“Christopher,” I said on a sigh. I tried to calm my heavy breathing, still out of breath from speed walking. Grabbing my arms, I attempted to rub away the cold. My strapless black dress was not appropriate for winter weather, even in Georgia.
“Sienna.” He dragged in a long puff of smoke and then exhaled. A thick white cloud billowed between us. Waving my hands, I stepped back and coughed. Probably just as he wanted, to create a divide between us. I still didn’t understand what his damn problem was with me.
My recently manicured nails dug into my palms. “Why have you been avoiding me, Christopher?” My voice was sharp and imperious, like a teacher berating a student.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
I stepped closer, so close if he breathed deeply his chest would touch mine. It wasn’t appropriate to get in a man’s personal space, but I had to know. “Why don’t you like me?”
He snapped his head back, narrowed his blue-gold eyes. The flash of blue in his eyes showed his surprise. Perhaps he was surprised by my audacity. But if he really knew me, he’d know I could be bold when needed. The blues in his eyes gave way to gold, reflecting twin pools of anger. “I don’t dislike you. I feel sorry for you.” He took a step back and smoked away from me.
Sorry for me? Embarrassment and pain seeped down to the hard concrete lot. Why feel sorry for me? I had a damn good life, thank you very much. A fulfilling career, a wonderful family, a great guy, and the best friends in the entire effing world.
A flame ignited in my stomach. Each puff he carelessly smoked stoked the fire in my belly. “Why?” I bit off, crossing my arms so tightly it pushed up my breasts.
His eyes dipped to my chest. He swallowed. “You’re the living and breathing example of Little Miss Sunshine. You’re so determined to block out the bad, you don’t see what’s going on around you.” He stubbed his cigarette and tossed it in the bin. “You think everything is perfect and wonderful and lovely.” He mimicked my voice, making me sound like a silly cartoon character.
“I don’t think everything is perfect and wonderful and . . . and whatever the hell else you said.” I waved at him.
“Lovely,” he sarcastically supplied.
“I don’t. I’m a second-generation immigrant. My parents both came from humble beginnings, yet they were able to provide for me and my seven siblings. We were rich in love but not much else. If I wanted something that wasn’t a necessity, I worked my ass off,” I growled.
“Sienna—”
“No. Be quiet and listen.” I jammed my finger just above his rib cage, and my finger nearly broke against his granite chest. “Now, where was I?”
“You worked your ass off.” This time the sarcasm was gone, and his already deep voice had gone deeper. The disdain had left his eyes, replaced by something else I was too worked up to analyze. Whatever it was had siphoned away the red-hot anger.
“Yes, I did. I graduated number one in my law school class. And you know what I d-do now?” My teeth were chattering. I needed to wrap this up pronto before I became a Popsicle.
He shrugged out of his black tuxedo jacket and flapped it around my shoulders like a cape. “You’re a public defender for the city of Atlanta.” He stepped closer to me, or had I stepped closer?
“D-damn right. Which means I don’t get to ch-choose my clients. Some are guilty, some are innocent, but all deserve a fair trial. Someone to look them in the eyes and let them know that they aren’t the sum of their mistakes. That they are worth something. Sometimes I’m their last hope, and yes, I’m their Little Miss Sunshine. I do it for them.” I jerked my thumb back, pointing to no one in particular, and then pointed to my chest. “I also do it for me. Because if I let the dark bleed through, I won’t be any good to my clients or to the community. I’ll be just another shitty lawyer shuffling through cases, treating my clients like a number. Just another shitty person who doesn’t care about the welfare of my fellow man.”
This time, he stepped closer. I was pretty sure it wasn’t me.
“You want world peace, Miss America. It’s admirable, but I’m not the man for the job.”
Despite his asshole response, I laughed. “I don’t need you to teach me world peace, Chris. I want you to teach me how to win. I want to help Keith when—”
“I’m not convinced Keith is the right man for you.” His voice was gruff and as bitter as the cold weather. He took a deep breath. “I mean . . . I don’t think Keith is going to be the man to make major changes for the community. He did okay in his first term, but he hasn’t kept most of the promises he made.”
I nodded. “You’re right. He hasn’t addressed the traffic problems, the pothole on Greenwald, or the stop sign needed on MLK Boulevard and First Street; and he takes forever to respond to emails. I’ll make sure he upholds his promises. Keith is a good man.” I rubbed my chilly arms again.
“If you say so.”
“I do.” My eyes bored into his. We were in a stare-off, and now that I had his very warm jacket that smelled of cognac and tobacco, I could stare at him all night. Not because he’s good looking, but because I want him. For my mentor. Nothing else.
“Fine, woman,” he growled.
“Yes!” I pumped my fist in the air. “You won’t regret it.”
“I’m already starting to.” He cracked a small smile, and the victory tasted even sweeter. I got Christopher Lucas to smile. After a few short seconds, he dropped his smile. “I’ll stay on for a few months, see how it goes. You’ll be my second, and I’ll teach you everything I know. But if I find something I don’t like, I’m out of here.”
“I’ll be the best mentee you’ve ever had. You’ll never have a reason to quit on me. I promise.” I stuck out my pinkie to seal the deal.
“Put away your damn pinkie, woman. I’m not worried about you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Look, I’m not sure what you have against Keith, but he’s committed and focused. Trust me.”
“Fine, sunshine.” He pushed off the wall. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death.”
* * *
Rain in Atlanta equaled chaos. People thought we’d lost our minds back when our city turned into the real-life version of The Walking Dead after three inches of snow—we’d really lose our big-city street cred if they realized that we were just as bad with rain. My foot stayed glued to the brake. Every couple of minutes, I inched forward on I-75. Nervous energy swarmed in my chest. Today was the worst day for rain or for me to be late.
My Bluetooth-enabled cellphone interrupted my streaming podcast. Christopher’s name flashed across the dashboard.
“Hi, Chris!”
“You’re late.”
I glanced at the dashboard. I had a minute. Technically, I wasn’t late. “Not yet.” But I would be by at least twenty minutes.
“I saw the traffic. You will be, sunshine. Thought you pinkie-swore you’d never let me down.”
Technically, we hadn’t pinkie-sworn. “I distinctly remember you swatting away my finger; therefore, nothing I promised the night of December eighteenth is binding in a court of law.”