Page 61 of Objection Overruled
The expression is pure Tessa: innocence wrapped in a challenge. It’s the same look she used to give me when she wanted a fight just to see if I’d rise to meet her. It’s the same look that made me forget every rule I ever wrote about staying composed.
“Are you watching, King?”
Her voice is soft but sharp underneath, teasing and testing in equal measure. The question hangs between us, loaded with every memory we’ve buried and each one that refuses to stay dead. The air feels heavy, waiting for the first spark to catch.
I don’t move. I don’t look away. When I finally speak, my voice comes out rougher than I intend.
“Trying to figure out if this is strategy or self-sabotage.”
Strategy would be safer. Strategy I can counter with logic and planning. But if this is just Tessa being Tessa—impulsive, reckless, beautiful in ways that undo me completely—then I’m in trouble.
“Why not both?”
She leans forward to grab her lip balm, the movement slow and careless, the neckline of her dress dipping just enough to steal my breath. Her perfume drifts through the car, a mix of vanilla, citrus, and something that belongs only to her. I haven’t been able to forget that scent, no matter how many years I’ve tried.
The smell brings everything back. Late nights in her dorm room. Her laugh against my throat. The way she used to curl intome after we’d argued about case law for three hours straight, sleepy and warm and mine in ways that felt permanent.
I should have known then that she’d destroy me.
Her gaze flicks down, brief but unmistakable, to my lap. To the evidence of just how thoroughly she still affects me. The shift in fabric. The tension in my body. The proof that years of silence haven’t erased what we were.
I don’t flinch. I don’t explain. I don’t offer her an apology for being human. She wanted proof that she still matters, that she can still reach me, and now she has it. Every defense I’ve built is a wall she still knows how to climb, and she does it effortlessly.
Her eyes widen slightly. Her lips part. For just a second, the mask slips, and I see something raw underneath. Want. Fear. Recognition of what we’re walking into and what it might cost us both.
She swallows hard, the sound audible in the charged silence.
“Rowan—”
“You got what you wanted,” I say quietly. My voice is controlled, but there’s an edge to it. A warning. “Now sit back and let me get us there in one piece.”
She doesn’t argue. She just leans into the seat, folding her legs beneath her, trying to look composed while her breathing betrays her.
Chapter Fifteen
Tessa
My heart still hasn’t decided what it’s supposed to be doing. Beating too fast feels wrong, but stopping altogether might be worse. I keep staring out the window, pretending the trees are worth looking at, when really, I’m trying not to replay what happened earlier.
I shouldn’t have let it go that far. I told myself it was strategy, that selling this fake relationship meant leaning into it. But somewhere between unzipping my bag and pulling that dress over my head, I stopped acting.
The tension between us didn’t feel rehearsed. It felt old and familiar. Every glance, every silence felt like something we left unfinished.
Now, my skin is too warm, and my throat is tight. The air in the car feels heavy. I shouldn’t care what he saw, but part of me still wants to know if it meant anything to him. If any of it did.
The road curves ahead, and the Montclair Estate comes into view—tall windows, perfect symmetry. It looks expensive, and untouchable. My pulse stumbles as I stare at it. I tell myself it’s not fear, just adrenaline. It’s always easier to call it something else.
“Try to relax,” Rowan says quietly, eyes on the road. His voice is calm, but the tone leaves no room for argument.
“I’m fine,” I lie, because the truth sounds weak.
The gates open ahead of us, and my hands clench in my lap. I’m not fine. But there’s no turning back.
We pull up behind a line of cars waiting for the valet. My pulse still hasn’t slowed. Rowan parks and cuts the engine.
He gets out first. I take a breath and reach for the handle, opening the door before he can. He’s there anyway, offering his hand. I take it without thinking, my palm unsteady against his. His grip is sure, the kind that doesn’t waver, and for a second, it steadies me.
I step onto the pavement, adjusting to the heels I practiced walking in all week. His hand moves to my waist, a light touch, guiding. I can feel the warmth of it through the dress, and the small contact pulls my body into focus.
