent of his soap, cedar and bergamot. Or maybe it's just my bad-day spidey sense kicking in.

Because why wouldn't I run into him now when my life is going to hell?

He recovers from our collision more quickly than I do. His hands go my shoulders to steady me as he steps back to study me.

"Trinity?"

Naturally, I burst into tears.

"Trinity, what's wrong? Is everything okay?"

"I just—" I choke on a sob, stepping back a step so that he releases me, but bumping into the door behind me. "I didn't?—"

"Is Margaret okay?"

"Is—" It hits me then, how this must look to him. I pause in the act of wiping my tears off one-handed and meet his gaze. "She's fine. I promise."

His shoulders sag infinitesimally with relief, but his gaze intensifies. "But you're not?"

"I'm fine." I force an overly cheerful smile. "Tough day is all." I skirt around him, keeping my expression sunny as I walk backwards a step or two, waving. "Well, good to run into you again. See you later."

He just watches me walking away, standing with his hands propped on his hips, his expression dark and unreadable. My steps slow. After a minute, he turns back toward the door. Stacy must have been watching the whole awkward encounter from the lobby of Precious Meadows, because as soon as he reaches the door, it clicks open, and he walks right in. Of course, she never makes him wait by the door, balancing fifteen different things.

The cow.

I sigh. That's uncharitable of me.

It's not her fault she doesn't like me. After all, I am a lot.

I turn and shuffle off as I consider what to do.

Precious Meadows, despite its pastoral name, is smack in the middle of central Austin in the medical district. It's just slightly north and west of the University of Texas campus, along 38th street. The area has a hospital, a ton of doctor's offices, as well as some shops, restaurants, and bars, all of which are nicer and more expensive than the ones just a few miles away near campus. One of the reasons I volunteer here is because it's close enough for me to ride my bike if the weather's good. Or it's a straight shot on the bus if it's too hot out for that.

But the bus is where it gets tricky. Technically, service animals are allowed on the bus, but while my chickens are registered therapy animals, they're not my service animals. Which makes it a gray area.

Actually, it's not a gray area at all, but it's a battle certain bus drivers don't bother to fight. I know a lot of the normal drivers well enough to know who will allow it and who won't.

I lucked out this afternoon on my way to the memory center because the driver, Clive, has a live-and-let-live policy as long as my birds are quiet. I was planning on hitching a ride home with a neighbor who works at the hospital, but Ruth won't get off for another three hours.

If this had happened a month ago, I'd have called my sister Savannah and begged her for a ride, but she's just moved out near the lake for her new job. Even if she was willing to come pick me up, I wouldn't ask her to drive all that way.

I hate how far away she is from me now. And, yes, despite my concerns about how isolated she is, working for some rich recluse and living on his property, I understand why she took the job. She was beyond broke from paying the lawyer to dispute Dad's will. And, since Blake (our asshole half-brother) has been badmouthing her all over town, she's had trouble finding a new job. She thinks I don't know that Mom has been funneling money her way. Not that Mom has much to spare.

I'm trying not to think about how much I miss Savannah when I shoot off texts to a couple of friends, but one is deep in a deadline and the other is at work.

Finally, I text Trent—my former boyfriend, occasional friend with benefits, ride of last resorts. When he doesn't respond right away, I walk to the bus stop.

I'm sitting by the bus stop in front of the shopping center beside Precious Meadows, hoping that the next bus that stops has a pet-friendly attitude when a shadow blocks out the sun. I look up from my phone to see Martin standing over me.

"Let me guess, you don't have a car."

Why does he say it like that? Like not owning a car is offensive? I stand, shifting the pet carrier from my lap to the bench seat. "I don't. I live near campus and walk or bike anywhere I need to go. It's the environmentally responsible thing to do."

He does that smirk-y annoying thing he's so good at. "You bike around Austin? With a chicken?"

I bump my chin up. "When the weather is nice." As if on cue, thunder rumbles through the air. "And if it's not I take the bus."

"They allow chickens on the bus?"

"They allow service animals." He arches an eyebrow in silent question. "It's a gray area."

"I'm pretty sure it's not." He steps closer and reaches like he's going to take my arm, but then instead just picks up the pet carrier. "Come on, I'll give you a ride home."

"That's not necessary." But he's already walking away with my chicken. I grab my bag from the ground and scurry after him. "Stop. It's fine. I?—"

He stops, turning to face me. "If you don't want me to drive you—if you're worried about me knowing where you live or whatever—let me at least get you an Uber."

"I'm not. Worried about that, I mean."

