Page 89 of Crash Course
Enough so that he hooked a U-turn, swung back for another look, and found his foot on the brake, slowing the truck to a crawl.
He might paint it a lighter blue like the one in his suite at the Friary. His mom called it cornflower blue and he liked the soothing warmth to it.
Out of curiosity, he pulled to the curb and shifted to park. The realtor sign had a QR code. Maybe he’d look. Just to see the asking price.
He had a place to live. One most would kill for. Except there were a whole lot of people in that home now. Each with their own quirks and habits and needs and—Jesus—he could never relax. In his own suite he’d hear people talking or in the hallway and it reminded him. Reminded him that things had changed. And they’d never go back to what it was before.
Maybe that was his problem. He wanted it back the way it was. Without all the people. Something that, in the grand scheme, didn’t have a lick to do with Maddy, Liv, and Lena, specifically. Cilla was right. It might just be too many people.
He sat back, let that sink in. These last few months, he’d beat up on himself. What kind of guy hates his brothers’ girlfriends for existing? That made him a class-A jerk. No wonder his father had been so hard on him growing up. Over and over, his brain railed on him. Warned him to be nice to the women. To everybody. To be happy for them.
Happy. Happy. Happy.
And he was. Down deep. He loved his brothers. He’d waste no time stepping in front of a train to save them. Every one of them.
He just didn’t want to live with all these people.
Resting his head back, he closed his eyes and smiled as relief took hold. "I’m not an asshole."
Well, sometimes he was, but not about the women. He simply needed space.
He opened his eyes, turned, and peered at the house. Not that he was in the market, but . . . investment property. He’d make it a vacation rental to cover expenses and then, when it wasn’t booked, he’d have an escape. A place to go for a break from cohabitating.
Yeah. Why not?
He scanned the code and pulled up the listing. Three bedroom, two bath, eighteen hundred square feet.
And a detached garage.
"Ooh-wee," he said. "You just want me to love you, don’t you?"
He took another gander at the house, put the truck in drive until he reached the driveway. At the end, all the way at the rear of the property sat the garage. Atwo-car garage where he could park the Stutz on one side and have a workshop on the other.
Working on nothing but pure adrenaline, Cruz dialed the realtor.
15
Delighted over theidea of owning her own office, Cilla breezed into the courtroom, inhaling the stale, closed-in air that she never minded because everything about this place charged her. Her soon-to-be-pled-out client, Donovan Jenkins, trailed behind.
There was something about a hundred-year-old building, the rich history, oiled benches, and towering ceiling that made her pulse thrum.
In front of her, the empty judge’s bench loomed. Large and imposing, its glossy finish caught the glare of the overhead light.
One day, maybe she’d sit there, presiding over her own courtroom.
Maybe.
Someday . . .
Making her way down the aisle, her heels clickety-clacked against marble, drawing the attention of Rick Bandy, who perused his notes at the prosecution table. Cilla pointed her client in the direction of the defense table and offered a cheery good morning to Rick.
Cilla had worked with him on several cases and had found him to be more than competent. Sure, there’d been the usual tricks—she’d busted him on all of them—but for the most part? Stand-up guy.
He stood, shook her hand, and they exchanged small talk about the long security line to get in the building.
Chitchat complete, Cilla swung her briefcase on top of the defense table, unloading her portfolio while waiting for the judge to come in and settle this matter. Then she’d be on her way. Done.
A familiar voice sounded behind her. Was that . . .?
