Chapter 6

I don't even hesitatein loading Trinity's assaulted, possibly incontinent chicken into the all-white interior of my Tesla. I probably should. Do I even want to know if chicken shit stains leather?

I shrug, nestle the carrier into the back seat of the car and weave the seat belt through the handle before latching it in.

At the very least, my lack of concern should alarm me.

It doesn't.

Right now, my biggest concern is getting Trinity home safe before the weather turns even more ominous. Throughout our late lunch, I had weather alerts dinging from my phone to my watch. If the threats of hail and flooding don't materialize, I'm going to head back to Precious Meadows and get Stacy fired.

I wonder who I'll need to talk to in order to make that happen … The manager? The lawyers? Doesn't matter. By Monday morning, I will have Stacy begging Trinity to come back even if I have to buy the damn company.

For the first time in my life, I understand why medieval tyrants would banish the peons that displeased them. I don't even want Stacy fired. I want her groveling for forgiveness at Trinity's feet. I want her forced to write a dissertation about the importance of Trinity's work with patients, about how Trinity's effervescent glow brings joy to everyone.

And that is the moment I feel the first stirrings of alarm. Not for my car, but for the single-minded determination that I haven't felt in years.

I give the pet carrier a last look before putting her bag on the floorboard and clicking the button to lower the car's wing-style door. As the door closes, Trinity comes back into view on the other side of the car. She's standing several feet from the front passenger door, her expression shifting between confusion and hesitation.

I shoot her a questioning look and she blushes.

"I was supposed to wait for …" She trails off, gesturing vaguely back toward the bus stop.

"Right. The boyfriend." Speaking of people who need to grovel at Trinity's feet … I set my jaw, planting my hands on my hips as I stare her down.

Her blush deepens. "I just don't want to leave and then have him show up."

"Is he here yet?"

"No, but?—"

"It's been over an hour," I say, estimating without bothering to look at my watch. As far as I'm concerned, any man who lets his girlfriend wait more than an hour in the rain doesn't deserve the woman. Any man who makes Trinity wait more than an hour in the rain deserves something else entirely. "Just get in the car."

She takes a step closer, but still hesitates. "But I'm all wet and not exactly clean. Because of the incident. And?—"

"Get in the car before I forcibly put you in the car."

Her eyes flash. "You wouldn't dare."

"You wanna try me?"

She huffs, but opens the door, before hesitating again when she sees the bright white interior. Her gaze jerks back to mine, her eyes wide. "You can't be serious. Who even buys a car with an interior like this?"

"Rich assholes who don't expect to be driving chickens around. Now get in the car before it starts raining more and you do even more damage to the leather."

"But—"

I blow out a huff of annoyance and stalk around the nose of the car to follow up on my threat. She yelps and clambers in.

Grinding my teeth, I climb into the driver's side and start the car with a push of a button, putting it in gear before she can change her mind.

I swear she's muttering under breath. Probably summoning a demon.

"What was that?" I ask, as if I don't hear her grousing.

"I could have waited."

A flash of lightning cuts across the sky, followed quickly by a rumble of thunder. The sky has that ominous look every Texan knows—a murky gray-green on one horizon fading to an eerie pale pink on the other. It's like sunset in hell. Cloudy with a chance of hail, tornadoes, and bad decisions.

"Right. Because that would have been safe."

"If your leather is ruined, don't blame me."

"I wouldn't dream of it." I steer the car out onto the closest main road and pause to look at her. "You going to tell me where you live, or should I just drag you home with me like a stray?"

I keep my tone light, not even hinting at how close to serious I am.

She rolls her eyes and rattles off an address. I enter it into the car's nav system.

"Damn," I mutter when the location pops up. "So close to having a therapy chicken of my own."

She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, but doesn't comment as I turn out onto 38th Street and start making my way across town. Traffic in Austin has been a shit show since I moved here for college more than a decade ago, and there are no signs it will ever improve. According to the nav system she's only a few miles away, but it's all lights and sluggish traffic.