"You probably should be."

"Well, I'm not."

"Okay then." He starts walking again.

He's heading back toward the parking garage adjacent to Precious Meadows.

I wasn't lying when I said I wasn't afraid of him knowing where I live. So then why am I so reluctant to have him drive me? I don't know.

I just know that accepting a ride from him will be crossing a line somehow. The line between someone I'll probably never see again to someone whose car I've ridden in. It's a weird line to draw, but one I'm willing to stand by.

"Look, it's not necessary." This time I'm the one to reach out to him. I grab his arm and he stops.

He doesn't turn to face me. He just stops. And slowly looks down at where my hand grips his biceps. Only after I release him does he turn to look at me.

Suddenly, I'm even more nervous and I desperately wish that I hadn't been the one to touch him first.

Which is a stupid and ridiculous thing to think, because it was just my hand on his arm. I didn't even come in contact with his bare skin. So why does it feel like I crossed a line? And why the cluck was I so worried about the car line that I didn't see this line coming?

"I have a ride coming," I blurt.

"You were waiting for a ride at the bus stop?"

"It's Trent." I lie baldly. "He's going to pick me up. He's my … boyfriend."

More and more lies! Why? Why am I doing this?

Martin eyes me critically, as though he can see straight through my lying lies. "When will he be here?"

"Soon. Probably."

"Fine. I'll wait with you until he gets here." Martin starts walking again, veering off to head in the direction of the cluster of restaurants, shops, and bars. "I'll buy you a drink while we wait."

"That's really not necessary."

His legs are long enough that I'm struggling to keep up. I'm five-six, which is taller than average. I don't know how he manages it, since he's not that much taller than I am, probably only five inches. Okay, probably more like six or seven, but still. Maybe emotional trauma has just slowed me down. Or maybe he's purposefully walking fast so that I won't be able to stop him from bird-napping.

Of course that would imply that he's trying to trick me into letting him buy me a drink. And that can't be right. I scramble to catch up and reach him right as he opens the door to one of the swanky restaurants, Le Petite Bistro.

I've been to Le Petite Bistro before. After all, my dad was a chef. I've been to nearly every restaurant in town. Austin is a foodie town, but it's also a relaxed, tech-hippie town. Austin is like if Portland, Oregon and LA had a baby, and then that baby grew up to be a college student who studied physics and philosophy and got high on the weekends. My point is, few very places have a dress code. The food you can get from the food trucks scattered around town is the best. At its height, even Embarcado never had a dress code.

But Le Petite Bistro … it's a bit of a relic. It's been open forever, but somehow manages to still attract up and coming chefs who keep the menu fresh. It's grown and changed with the times, but maintains its air of wealth, privilege, and exclusivity. And, as far as I know, it's only place in town with a dress code.

It's four on a Saturday, so they just opened. An hour from now, we wouldn't get in without a reservation.

The host waiting at the hostess stand gives Martin and me a slow once over. Martin, with his jacket and air of casual wealth, obviously passes muster. I, with my dirty cargo capris, Doc Martins, and sloppy space buns, do not. I might skate by on a technicality, because my capris aren't shorts, but it's iffy. The host's gaze lingers on my casual outfit with clear sniff of disdain. He tips his nose up before looking at Martin and then the pet carrier.

He gives a smug sniff of displeasure. "We have a no pets policy."

Martin pulls out a folded bill. "It's a service animal."

The host takes the bill but arches an eyebrow.

Martin pulls out a business card. "And I'm her lawyer."

The host huffs and picks up some menus.

The host leads us to a table in a back corner. Martin holds out at chair for me. What's up with that? Then he moves a spare chair close to mine and sets the pet carrier on it.

I don't know if it's just for show—to convince the host that I really do need my therapy chicken close to me—or if Martin somehow knows that I do need my therapy chicken close to me.

Later, once the host is gone, Martin takes the seat across from me. He barely glances at the menu before asking me, "Do you have any dietary restrictions?"

"No." Though a quick glance at the menu shows me that everything on it is out of my budget. "I'll probably just have water."

A moment later, when the waiter shows up, Martin orders enough appetizers for a small army and two gin and tonics.

I'm about to protest, but as soon as the waiter leaves, Martin beats me to it. "Don't even try and argue with me. You were crying. Unless you have a health reason why you don't drink, the gin and tonic will help. And food always helps. Just in case you have low blood sugar." He gives me a long look. "Besides, you look … thin."

I raise my eyebrows. "Rude. Did no one ever tell you you're not supposed to comment on a woman's weight?"

