possible that it had given her back some humanity? Allowed her to see past the thrill of the attack, the gratification of winning, and focus on the living, breathing people affected by her legal expertise?
She’d never gotten personally involved with a client. Didn’t care if they were innocent, guilty, or somewhere in between, because it didn’t matter. Determining innocence or guilt, fairness or injustice, wasn’t her job. Representing her clients, winning cases, that’s what she got paid to do. And she did it well, because losing wasn’t built into her DNA.
But when she thought of Red River’s kind seamstress who wore a permed bob twenty years out of date, and the rotund pastry shop owner who had hollered a loud hello to pedestrians with a distinct German accent, and Cooper Wells, DC—even if he had made her go out with Simon the chess team captain in eleventh grade—and . . . and . . . Gah! And Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some, who made the local elderly women feel like they were beauty pageant contestants, well, it just didn’t feel like a victory at all. It felt like shit.
She polished off most of the wine and sulked at the powdered mountain peaks.
A hacking sound broke the spell, and her head swiveled toward it just as Blake rounded the side of the house, swinging a machete with his gloved hands. He stopped and took her in.
“Hi,” she finally said, curling the wine glass against her chest.
His chin hitched up a fraction. “Hi.”
The wine fogging her senses, she drank in his masculinity. A pair of faded Levi’s with a frayed hole in one knee fit him to perfection. He was earthy and powerful in a red flannel shirt, unbuttoned with a white T-shirt underneath, and suede-leather hiking boots. So the opposite of Gabriel’s polished appearance, which usually entailed wearing Armani on at least one part of his body at all times.
Blake just stared right back at her, and she wanted to know what he was thinking. About her. Wait. No, no. She probably didn’t want to know, because they probably weren’t nice thoughts.
“All the poison oak out front is gone. I bagged it and put it in the trash at my place. There’s just a little left back here.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “I didn’t hear you out front. I was working on the case.”
His expression dimmed a shade.
Hell’s bells. Why’d she have to bring it up? She glanced down at her glass. The wine. Definitely the wine.
“How’s the medication working, Ms. Barbetta?”
Right. Formality. Got it.
“It’s easing the discomfort. Thanks.” Fidgeting with her glass, she downed the rest. “Um, would you like a glass of wine? It’s the least I can do.”
“I haven’t eaten yet, so I better not drink on an empty stomach.” He gave the machete an absentminded swing, grazing the grass with its tip.
“Okay, well.” Were her words slurring? “I haven’t eaten either.” Probably why her words were slurring. “I was just about to throw together some shrimp linguini.” She was? Yes, of course she was. She’d bought all the groceries she’d need for at least two weeks, she just hadn’t actually planned out when to cook it all. “It won’t take long, and I’m not a bad cook. Not as good as my Italian mom or grandmother, mind you, but I know my way around a kitchen.” She bit her lip, the only way she could stop the incessant rambling. And jeez, it hurt. “Um, would you like to join me?” Seriously? Had she just invited a man who disliked her to the bone inside for dinner? A man she was going to have to squash like a bug in court.
Oy vey.
Something flickered across his face, then disappeared.
“You know what, it’s okay.” She stood and raised one palm toward him. “Bad idea. Sorry—”
“Yes.” He stood still as a marble statue, the faint rise and fall of his solid chest his only movement. Except his ridiculously blue eyes. Those babies skimmed down her legs before returning to meet her gaze.
“Um, what?”
“Yes, I
She’d never gotten personally involved with a client. Didn’t care if they were innocent, guilty, or somewhere in between, because it didn’t matter. Determining innocence or guilt, fairness or injustice, wasn’t her job. Representing her clients, winning cases, that’s what she got paid to do. And she did it well, because losing wasn’t built into her DNA.
But when she thought of Red River’s kind seamstress who wore a permed bob twenty years out of date, and the rotund pastry shop owner who had hollered a loud hello to pedestrians with a distinct German accent, and Cooper Wells, DC—even if he had made her go out with Simon the chess team captain in eleventh grade—and . . . and . . . Gah! And Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some, who made the local elderly women feel like they were beauty pageant contestants, well, it just didn’t feel like a victory at all. It felt like shit.
She polished off most of the wine and sulked at the powdered mountain peaks.
A hacking sound broke the spell, and her head swiveled toward it just as Blake rounded the side of the house, swinging a machete with his gloved hands. He stopped and took her in.
“Hi,” she finally said, curling the wine glass against her chest.
His chin hitched up a fraction. “Hi.”
The wine fogging her senses, she drank in his masculinity. A pair of faded Levi’s with a frayed hole in one knee fit him to perfection. He was earthy and powerful in a red flannel shirt, unbuttoned with a white T-shirt underneath, and suede-leather hiking boots. So the opposite of Gabriel’s polished appearance, which usually entailed wearing Armani on at least one part of his body at all times.
Blake just stared right back at her, and she wanted to know what he was thinking. About her. Wait. No, no. She probably didn’t want to know, because they probably weren’t nice thoughts.
“All the poison oak out front is gone. I bagged it and put it in the trash at my place. There’s just a little left back here.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “I didn’t hear you out front. I was working on the case.”
His expression dimmed a shade.
Hell’s bells. Why’d she have to bring it up? She glanced down at her glass. The wine. Definitely the wine.
“How’s the medication working, Ms. Barbetta?”
Right. Formality. Got it.
“It’s easing the discomfort. Thanks.” Fidgeting with her glass, she downed the rest. “Um, would you like a glass of wine? It’s the least I can do.”
“I haven’t eaten yet, so I better not drink on an empty stomach.” He gave the machete an absentminded swing, grazing the grass with its tip.
“Okay, well.” Were her words slurring? “I haven’t eaten either.” Probably why her words were slurring. “I was just about to throw together some shrimp linguini.” She was? Yes, of course she was. She’d bought all the groceries she’d need for at least two weeks, she just hadn’t actually planned out when to cook it all. “It won’t take long, and I’m not a bad cook. Not as good as my Italian mom or grandmother, mind you, but I know my way around a kitchen.” She bit her lip, the only way she could stop the incessant rambling. And jeez, it hurt. “Um, would you like to join me?” Seriously? Had she just invited a man who disliked her to the bone inside for dinner? A man she was going to have to squash like a bug in court.
Oy vey.
Something flickered across his face, then disappeared.
“You know what, it’s okay.” She stood and raised one palm toward him. “Bad idea. Sorry—”
“Yes.” He stood still as a marble statue, the faint rise and fall of his solid chest his only movement. Except his ridiculously blue eyes. Those babies skimmed down her legs before returning to meet her gaze.
“Um, what?”
“Yes, I
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