She lives in a neighborhood just north of the University. It's close enough in that I'm not too worried about how safe it might be. I don't know what I would have done if she asked me to drop her off in a sketchy neighborhood.

"So, do you live with this boyfriend of yours who can't be bothered to check his messages?"

"No."

Even without taking my eyes off the road, I can see her tense, then fidget in her seat.

God, I hope she doesn't play poker, because she's a terrible liar.

I wonder what she's not telling me about this boyfriend of hers.

Does he live with her? Or is it something else?

I would think he was made up, except I glanced at her phone when she took it out to see if he'd responded. She definitely has a ‘Trent' contact in her phone and he called her ‘babe' in the previous text.

Babe. Is there a more generically obnoxious pet name in existence?

Okay, so I called her Princess in the restaurant, which feels equally generic. But it's not, since she clearly has an affinity for Princess Leia. And Princess Leia isn't just a princess. She's a badass warrior, a general, and only member of her family who doesn't crack under pressure. So calling Trinity Princess is the least generic pet name. Not that I'm in a position to be giving Trinity a pet name.

But who the fuck uses nicknames when texting their girlfriend?

That alone is enough to make me hate the guy.

If I was looking for a reason. Which I'm not.

It doesn't matter to me if Trent is unimaginative, inattentive cesspool of a boyfriend. It is not my business.

Trinityis not my business. Despite the fact that today I felt compelled to feed her and keep her dry. And I might be hatching plans to get her position back for her.

Of course, that part isn't even meddling. It's just common sense. She's Margaret's favorite. If the work she's doing with other patients is even half as effective, then her work is too important to have it curtailed by a busybody like Stacy.

The point is, it doesn't matter. And it's only through the sheer boredom of navigating cross town traffic that I say, "So tell me about him."

"Who?"

"Trent." I snap my teeth around his name.

"Oh." More shifting from her as she gazes out of the window like she's never seen this stretch of Austin before. "I've known him forever. Since high school. He's a great guy."

"You've dated this guy since high school?"

Fuck.

High school sweethearts? I didn't even know that shit existed anymore.

"No. He's a couple of years older than me. He was in my sister's grade and they were friends. He and I didn't get together until after. Once we were both at UT, I ran into him one day on campus and … we just …"

She trails off, leaving the rest to my imagination. Which unfortunately fills in the gaps.

"So he's what? Four years older than you?"

Her head whips around. "Yeah. How did you know that?"

"You said he graduated with your sister."

"So?"

"She's four years older than you, right?"

"Yeah, but?—"

"You talked about her in the elevator, remember?" I can't remember exactly what she said about her sister, but I'm pretty sure the age difference didn't come up, so I'm hoping she doesn't push for more details. I certainly don't want to explain how and why I know her sister's age. Hell, her age, her employment history. Her social security number and bank routing information. I'm pretty sure that if Trinity knew how deeply our lives are intertwined at this point, she'd leap from the car into oncoming traffic.

When she doesn't question me on why I know so much about her sister, I ask, "So you ran into Trent at UT? What's he do now?"

"He works for a start-up. They design … chips or something. Microchips. Not corn chips."

I laugh. "That's a shame. The world needs a better designed corn chip."

"Shut your mouth!" she says playfully. "Tortilla chips are perfect just as they are!"

"Of course. I meant potato chips."

She makes a show of being appeased. "Ah … then I suppose I can live with that. There might be room for improvement there."

"So he's an engineer?"

Again she hesitates. "Marketing, actually." Then abruptly, she twists to face me. "What about you?"

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend who markets chips."

She lets out a bark of laughter that I find oddly satisfying. Then ruins it by adding, "I didn't know lawyers were allowed to have a sense of humor."

"We're not. I bought mine on the black market. If you tell the Bar, they'll confiscate it."