"That's not what I meant." He clenches his jaw, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "I thought you might be stressed."

I tip my head, not sure what to think about the idea that this man, this relative stranger, seems to have noticed things about me my friends and family haven't.

I'm not prepared to discuss my worries about my sister's employment with him. Or my own precarious financial situation. So, state it like it's no big deal. "I was crying at a bus stop. Obviously, I'm stressed."

He studies me for a moment, and I feel like he's trying to decide whether or not he should push for more information. Eventually he sighs. "Fine. I remember what it's like to be a student. I survived on Ramen and hot pockets when I was a law student. Just take the meal for what it is."

"Pity food?" I ask in mock outrage.

His lips twitch in obvious amusement. "A transparent attempt to keep you from bursting into tears again."

The waiter brings our drinks, giving me a scornful once-over as he drops them off.

I smile at him gamely. "Sorry for the—" I gesture towards my general appearance and the pet carrier.

Before I can finish the thought, Martin cuts me off and shoes away the waiter.

When we're alone again, he leans a little closer, giving me a stern look. "Don't apologize to him."

I lean forward and drop my voice to a whisper. "This is a nice restaurant. I'm pretty sure my therapy chicken violates health codes. If you think the bus driver was going to have a problem with it, just wait till the management sees. Besides which, I have chickenshit on my pants."

Martin gives a huff of laughter. "It's the middle of the afternoon. I seriously doubt a health inspector is going to be stopping by. And if they do, the management should fire the host for being bribable, easily intimidated, and an insufferable ass."

"You were the one who bribed and intimidated him."

"Absolutely. That doesn't make it my problem."

"Shouldn't lawyers be a little more respectful of the law?"

"Are you genuinely worried that your therapy chicken is going to contaminate the restaurant?" He shifts to eye my legs beneath the table. "Or your pants for that matter?"

"I washed them as best I could in the bathroom at Precious Meadows. And Flew Bacca is very well behaved. And wearing a chicken diaper to boot. So no, I don't think she's a health hazard."

"I thought your chicken's name was Princess Lay-ah?"

"I have three therapy chickens. I rotate through bringing them on visits."

"So it's Princess Lay-ah, Flew Bacca and …?"

"Hen Solo."

He gives a serious nod, as if this isn't the silliest conversation he's likely ever had. "Well, that's better than Luke Sky Cocker."

I have to suppress a smile. "Luke Sky Cocker would obviously be a rooster. And they don't make good therapy chickens. Too aggressive."

I take a sip of my gin and tonic and—damn it!—it is soothing.

I hardly know what to think about the fact that I'm sitting here in the middle of the day across from him, sipping a drink with my therapy chicken.

I would've sworn he hated me. That he thought I was ridiculous. Given our previous interactions, he has every right to see me that way. I expected scorn and ridicule from him, but instead he's … feeding me? Chatting with me about all of this like it's not absurd. Somehow, his attitude is even more soothing than the drink.

I pull the soft-sided carrier onto my lap and unzip it just enough to slide my finger through the gap and stroke Flew Bacca's feathers.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Maybe I want the chance to convince you that not all lawyers are total assholes."

"Just the ones who use their power to intimidate and twist the law to meet the needs of their clients."

"I prefer to think of it as using the law to protect my clients."

"Potato, potatah. Either way, that's not really an answer."

"To which question?"

"The question of why you're buying me a drink."

"You were crying, in the rain, while waiting for your boyfriend to come get you."

I ignore the scorn in his voice as he says the word boyfriend. (He probably thinks I made Trent up.) Instead, I point out, "It wasn't raining."

He gives a beleaguered sigh, flipping his phone around to show a weather app boasting a severe weather warning and nearby lightning strikes. "You needed someone to step up and take care of you and I'm not a total monster."

I bristle at the implication that I can't take care of myself. Despite the fact that he might have a point. "Look, I'm sorry if?—"

"Stop."

"What?"

"Stop apologizing. Don't apologize to the waiter. Don't apologize to me."

"I don't?—"

"You're getting your PhD, right?"

I glance down, just to make sure I'm not wearing one of my quirky, Psych joke t-shirts. I'm not. "That was just a lucky guess."

"I'm a lawyer," he quips. "I don't make guesses. You mentioned grad school and I asked around at Precious Meadows about you."

"Oh." I sit back, burrowing my fingers deeper into Flew Bacca's feathers. "Well, yeah. I am."

Why does the idea of him asking about me make me feel … what, exactly?

Self-conscious, definitely. But something else too. Noticed, maybe? Seen.

