Skinny-dipping by Claire Matturro

stir-fry to add a kick to the vegetables. Newly came back in the kitchen, wearing a pair of my tap pants in pale pink satin.
    â€œMy stuff’s all dirty,” he explained. “These fit a bit snug,” he said, grinning, “but look good.”
    Well, he did. Look good. He was a fine-looking man, though the pudge around his middle was gaining on his workouts, and the pink complimented his swarthy skin. Tall, dark, and handsome—in my pair of ladies’ fancy panties.
    Well, okay, I thought, grinning back and giving him a playful tug on the pink satin, then washed my hands and turned back to sauté the shiitake mushrooms.
    Newly circled me from behind as I slipped the sliced carrots in the broth in the iron skillet.
    â€œSmells good,” he said, his nose deep in my hair.
    I took a long slice of fresh ginger in my fingers and turned around. “Here, eat this.”
    â€œHot,” he said, sucking air into his mouth.
    â€œHot,” I mimicked, with a seductive tone and come-hither smile to underline the double meaning.
    Having obviously gotten Newly excited, though I wasn’t at all sure why I had done so, I deliberately turned back to my vegetables, sizzling now in the skillet, and flipped the carrots and mushrooms, the rising steam smelling of spice and earth and food. The snow peas would go in last, just seconds after I turned the heat off, to turn them a bright green from the last of the heat but leave them crisp. Newly hovered, and pressed, and touched. His hands reached under my cotton shirt and touched my bare skin. They were warm. I remembered Newly’s hands. Our history and my long dry spell conspired against my better judgment. I let his hands drift upward, his fingers gentle but sure as they tracked my skin and set off little sparks not wholly unlike those from the Chinese mustard.
    Long before I got the snow peas in, we hit the cold terrazzo floor in a hot, hard thunk that bruised us both, though we didn’t notice until the next morning.
    As always with Newly, I was never quite sure how it had happened.

Chapter 8
    Practicing law is like juggling a dozen raw eggs, and sooner or later every lawyer drops one.
    I heard the sound of splat coming at me.
    More precisely, I heard my faithful secretary mutter something like Madre de Dios, which I think is Mother of God, or Saints Preserve Us. I get them mixed up, but Bonita doesn’t blaspheme lightly and my antennae were up when she came into my office holding a file.
    â€œJackson’s brain-damaged baby case,” Bonita said.
    Splat, splat, splat, I heard.
    â€œI found the pleadings file on your desk when I came in this morning.”
    While I’d been playing around with Newly and was late getting in.
    â€œI was going through it, tagging...”
    â€œSpit it out.”
    â€œDid you know that the plaintiff’s motion for a pretrial conference is set for this afternoon?”
    â€œGood God,” I blurted, blasphemy coming easier to me, having been raised by heathens.
    Bonita handed me the top volume of the veggie baby pleadings file with the notice of hearing faceup, as if perhaps I wouldn’t believe her. I read it and handed the file back to her as if it were safer in her hands than mine.
    No way on this whole huge green earth could I be ready for a pretrial in that case in a matter of hours.
    The phone rang and Bonita eyed it but turned back to me.
    All right, think. That’s what lawyers do in tough spots. They think.
    No, in exigent circumstances, they file paper. “Has Jackson filed the motion for a continuance?”
    Flip, flip, flip.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIs it set for a hearing time yet?”
    Flip, flip.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOkay, good. File a cross-notice of hearing for this afternoon, same time as the pretrial, telling the plaintiff’s attorney, Stephen LaBlanc, and the judge and his judicial assistant that I’m going to argue the motion for continuance at the