"You're in luck, I am unlikely to be chatting up anyone from the Bar anytime soon. I mean, what even is ‘The Bar'? Do y'all meet there and hang out? Does it have a physical space or is it just a metaphoric construct?"

"Asks the woman who argued the waiter of Le Petit Bistro might be smarter than her."

She ignores my quip. "I always pictured it like one of the regency-era gentlemen's clubs."

"You've always pictured it? As in, this is something you've thought about before?"

"Only when I'm fantasizing about potential terrorist attacks."

Since we're at a light, I slant her a look. She's got her head tipped back against the headrest. Her eyes are half closed, her lips curved in a semi-smile. She's fucking-stunning like this. Relaxed, a little buzzed, almost content. Amused.

Okay, to be fair, she's always fucking stunning—whether she's scowling with barely tapped fury, perfect ass in the air doing downward dog, or just handing me an egg. She is always stunning.

In the most literal sense of the word: i.e., she stuns me. I can hardly breathe when I look at her, let alone think coherently.

But like this?

Fuuuuuck.

If a tornado did appear in the sky to yank me from my car and pummel me to death, I'd die happy.

Unless of course it so much as touched a hair on her head. Then I'd have to return as a ghost to haunt every climate-denying-asshole alive.

She rolls her head to look at me without lifting her head from the headrest.

My breath catches and I scramble to say something that will keep her looking at me like this. Like I'm not the enemy. "If you're going to admit to fantasizing about bombing the Texas State Bar, you might need to hire me so that client privilege will apply."

Her lips quirk. "Good news, bad news. My state Bar terrorist fantasies are vague and unformed. I don't fantasize about enacting them, so much as cackling while watching the news that they did happen."

"Is that the good news or the bad news?"

"Oh, that was the good news. The bad news is that I definitely couldn't afford to hire you."

"Oh, that's not bad news to me." If she hired me, my own current set of fantasies would be nearly as illegal as hers.

"Are you worried the other lawyers in your fancy building would make fun of you if I was your client?"

"Not in the least. Why would I be?"

"Because I'm ridiculous and have therapy chickens and dress like an emo teen."

That's the second time she's made a comment assuming I think she's ridiculous. Is that really how she thinks people see her? Instead of as someone who is bright and defiant and a God damn beacon of light in my otherwise dreary, staid existence?

The light changes and I inch the car through the intersection before getting snagged in traffic again.

"I'm far more worried that your boyfriend would get me disbarred for unethical behavior."

"What?" Then she blushes again. "Why would Trent have anything to say about it? And what are you doing that's unethical?"

"Nothing yet."

She chuckles. "Exactly. Besides, I didn't think lawyers got punished for unethical behavior. I thought they got rewarded for it."

"Ouch."

"Besides, I can't imagine you actually doing anything unethical."

Her voice sounds vaguely annoyed as she says it.

I skim my gaze over her, thinking of all the things I'd like to do with her. Some of them are outrageously sexual. I want to strip off her clothes and worship her naked body. I want to taste her. All of her.

I want to watch her do yoga, because her round, voluptuous ass in downward dog is the sexiest thing I've ever seen. I want to fuck her from behind while she's in downward dog. At this point, I've lost count of the number of times I've gotten off to that fantasy.

If all my fantasies were purely sexual, that would be one thing. But they're not. I imagine her in my kitchen, baking snickerdoodles. I imagine watching Star Wars with her. Taking her hair down out of those twin buns and massaging her scalp.

That one is crazy, right? Who the fuck gets hard thinking about a woman's scalp?

None of which are unethical or immoral as long as there's consent, but I'm still pretty sure they aren't the kinds of things she imagines when she thinks of me. More's the pity.

I wonder if those are the kinds of things she does with that boyfriend of hers. The one who is "such a great guy."