I stir my drink with the tiny swizzle straw. "What's your point?"

"According to Anthony, you're about six months away from having a PhD. That makes you the smartest person in this room. Probably. Ergo, you shouldn't be apologizing to anyone. Not to me. Certainly not to the pretentious wait staff."

I make a huff of annoyance.

What is it about this man that makes me want to fight with him? Even when he's complimenting me?

Or maybe it is that he's complimenting me?

I'm not sure, but I do know this: being the sole focus of his attention is unnerving. I'm not used to people paying so much attention to me. And I'm certainly not used to arguing with people. I'm not a fighter by nature. I'm a peacekeeper. Normally, I bend over backwards to be likable and affable. It's one of the things I'm working with my therapist to overcome.

But something about Martin just rubs me the wrong way. Something about him makes me want to push back.

He studies me from across the table. "Whatever is brewing in that mind of yours, go ahead and say it out loud."

I narrow my gaze. I can't very well tell him what I've actually been thinking. I'm not going to admit that he gets under my skin in a way no one else ever has.

So instead, I pick apart his comment. "Okay, let's say for a second that I am the smartest person in the room—forget that we have no way of knowing or quantifying that. Let's just pretend it's true. That doesn't mean I shouldn't apologize if I behave badly."

"I'm not saying it does. If you were rude or cruel, then sure. Apologize. But you did nothing wrong." He puts a hard emphasis on the word ‘you,' somehow implying that I'm not to blame for the endless debacle my life seems to be every time I run into him. "But that's the fifth time I've heard you apologize to a stranger for something that's beyond your control."

I sit back in my chair, scowling at him. "What? You're keeping count?"

"Just observing."

"Okay, but even if you're right and those things are beyond my control, that doesn't mean I'm above apologizing for something that's making someone else's life harder."

"Maybe not." To my surprise, he tips his head to the side as if he's actually considering my point, not speaking again until he reaches some kind of conclusion. "But you're not beneath them either. That's why I have a problem with it. You don't just apologize. You grovel."

I suck in a breath of surprise—maybe even shock—then lean forward (as much as I can with a chicken in my lap) and whisper hiss. "Well, I'm sorry if my apologies don't match your requirements. Or maybe I shouldn't apologize for that and instead just tell you to mind your own clucking business."

"Yeah. That's better." His lips twitch. "Also, you did it again."

"Did what?"

"Said clucking instead of fucking."

"I work with elderly people who tend to get very upset when I curse. I've adapted."

My cheeks burn as I say it, because it feels like I'm apologizing. But for what? Not cussing like a proper adult?

I can feel my lips puckering into a furious scowl as I glare him, cataloguing his features—the hard line of his jaw, the scruff that seems the result of neglect rather than intent, the nose that would be a little too big for his face if he weren't so damn handsome.

Because he's almost too handsome. But his nose—like the rumpled clothing and the perpetual lines of exhaustion around his eyes—rub off the sharp edge of his masculine beauty. It's his physical flaws that make him so appealing. That make him so real.

He's like the Velveteen Rabbit. His life has worn off his newness and made him more real, more alive for it.

Wait. What?

Did I just mentally compare him to the Velveteen Rabbit? To the most lovable, but heartbreaking character from a children's book … like, ever?

Cluck me…

I am in serious trouble here. I don't even want to like Martin. The fact that I'm romanticizing him is beyond worrisome. Suddenly I feel itchy and twitchy. I want to bolt.

"Hey."

Martin's sharp tone snaps me out of my cycle of inaction.

When I meet his gaze, he continues. "Just chill out, okay?"

Chill out?

I'm over here, ten seconds away from romanticizing him into a tragic hero! I can't chill out! I need to get out of here!

"You can't leave yet," he says, since apparently he's also a mind reader. "Now it really is raining. And the food is here."

He nods in the direction of the waiter, who is indeed approaching with a tray laden with our appetizers.

Something about the way he says it, the simple clear instructions, the logic of it, snaps me out of my spiral and I just … comply. I sit back in my chair, the tension and panic fading as I watch the waiter place down the items Martin ordered: truffle-dusted French fries with aioli sauce, grilled vegetables with a Romesco sauce, and baked brie with fig compote.

It's all vegetarian. Does that mean he's a vegetarian too, or did he somehow guess that about me?

Before I can ask, Martin has scooped some of each onto a plate that he hands to me. "Eat some fries. You'll feel better."

So I eat a fry.

Just like that.

Yeah, I'm as surprised as you.

