Stripped Raw by Prescott Lane Page A

laughing. “Sorry I’m late,” she says.
    I pull out the other earbud and eye my stepsister, who appears more frail than ever, like she lost ten pounds overnight. “What’s wrong? Where’s Zoe?”
    “I left her with Dad. I’m just tired.”
    “Then go home and rest. Why’d you come?”
    “You need my help,” Tessa says, starting to package some items for shipping. “It helps to stay busy. I’m not going to sit around and wait to die.”
    “You know I hate it when you talk like that.”
    Tessa exhales. “Did you hear from Kane again?”
    “Actually, he came by last night.”
    “You got laid?”
    “No,” I say, laughing. “But he was here pretty late.”
    “And you didn’t get any?”
    “He tried, but no.”
    “I’m so jealous.”
    “We talked, too,” I say. “You know those talks that last and last, and no one wants them to end?”
    “I remember those,” Tessa says wistfully. “You’re falling for him. It’s all over your face.”
    “I know! It’s ridiculous! I mean, I just met the man!”
    “I’m happy for you. This is just what your heart needs.”
    “I hope so,” I say, “but I don’t want it to get broken.”
    “That’s always the risk. Either you get forever with the love of your life, or your heart gets mangled.” The phone rings, and Tessa answers then covers the receiver. “Guess who?”
    He called! I grab the phone and shoo Tessa away. “Hi, Kane. I’m a little busy, but I can probably do lunch.” Tessa begins to bounce up and down, nodding her head. “Your office?” I walk to the front door and peer out. “You sent a car for me? My sense of direction isn’t that bad!”
    “Yes, it is!” Tessa yells.
    I look down at my cut-off jean shorts and off-the-shoulder t-shirt. I do a half spin and look at my rear end. It seems to have itself contained, for now. “Kane, I’m not really dressed for your office. I’ve been sewing all morning.” I listen a few more moments, noting the only decent thing about my outfit is my cobalt blue Tieks ballet flats. “Okay. I’m walking out the door now.” I hang up and grab my purse.
    “You have to tell me what he said to convince you,” Tessa says.
    “He said, ‘Every minute you spend changing clothes is one less minute I get to see you.’”
    *
    Fidgeting with my purse strap, I walk into the firm’s lobby, looking around at the furniture and spiral staircase, and at all the lawyers coming and going, leather briefcases in hand, the sound of penny loafers and stilettos echoing off the marble floor.
    As soon as I sit down, an older woman with blazing red hair comes around the corner. She is dressed to the nines and offers a huge smile. “Kenzie Scott?” I stand up and give a little wave. “I’m Mr. Hunter’s secretary, Mona. He said I should send you right in.”
    “Is he busy?” I ask. “I mean, I can wait out here.”
    “No, honey. You’re not waiting in the lobby. Mr. Hunter made it clear you’re not to be kept waiting. I’ll take you to his office. He’s finishing up a conference call.”
    Mona leads me through a maze of hallways, and I sense a few raised eyebrows along the way. I frankly don’t blame anyone for it. My outfit is more appropriate for a picnic or a walk on the beach, not a law partner’s office. Five minutes to change clothes wouldn’t have killed me! The car Kane sent would’ve waited.
    We come to a stop at the end of a hallway outside double wooden doors. Mona knocks and gently opens them, motioning for me to go inside. I peek in and find Kane on the phone at his desk with his back to the door, facing floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Dallas skyline. He turns and waves me in then holds up an apologetic finger that he needs one minute.
    I softly close the door. His office is as big as my apartment and impressive all around. There are hardwood floors and Oriental rugs, huge windows along two walls, bookshelves with diplomas and awards, a sofa and a coffee table. It certainly looks