We're silent for the last few minutes of the ride. I slow the car as I turn onto her block. This part of Austin has a lot of older houses. Professors and professionals live in the nicer ones. The houses that have been lovingly updated and restored or even modernized. A lot of the older ones have been divided into student apartments or are still houses that are shared by multiple students.

As I approach the address she gave me, dread-tinged resignation settles over me.

On a block of Victorian four squares and arts and crafts bungalows, one sprawling monstrosity stands out. It takes up a sizable stretch of the block, but the cars parked in front eat up even more space. No wonder she doesn't have a car. Where would she park it?

I stop my Tesla in front of a house a few down from the address she gave because that's as close as I can get, and then look from her to the house and back again.

"Are you serious?"

She gives a forced smile. "Well, this is me. Thanks for?—"

"That's a frat house."

She pauses and then holds up a finger to make her point. "Actually, it's not. It only looks like a frat house."

Despite the epically shitty weather, there are a couple of guys lounging on chairs on the front porch. A few cars down from our spot, a guy is unloading groceries from the back of a Honda.

"No," I correct my assessment. "It looks like it was a frat house forty years ago, then abandoned for a few decades, and then had squatters move in."

"Nope. There are no squatters," she says with the kind of dewy-eyed enthusiasm of someone who's had to justify their choices to loved ones before. "It's owned by the parents of one of the guys. Chad. There are twelve other tenants. And they all pay rent."

I inhale and count to ten.

By the time I reach twenty, one of the other cars is pulling away, so I slide into the empty spot before turning to look at Trinity. "You live with twelve college guys?"

"It's thirteen."

"Who are you, Snow White?"

"And actually, I don't live with them. I live in the apartment behind the house." She waggles her finger to indicate the building peeking through at the end of the driveway. Before I can say anything else, she flashes another huge smile. "Okay, well, thanks for the ride. And the food. And the gin. And tonic. It was great. You're great."

Her gaze is soft and a little dreamy, the cinnamon of her eyes nearly surpassed by the darker brown, undoubtedly the lingering effects of the gin. It takes all my will not to slide my hand to the back of her neck and pull her closer. To finally taste those temping lips of hers.

Then, almost as if she can read my thoughts, she blinks, her gaze clears, and she leans back. "I didn't mean…"

Of course she didn't. Of fucking course she doesn't think of me like that.

Because I'm a lawyer and she barely tolerates my company. And she has a boyfriend. An idiot boyfriend who doesn't check his messages, but still…

I blow out a breath. "Yeah. I know."

And just like that, she clambers out of my car. I hesitate only a second—okay, it's another count of ten—before climbing out as well. By the time she's rounded the car to the rear driver's side door, I've retrieved the chicken and her messenger bag.

She holds out her hand as if she expects me to hand over her chicken and messenger bag now that I've retrieved them from the backseat. I shake my head and nod in the direction of her house. No, I'm not just dropping her off at the curb. My momma raised me right. I know to walk a woman to her front door like a damn gentleman.

She gives me an eye roll, but I can see the way her lips are curving slightly as if she's more amused than annoyed. And maybe even a little impressed.

Yeah. Because that's how real men act. Unlike Trent, the douche canoe who can't even bother to respond to his girlfriend's texts.

She leads me up the long driveway that snakes past the frat house. We don't make it very far before one of the frat boys jumps out of his chair and jogs over. The guy is shirtless and in swim trunks. He has the defined muscles and smooth chest of a twenty-year-old who spends a lot of time on grooming.

"Hey, Trin!" His eyes flick in my direction, but he doesn't bother to introduce himself to me. "We're having a party tonight. Wanna stop by?"

"Hi, Chad." Trinity flashes him a smile and I'm relieved to see that it's friendly, but decidedly not interested. "Another party, huh?"

Chad flashes a cocky smile and holds out his fist. "It's Saturday night, am I right?"

My scowl deepens as Trinity returns his fist bump.

"Thanks for the invite. But I think I'm going to stay at home to catch up on work. This dissertation isn't going to write itself."