The fry is, of course, amazing. The best thing I've eaten since the last time my sister cooked for me. Once I'm chewing as placidly as a cow, Martin continues. "I'm not criticizing you." I open my mouth to protest, but Martin holds out his hands, palms out, in the universal sign of surrender. "Just hear me out."

I shove another fry into my mouth to occupy myself and nod for him to continue.

"You're smart and hard working. You don't owe anyone an apology."

The compliment chafes, probably because I don't get many of them. Which says more about me than it does Martin. So instead of pushing back on his assessment of me, I say, "Okay, but you don't know that guy." I nod in the direction of the waiter, who isn't helping me make my point, because he's still looking down his nose at me from his position by the bar. "For all you know, he's just as smart and hardworking as I am."

"I doubt that, since you're practically a miracle worker."

I can't tell if that's a compliment or not. He states it like a fact, but there's no way Martin Harris actually thinks that.

So I ignore the comment and continue, "He could be a grad student too. He could be doing cancer research. Or be solving world hunger."

"While also working at Le Petite Bistro?"

Okay, so he's probably right. Le Petite Bistro is known for hiring only classically-trained, professional chefs. But he probably doesn't know that, right? "My point is, you don't know."

He nods in concession. "You're right. I don't know. And if he hadn't been rude to you from the moment we walked in, I'd go easier on him." Martin leans forward, giving me a searing look. "If you want me to stop picking on the guy, I will. You're right. I don't know anything about him. But I'm not going to stop defending you either."

I open my mouth and then snap it closed as his words sink in. I quickly eat a bite of brie to give myself time to think. And—oh my God—I hadn't realized how much my poverty-stricken taste buds had missed brie.

What am I supposed to say to this? I assumed this was just Martin being an asshole. But in his mind he was defending me?

When was the last time someone defended me?

I don't even know what to say about that.

Thankfully Martin smirks and adds, "I'm pretty sure he's not a grad student who also volunteers with Alzheimer's patients in his free time."

I wince, reminded all over again exactly why I was crying in the rain with chicken shit on my pants, and thankful for the distraction. "Well, if it makes my case at all, after today, I'm not either."

Martin stills. "What do you mean?"

"There was an ‘incident' today at Precious Meadows." I put air quotes around the word incident and Martin's eyebrows shoot up.

"An incident?"

"One of the residents got a little handsy with Flew Bacca, who was just defending herself. No one got hurt, and I'm the only one who even got chicken shit on her clothes. But apparently it was a bridge too far for Stacy."

"And Stacy is …?"

"You know her. Blond. Tiny. Dictatorial. Runs the front desk at Precious Meadows."

He nods. "Right. The one who acts like she runs the place."

"Exactly."

"How exactly does someone get handsy with a chicken?"

I cringe. "Mildred wanted to know if chickens really have one hole for … well, everything."

Martin's eyes go wide. Then he rolls his lips between his teeth before asking. "And how did she check?"

"She took off Flew Bacca's diaper and …" My own lips are twitching now as I make a poking gesture with my free hand. "Well, let's just say I think Flew Bacca might needs some therapy of her own after that."

Martin loses the battle, tipping back his head and laughing.

The sound is warm and deep, piercing my heart and stealing my breath. And his smile? It's spectacular—full and toothy, revealing a crooked incisor that his smirk usually hides. I consider myself something of a connoisseur of smiles and his takes my breath away.

Gah … this man.

I'd be tempted to sigh and flutter my eyes at him if the reality of my situation wasn't starting to sink it.

I sigh, propping my chin in my palm as I consider my options.

"Now I need to find a new center to work with. And start all over again. I wonder if my advisor will accept?—"

"What?"

Martin's question snaps my attention back to him. I wave a hand dismissively. "Never mind. Those are problems for another day."

"Stacy can't actually prevent you from volunteering at the center."

I shrug. "I'm pretty sure she can." I can see that Martin is gearing up to argue with me, so I make a show of looking at my watch. "Wow. It's gotten late. We should get out of here before the dinner rush starts."

I wave the waiter over, but before he's even halfway across the room, Martin is standing, pulling bills from his wallet.

I balk at the amount he tosses on the table, but before I can protest out loud, he's picking up the pet carrier and my bag.

"Come on, Princess. Let's get you home."

I follow Martin out of the restaurant—I don't really have a choice, since he has my bird and my bag. The shopping center backs up to the parking lot of Precious Meadows. The rain is more of a fine mist, but the clouds are still ominously thick. We're almost to what I can only assume is Martin's car before I remember that I was supposed to be waiting for "my boyfriend" to pick me up.