She returns the empty glass to my butler, and with the practiced tone of a woman who was raised in a house full of servants, tells him, “Thank you, Harrison. We won’t be needing you for the rest of the night.”

Then she turns those blazing eyes on me. “Brent—I’d like a word. In private.”

I gesture with my hand. “Lead the way, firecracker. Where you go, I’ll follow.”

She leads us to my bedroom. And the second the door is shut, she slams me up against the wall. And tears my clothes off.

Which gives me all the motivation I’ll ever need to best her in court every day. ’Cause if this is how she handles it? There is no stronger incentive than that.

• • •

A few days later, at lunch with Jake, Stanton, and Sofia, I fill them in on Kennedy.

The three of them stare at me. Blankly.

Then Jake shakes his head a little, like he’s trying to clear his thoughts. “Let me make sure I have this right. You’re banging the prosecutor on your case?”

I swallow a mouthful of turkey club. “Yep. Well, sometimes we bang—sometimes we just hang out.”

Like yesterday—at Kennedy’s house, we curled up on her couch and watched a movie. She picked it out: Mad Max: Fury Road. And if I didn’t know she was a fuck-awesome woman before, after that choice I was completely sure of it. We cuddled and made out—she let me touch her boobs—which was hot. But that was it.

“Sometimes we talk . . .”

Like the night—after a thoroughly satisfying angry-screw—when Kennedy told me about those developments in the Moriotti case. They were big ones. The FBI caught some chatter of a threat against the prosecutor on the case. Kennedy. Moriotti put out feelers—a lucrative payment—to any lowlife scum who’ll take her out. This is pretty common in Mafia cases, to try and intimidate prosecutors from going forward. The agents don’t have any concrete evidence of a plan, but they’ve assigned her a federal marshal security detail just the same. Just in case.

“And sometimes we make sweet, sweet love.”

Stanton clarifies, “And it doesn’t affect how you’re trying the case?”

“Nope. We go at each other hard all day in court, then we go at it harder all night in bed. And nothing about it isn’t awesome.”

“And the prosecutor is your childhood friend, who you pretty much fell in love with when you were seventeen but didn’t see again for fourteen years?” Sofia asks as she runs her hand up and down her husband’s arm.

They’re getting along better these days, since the Great Compromise. Stanton agreed not to give Sofia shit about her unrestricted access to all our clients, as long as Sherman, their giant Rottweiler, was right next to her when she did. Needless to say, not a single client has even raised their voice above a whisper since then.

“That’s right.” I pop a french fry into my mouth. I’ve been burning a shitload of calories lately—gotta replenish.

Jake leans forward, still looking like he doesn’t quite understand. “And you want to have a relationship with her? A real one?”

I shrug. “We’re not exactly picking out kids’ names yet—but that’s where it’s headed, yeah.”

I’ve already got my list made out—and Waldo is at the very top.

“And Kennedy feels the same way?” Sofia questions.

I take a gulp of soda. “More or less. She has issues. I’m working on it. She’ll come around.”

Stanton rests his elbows on the table. “Are you sure it’s not just the thrill of the battle that’s making you so hot for her?”

I frown. “Definitely not—why would you ask that?”

Sofia carefully answers, “Because besides your parents and your therapist, we’re the longest relationship you’ve ever had.”

Huh. So they are.

Stanton nods. “Exactly. And you said she’s got ‘issues.’ So my question is—if you win, how is she going to handle not just losing her first DC case . . . but losing it to you?”

I haven’t thought about that too much; I’ve been preoccupied with all the awesome screwing. But I probably should.

Suddenly, I’m not so hungry anymore.

• • •

Later that day, I’m in Waldo’s office. It’s not our usual day, but he squeezed me in.

“You’re very quiet.” He regards me patiently from behind his glasses. “Quiet and . . . still.”

Like I said before, I usually think better on my feet. But there’s so much action going on in my fucking head at the moment, all I can handle is sitting on the couch.

I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “Do you really think I have intimacy issues?”

A light goes on in his eyes; the proud gleam of realizing that weeks, months, years of work is about to pay off—that I’m on the verge of an epiphany. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think it was true.”

I rub my beard, really thinking about it for the first time.

“But why do you think that? I have great relationships with my friends, my family—I’m a good boyfriend, a thoughtful, generous lover . . .”

He explains, “When it comes to your romantic endeavors, Brent, you make a concentrated—if unconscious—effort to maintain emotional distance. In your words, you keep it ‘light’ and ‘fun’ because you consider life too serious. You don’t seek out true partners, just women with whom you can pass the time. Imagine a frozen pond. You skate across on the surface, never even thinking to delve below to see if the foundation beneath the ice is solid. It doesn’t concern you, because you don’t plan on staying in one place long enough to let yourself fall through.”