I wanted more time to think.
While logically I get why Leary was so upset, and I can even forgive her for trying to make me jealous by saying she was going out with Ford last night, the one thing I can’t get past is the way my job and role in the LaPietra case trouble her. She’s upset that I’m defending this case and is having a hard time reconciling that with her personal feelings for me. She’s not easily handling that I wear two faces in this relationship.
And the truth of the matter is, if Leary was that upset over the adjuster failing to show at the mediation, what in the hell is she going to do when I pull out my surprise witnesses at trial, who will tear Jenna to pieces? She will never, ever forgive me for that. She’ll never be able to understand I’m just doing the job that I’m not only paid for, but that my ethical duty demands I do.
So I didn’t call Leary back because I’m not so sure we should continue. I’m not going to lie, I desperately fucking miss her. I couldn’t stand not having her in my bed last night. Couldn’t stand not waking up with her this morning.
But what’s the point of going back to that?
I’m just going to lose it again in a few weeks.
I have a decision to make, and nothing about this day has given me any further clarity on the issue. I’m wondering if maybe I should call Cal and talk about it with him. Or maybe even Ford.
I didn’t have a single qualm about Leary telling me she was going out with Ford last night. I trust her and him not to do anything. I know in my heart she was just trying to make me as mad as she was. And it worked for a bit, and then I recognized it for what it was—a failed attempt to hurt me so she could alleviate some of her own pain.
Just as I turn onto my street, my phone starts ringing. Because it’s hooked up to my Bluetooth, I hit the Accept button on my steering wheel, and the call connects through my stereo speakers.
“Reeve Holloway,” I say.
“Mr. Holloway, this is Rhonda Valasquez. I’m returning your call from last night.”
“Yes,” I say with immediate recognition. “Thanks for calling me back.”
“You said on your message this is about Dr. Summerland and a lawsuit against him?”
“That’s right. I represent Dr. Summerland and his insurance carrier,” I say by way of further explanation. “I’d like to talk to you about the case if you have a moment.”
She’s quiet a moment and I almost prompt her response when I see my house coming into view and Leary’s car sitting out front. Leary is sitting on my front porch steps.
Although my heart starts racing with a mixture of desire for her as well as anxiety over what we could possibly say to each other, I give my head a shake and turn my attention back to the phone call.
Pulling into my driveway, I stop the car and put it in park but leave the engine running. “Ms. Valasquez?”
“I won’t help Dr. Summerland, if that’s what you want,” she says abruptly.
I’m surprised by the venom in her voice, and I go on high alert. “No, I don’t expect that. I’m just doing some more investigation into this case and wanted to ask you about your nurses’ notes.”
“Is this about his surgery on Jenna LaPietra?” she asks hesitantly.
“Yes,” I say, my throat suddenly going dry. I glance over at Leary. She’s stood up from the porch and watches me as I sit in the car. “I’d love to talk to you. Maybe I can come by the hospital and we can meet on one of your breaks.”
She gives a wry laugh. “I don’t work there anymore. Dr. Summerland had me fired after that surgery.”
“Fired?” I ask in confusion.
“Look, I don’t have anything good to say about your client, Mr. Holloway. I’d appreciate it if you leave me alone.”
The click in my ear is resounding as she hangs up on me. She made it emphatically clear that she wouldn’t talk to me, and she was also equally clear that she has nothing good to say about Dr. Summerland.
That means it’s imperative I talk to this woman, and I’m just going to have to keep after her. I’ll get our investigator on it, find out if she’s working somewhere else or, at the least, get an updated and accurate home address.
Sighing with fatigue, I turn my car off.
Now it’s time to deal with Leary.
As usual, she looks completely stunning. It’s a brisk day for early November in the Carolinas, and she has on a cherry-red wool coat with big black buttons down the middle. Her hands are in her pockets, and she’s dressed casually, with a pair of faded jeans tucked into black riding boots.
I traverse the sidewalk toward her, and as I get closer she gives me a tentative smile and says, “Hey.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask her, my tone bordering on polite but flat.
She gives me a chastising look. “When you wouldn’t return my call or texts, did you honestly think I wouldn’t come?”
I brush past her and trot up the three steps of my front porch. Mr. Chico Taco starts his booming barks from inside. Fingering my house key, I struggle to maintain some emotional distance, but when I turn to look at her, I know it will be next to impossible to do so. Her soft-brown eyes stare up at me in contrition, and I fully accept her regret over what she did.
“Listen . . . come on in and we can—”
“Reeve . . . hey, wait up,” I hear from my left. Turning I see Vanessa jogging across her yard toward me, holding something in her hand. She’s wearing workout clothes—skintight leggings that come to midcalf and a sports halter top that comes to midstomach. The fact that she’s out in the cold wearing that tells me that it’s calculated.
She pushes right past Leary, still standing on my sidewalk, and bounds up the steps, her long blonde ponytail swinging jauntily. Her hand extends. “Here, I’m returning the sweatshirt you let me wear this morning because it was so cold out.”
I groan mentally over the insinuation in her tone, and based on the sly smile on Vanessa’s face, there’s no doubt she did this in front of Leary for a reason.
Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I see Leary heading across my yard for her car. Her back is rigid and anger radiates off her.
Pushing past Vanessa, I leap off my porch, and in three strides I have Leary by the arm. Pulling her around, I immediately start walking back toward my house. “Oh, no, you don’t,” I tell her firmly. “You came over to talk and we’re going to talk.”
She tries to pull away from me and hisses, “I don’t want to talk. It was a mistake coming here.”
I don’t let her go, and her attempts to struggle with me are futile. I don’t say another word to her but lead her right up the porch steps to my door and past Vanessa, causing her to have to take a step backward or get plowed over.
Grasping my key solidly in one hand and Leary’s arm in the other, I don’t even turn around when I say, “Vanessa, you can go home now. Thanks for bringing my sweatshirt back.”
I manage to deftly slide the key in, turn the lock, and open the door, all while keeping my hold on Leary’s arm, who’s still trying to twist and turn out of my hold.
Chico greets us at the door, but I push past him, dragging Leary along.
After the front door is slammed, I utter a curt “Sit” to Chico, who dutifully does so, then point to my couch and tell Leary, “You, too. Sit.”
Her eyes narrow at me and I glare back at her, keeping my finger pointed toward the couch. She doesn’t move.
“You can go sit, Leary, or I will make you sit. That will probably involve tying you up, but I’ll make it happen one way or the other.”
Her nostrils flare and I don’t miss the subtle darkening of her eyes, but she stands her ground. Leaning in toward me so I catch her fragrance, she whispers, “You can go to hell.”