Meet Cute (Page 37)

I realize, as he drives the conversation, that despite how difficult his life has been these past months, he’s paid attention to me, to the things I want, what my goals are. And in a way, he’s acknowledging the sacrifice he believes I’m making in taking on the role of conservator for Emme.

So often these events are about posturing, everyone talking about how awesome they are and how many hours they work, how they’ve made partner and their amazing beach house in who the hell cares where. I’ve always been personally proud of my choices, aware I’d make better money if I didn’t take on pro bono cases. I could drive a better car, maybe have a nicer house, but Dax’s praise is the affirmation I didn’t realize I needed. And I fall a little bit more for him because of it.

Dax excuses himself twenty minutes before his panel, and I take the opportunity to freshen up in the ladies’ room. It appears every single woman at the conference had the same idea and by the time I get to the panel every seat in the front half of the room is taken, again, mostly by women. I’m forced to take a seat close to the back of the room. With only a few minutes to go the space fills quickly. I smile at the man to my right, trying to place him.

It takes a moment, but I realize he’s one of Dax’s friends from law school, and from the pictures I’ve seen in Dax’s house, I’m pretty sure he’s Felix.

I give him a courtesy nod.

“Kailyn Fangirl.” He cringes. “I mean Flowers. Hey. Hi. It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough, apparently,” I mutter.

“Felix McQueen.” He holds out a hand, giving me no choice but to take it. “I thought I would’ve seen Dax downstairs at the bar last night, but it looks like you’re keeping my boy busy.”

I hate that I have to tip my head up to glare at him, but I do.

“He’s a lot more relaxed this morning than I’ve seen him in a long time.” He waggles his brows.

My face heats with embarrassment.

“It’s a good thing, Kailyn.”

A woman in the row behind us taps him on the shoulder and whispers something in his ear. He laughs and murmurs his own response before the moderator announces the panel is about to begin.

I don’t have a great view from where I am thanks to the basketball player seated in front of me, but if I lean to the right I can sort of see Daxton. He’s eloquent and compelling, commanding the attention of the entire room, apart from the man sitting beside me.

Felix leans in close, the kind of close I would find uncomfortable if he wasn’t Daxton’s best friend. And maybe still do anyway. “I kinda owe you an apology.”

“You’re good. Dax already apologized on your behalf,” I whisper, eyes still on Dax.

“Yeah, but he’s pissed at me over it, so I figure it’s better coming from me, yeah?”

He’s not whispering, and a couple of people look over their shoulders at him, so I elbow him in the side. He lets out a loud oomph, drawing even more attention. Daxton catches the movement and cocks a brow, not at me, but Felix.

“McQueen, save it for the bar tonight,” Dax says with a knowing smile.

That gets a round of chuckles from the group.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Felix salutes him, but he remains silent for the rest of the panel, mostly playing a game on his phone or texting. He pauses once to ask a completely irrelevant question.

When the panel ends, a horde of women rushes the front of the room.

“Come on, let’s go get something to drink while he gets mobbed.” Felix tips his head to the door.

I don’t really want to leave Dax here with all the fangirls, but I’m also not interested in watching them fawn. “Okay.”

Felix smirks. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

“He’ll be okay, right?”

“Yeah, he’s used to this. You’ll just have to deflate his ego later.”

I chuckle and I gather my things, following him down the aisle. Felix is tall, taller than Dax even, so he waves, points at me, who I’m sure Dax can’t see, and makes a drink motion. It’s just shy of eleven, but the bar is already full of people taking early lunch and drinking pints like it’s college all over again.

Felix and I find a seat at the bar. I order a latte and he orders scotch on the rocks. As soon as the bartender is gone he turns to me. “Sorry I was a dick in law school.”

“Everyone was a dick, especially in law school.”

He swirls the scotch in his glass. “Yeah, but I sort of screwed you over hard, so I feel bad about that.”

“Why?”