I step a fraction of an inch closer to Trinity. Close enough that I'm hovering right over her shoulder.

Chad's gaze flickers in my direction, trying to assess whether or not Trinity and I are together. Estimating if including me in the invitation will increase the chances of her showing up.

I take the decision out of his hands by placing my hand at the small of her back to steer her further down the path. "Come on, Trinity. Let's get you inside before it starts raining again."

"Maybe next weekend?" Chad asks.

"Sure. Definitely."

The guy jogs back to his friends, shaking his head as if they've all been waiting to hear her answer.

"Well, he certainly seemed attentive," I mutter as we head up the driveway toward her apartment.

I dropped my hand from the small of her back, but we're still walking closely enough that she bumps her shoulder to mine as she says, "You could've been nicer."

"Unlikely." I don't bother to point out that she could probably stand to be a lot less nice. "Do they have a party every weekend in hopes you'll show up?"

"They invite me every weekend. They probably just hope I'll buy the beer."

"Pretty sure that's not why they're inviting you."

"You don't think…" She shoots me a look full of genuine surprise. "… They're hitting on me?"

"You seriously don't?"

She tips her head to the side considering and then waves away the suggestion. "No way. For starters, I'm way too old for any of them. Besides, they're all?—"

"Such nice guys?" I finish for her.

She harrumphs. "I was going to say so young. But yes, they are all very nice. I'm sure they don't see me that way. I think I'm more of a mother figure to them."

Christ. Clearly she has no idea how beautiful she is or how much her beauty transcends her physical appearance. Yes, she's gorgeous, but it's more than that. She glows. She's a beacon and every male in her radius is reduced to a damn bug.

Of course, if I tried to explain that to her, she'd think I was crazy. Or worse, she'd see through the facade of indifference I've been trying so desperately to maintain because I'm terrified that if that facade slips and she realizes how much I want her, she'll shut down this tentative thing we have going. This almost-friendship that seems to be sprouting up.

So instead of telling her any of that, I say, "If that guy looks at his mother the way he looks at you, he needs therapy. A lot of it."

"You are being ridiculous."

"Maybe, but I'm still hesitant to leave you alone with the date-rape party going on next door."

Her steps slow and she turns to face me. "Thank you for looking out for me, but their parties don't get that out of hand."

I glare back towards the house, before meeting her gaze. "Are you sure? Because a landlord demanding his tenant attend social events could be construed as harassment and?—"

She busts out laughing and punches me playfully in the arm. "Stop!" She loops her arm through mine and steers us back toward her apartment. "First off, Chad isn't my landlord. His parents are. And second, issuing an invitation is not demanding I attend. Besides, I'm pretty sure he only invites me so that I won't call the cops on them when the party goes too late."

"How late do these parties go?"

"It's sweet that you're concerned, but you don't need to be."

I huff. It's not sweet. And I'm not concerned—not really. Trinity, despite her sunny disposition is a grown-ass adult woman living in the modern world. She's kept herself alive this long; I'm not going to infantilize her by pretending she can't keep herself safe without me here to watch over her.

Besides, what I'm feeling now is nothing as sweet as ‘concern'. Nothing so altruistic. I'm jealous, plain and simple. I'm jealous of her neighbors merely because they're the bugs who get to spend time in her light.

Jesus, if this is my reaction to her neighbor, how am I going to react if I actually meet this boyfriend of hers?

By now we've reached her apartment. I eye it skeptically. It's detached from the big house and sits at the back of the yard. It's impossible to tell if it was ever actually a garage, carriage house, or just a storage shack someone thought they could earn some extra money from. There's a small fenced area off to the side with a hen house. At the sound of her voice, two hens poke their heads out and then scurry down to cluck at her.

"Should I put Flew Bacca in with the other chickens?"

"No, I need to take off her diaper before I put her out with the others."

