So, yeah—not good.

“That’s all for now, Your Honor,” Kennedy tells the judge.

She smiles deviously right at me as she walks back to her seat behind the prosecution table. And when I inhale, that sweet, fruity scent gives me an instant semi.

Fucking great. Now I have to cross-examine Mrs. Clause at half-mast.

I take a deep breath and stand up, buttoning my suit. Then I smile warmly. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Potter, I’m Brent Mason.”

She nods and smiles. “Hello, young man.”

I step out from behind the table. “Mrs. Potter, did the detectives investigating this case tell you that your funds had been recovered?”

“Yes, they did, thank goodness. Harold and I were so relieved.”

“I’m sure you were. And they also explained that your money would be returned to you?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

I gesture to Justin, sitting meekly but attentive, in his schoolboy blue blazer and tan slacks, hands folded docilely on the table. “How do you feel about my client, Mrs. Potter? Knowing he’s just seventeen years old? Do you feel he should go to jail, that the rest of his life should be ruined because of one alleged adolescent mistake?”

Kennedy jumps to her feet—like I knew she would. “Objection! The witness’s feelings about the defendant have no bearing on the facts of the case.”

But this time, I’m ready for her.

“Ms. Randolph opened the door to the witness’s feelings when she asked about them in relation to Mrs. Potter’s discovery of the funds missing from her account, Your Honor.”

Judge Phillips takes a moment to consider, then sides with me.

“Your objection is overruled, Ms. Randolph.”

Satisfaction pumps so hard in my veins it escapes in a low ha.

Things go downhill pretty quickly after that.

“Did you just ha me?” Kennedy hisses, like a wet cat.

I turn, facing her full frontal. “No I didn’t ha you. That would be unprofessional.”

“I definitely heard a ha.”

“Then you’re hearing things, honey.”

Her eyes flare, then narrow sharply. She speaks to the judge, but her gaze stays trained on me. “I request that Mr. Mason be disciplined by the court. For referring to opposing council in a derogatory fashion—”

I step closer to her. “There’s nothing derogatory about honey. It’s a term of endearment.”

“It’s demeaning!”

“It’s admiring!”

“Which is neither appreciated or permitted.” Kennedy sneers. “As clearly ruled in Billings v. Hobbs.”

“You’d be right, if it weren’t for Probst v. Clayton.”

Our eyes clash. She steps toward me, breathing heavier. “Probst v. Clayton was overturned.”

I move forward—pulse pounding—until we’re practically nose to nose. “Dwyer v. Bocci, then.” And I murmur so only she can hear, “Suck it.”

Her eyes focus on my mouth. “Bite me,” she whispers back. Then, louder, “I’ll see your Dwyer v. Bocci and raise you an Evans v. Chase.”

And fuck, I want to kiss her. She’s right there; it would be so easy.

It would be so good.

Judge Phillips clears his throat, and we break apart. The room is dead silent—all eyes on us.

“Would you two like to be alone?” He frowns. “I could clear the courtroom.”

My gaze drops to the floor and I can practically feel Kennedy withering with embarrassment. “No, Your Honor.”

“Won’t be necessary, Judge.”

“Ah, you remember I’m the judge. That’s encouraging.” He picks up his gavel. “I, however, would like a moment alone—with the two of you.” His voice projects as he addresses the court. “It’s Friday, so we’re closing up shop early. We’ll reconvene at 9 a.m., Monday morning.” He bangs the gavel. “Adjourned. Miss Randolph, Mr. Mason, my chambers.”

Chatter and motion swamp the courtroom. Everyone stands as the judge vacates the bench, the spectators file out the door, and Mrs. Potter steps down from the witness stand—heading toward the hunched, gray-haired guy in suspenders who I assume is Harold Potter. She pauses as she passes me, with a twinkle in her eye.

“I thought for sure you were about to ravish her. I’ve read a lot of books, and that was just like a scene that ends with the hero ravishing the maiden.”

“I was closer to strangling her.”

The little old lady chuckles in a knowing kind of way. “That’s a different kind of book, sonny.”

I head to the judge’s chambers with Kennedy behind me—practically stepping on my heels. The bailiff closes the door after we enter. Judge Phillips hangs his black robe in the small closet, adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, then sits behind his massive dark-wood desk.

“Mr. Mason, Miss Randolph, we have a problem.” He sighs like a fed-up parent.

Kennedy jumps right in. “May I speak freely, Your Honor?”

“This is not the military, Miss Randolph. Say what you need to say.”

She points at me. “He’s an ass.”

“I’m an ass?” I choke. “What about you? You’ve been busting my balls since day one!”

Her mouth drops open in horror. “I have no interest in your balls!”

“Protesting a little too much, aren’t you?”