“Why do I feel bad, or why did I screw you over?”

“Either? Both?”

“You and Dax were such rivals. It was … I don’t know. He was so obsessed with beating you, and kinda obsessed with you in general, really. I figured, what was the big deal if your assignment was handed in late and his wasn’t, you know? I didn’t think it would mess with your GPA so much that it would skew anything. Except it did. So, yeah, sorry for being a dick.”

“It was a long time ago. It doesn’t really matter anymore. Besides, I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“I still feel bad. We were real assholes, especially me, and I’m not sure I’ve changed all that much. Dax is different, though. He’s a good guy in a bad situation, so I’m hoping we can wipe the slate clean since Dax and I are tight and he seems to like you.”

“Consider it wiped.” My phone buzzes on the bar top and I glance at the screen. It’s Dax asking me to meet him in the room. “Looks like Dax is done with his fangirls. I’ll leave you to deal with yours, then.” I incline my head to a group of women standing not far away, two of which are looking in his direction.

“Being Dax’s best friend is as much a blessing as a curse.” He winks and downs his scotch, then raises the glass as the bartender passes.

When I get back to the room, I find Dax on the couch, shoeless with his feet propped on the coffee table, tie loose and the top buttons on his shirt undone. There’s another panel this afternoon and a dinner we’re supposed to attend tonight. Dax surprised me last night with a very stunning dress, and a pair of heels I tried on while we were shopping but decided were far too extravagant to purchase. Apparently he felt I needed them anyway. But based on how tired he looks, I’m not sure Dax is going to be up for leaving this room anytime soon.

“Is it too early to start drinking?” His cufflinks clink on the coffee table, and he drapes his shirt over the arm of the couch.

I check the time. “It’s after eleven.”

He drops his head back on the couch. “I should wait until at least noon.”

It’s been an emotional morning; the outpouring of empathy over his loss is heartwarming but also painful and exhausting for him. “Don’t we have a bottle of champagne that we never got around to opening last night? If we have orange juice, I can make you a mimosa, which I believe is completely acceptable before noon.”

He holds out his hand. “Come here first.”

I cross the room, still wearing my heels. A few of the girls I used to study with are here and want to meet up for drinks. I wasn’t sure whether Dax would want time with his own friends or not. It seems he’s far more interested in me over everyone else—although I’d attribute that in part to all of the condolences, and how it makes the loss feel fresh again.

As soon as I’m within reach, he takes my hand and tugs me closer. His eyes roam over me, his fatigue shifting to heat. He sits up, one leg on either side of mine, and runs his hands down the outside of my thighs. “You know what I need more?”

I thread my fingers through his thick, sandy hair. He really is absolutely gorgeous. It’s no wonder his panel was 90 percent women.

It wouldn’t have been difficult to convince people we’re just friends this weekend since I don’t quite fit the model type I’m sure most people would picture him with. And while he hasn’t come out and said we’re together, the implication is there in the way he speaks to me, and how attentive he’s been despite the barrage of flirtatious women who constantly surround him.

He plays with the hem of my skirt. “Did you need to check out my panty situation?”

“Mmm. I think I do.” He pushes the fabric up my thighs.

I’m wearing a pencil skirt, but the material has some stretch, so it slides easily, bunching at my waist. I’m wearing black hose with a lacy pattern that goes all the way to the waistband and obstructs the view of what’s underneath.

He pulls at the hose. “Are these expensive?”

“Not terribly, no.” I mean, they’re not cheap, but I have a good twenty pairs at home.

“Do you have more of them here?”

“I have a pair of nude ones.”

“No pattern?”

I shake my head.

“Hmm. I’ll be careful, then.”

I’m not sure how to gauge his mood. He’s intense, which I don’t mind in the least. It’s been good to see him like this, in his element with his peers, engaged in something other than Emme. Not that his focus shouldn’t be on her, just that his concern could be smothering if he’s not careful. She’s a teenager; they need privacy just like adults.