She gives me a defiant look at the mention of her chicken's diaper, like she expects me to laugh at her. A month ago, I might have, but after meeting Trinity the first time, I did some research about therapy chickens. So I know that diapering them is common.

And no, I don't mention any of that because I am all too aware of how obsessed it makes me sound.

So instead, I nod and wait as Trinity unlocks her door. I'm about to hand over her bag and her chicken and force myself to walk away, when an alert comes through on my phone. It's not the normal shitty-Texas-weather alert I've been getting all afternoon. It's a tornado watch alert.

Trinity gets one at the same time. She absentmindedly takes the pet carrier from me as she scans the alert for more information. Since she's not asking me to leave, I follow her in, taking in her apartment.

Just to be clear, the term ‘apartment' is generous. It's barely bigger than a dorm room, with a kitchenette along one wall, a bed on the opposite wall, and a freestanding garment rack acting as the divider between the "bedroom" and the living space. There's a single door that I assume leads to the bathroom.

It's surprisingly tidy. Trinity doesn't strike me as a minimalist, so I'm not sure if she's forced to be one because her space is so small or because she's a broke grad student. Or both.

In the time it's taken me to survey her apartment (not long), she's been scurrying around, clearly going into speed run mode. She's dragged out some sort of popup animal pen and set it up in her living room, set Flew Bacca loose in it, and is out the door to collect the other two hens when I stop her.

"You can't stay here when there's a tornado watch."

"Nonsense." The two chickens bustle over to her as she leans over the side of their enclosure. She picks one up and hands her to me, before grabbing the other one. "We'll be fine. But you probably need to get home if you don't want to be out in this."

I follow her back inside. "I don't want to be out in this. But I'm not going to leave you here during a tornado watch."

She puts her chicken down into the animal pen and then turns back to me, hands out and open so I can hand over the other hen. I don't hand over the bird.

"Look, you say you're safe during a frat party next door. Fine. I'll believe you. You're an adult. But do you know what your apartment doesn't have?"

She props her hands on her hips and glares at me, wordlessly.

"Interior walls."

She makes a huffing noise of annoyance. "Your point?"

I hold the hen close to my chest, like I've been holding chickens my whole life. Spoiler alert: I haven't, but I am very good at bluffing. "If a tornado does hit, you and the birds have nowhere safe to go."

"I'm sure I could go up to Chad's house."

"Yeah, I'm sure you could. But they're having a party. Are you really going to bring your birds over there during a rager?"

"I—" She cuts herself off and snaps her mouth closed. "Okay, so what do you recommend, genius? I don't have any family in town. My sister used to live just down the road, but she just moved. And frankly, I don't know if her apartment would have been any safer."

She doesn't mention the possibility of going to her boyfriend's, maybe because he still hasn't texted her back from several hours ago. Or maybe for some other reason. Either way, I seriously want to punch the guy. Which makes it easier to ignore the twinge of guilt I feel when I hear the pang of loneliness when she mentions her sister. After all, it's my fault her sister is so far away.

"Obviously, I'm recommending you come to my place."

"Oh." She frowns like that hadn't occurred to her at all.

"As long as you'd feel comfortable with that," I add on quickly, as it occurs to me that that might be why she looks so surprised. After all, as far as she's concerned, we barely know one another. She doesn't know that I've developed a near-stalker-like fascination with her. And mentioning it probably wouldn't help matters. "Look, you can let someone else know where you'll be. Or whatever makes you comfortable. Or I could put you up in a hotel. I just don't want you here in this weather."

"I'm not—" She breaks off and snaps her mouth closed, like she's confused by the concept. Then she sighs. "But that still doesn't solve the problem of my birds. I'm not leaving without them."

"Obviously. Of course they'll come, too."

The look she gives me says it all.

When you're a lawyer, you get pretty used to being the butt of bad jokes and angry rants. You don't get many opportunities to feel like a hero.

Who knew that's what I was missing in my life.