I cover my mouth with my palm. “Right. Sorry. Oh my God. I’m so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I just…you have no idea. Or you probably do. I didn’t think you’d be so tall. And you’re even better looking up close. I always thought you must wear contacts. Your eyes are so pretty.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I really need to shut up.”
He chuckles. “Your eyes are pretty, too.”
I crack a lid, and he gives me a lopsided smile as he plucks a Sharpie from my hand and scribbles on my knapsack. I’m never throwing it out, ever.
“Hughes, we gotta roll out,” someone calls.
He holds up a finger, then caps the Sharpie and passes it back. “I gotta get to class, but maybe I’ll see you around.” He winks and turns away, breaking into a jog as he catches a bag from one of his friends.
“I just met Daxton Hughes and he told me I have pretty eyes,” I say as I continue across the quad. A couple of girls sitting under a tree give me a weird look, but I don’t care. This is the best first day of law school ever. Embarrassment hits as I make a quick stop in the bathroom to prevent hyperventilating due to excessive excitement. I fangirled so hard, and he was so nice. And he touched me.
I always imagined that if I met one of my favorite celebrities, I’d act cool, be all casual about it, treat them like a regular person. Obviously I was very wrong about that.
I spend too much time in the bathroom making sure I look half-decent, and I’m forced to speed walk all the way to my building. By the time I arrive I have only two minutes to spare. So much for getting a good seat. It’s fine. Visualize success.
I enter the lecture hall through the back door, so I don’t have to pass the professor on my way in. I’m sweaty and disheveled as I scan the room. Only a few empty seats remain. I murmur excuse me as I shimmy down the aisle, forcing people to move their feet and bags. As I close in on the open seat, I approach a set of outstretched legs and mutter another excuse me. I’m so high on the awesomeness of my morning that I don’t see the messenger bag strap. I trip again, and end up sprawled over the set of legs.
“What the fu—” A takeout cup lands on the floor, and coffee splatters my face and shirt, a puddle forming under the seat I planned to take.
I struggle to right myself without putting my hand in the puddle of coffee. “Oh my God, I’m so sor—” For the second time in the past twenty minutes, I look up into familiar eyes. “This is like that episode from season two!” I’m careful to keep my voice down this time.
Daxton smirks, maybe remembering the episode I’m referring to. The one where the girl trips and falls into his lap and then they end up dating for the next three seasons.
Before he can say anything, the guy beside him pipes up. “Jesus, Hughes, can’t take you anywhere without some fangirl throwing herself at you, can we?”
They all burst into laughter, but Daxton rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a dick, McQueen, and move your damn bag. It’s your fault she tripped.”
He rearranges his legs and helps me right myself. I drop into the empty one beside him, throat tight and cheeks heating with embarrassment thanks to his friend’s comments. It’s too late to find another seat, and I’ve already drawn enough attention. People are staring and snickering. I have to adjust my feet and keep my knapsack in my lap so I don’t step in the spilled coffee. I’m so glad my hair is down today, because my face is on fire.
“Should we put bets on how many restraining orders you’re going to have to file this year?” one of his friends asks loudly.
My stomach twists and my skin feels hot and damp. My eyes threaten to water, so I dig my nails into my palms. The incident in the quad was one thing, but now there are all these eyes I can’t escape for the next hour.
Thankfully, the professor calls the class to order, and the snickering beside me quiets. At the end of class I keep my eyes on my bag as I shove my books back inside. A folded piece of paper drops onto my desk.
“See ya next week.” Daxton gives me a half grin and shoulders his knapsack, following his friends down the aisle.
I wait until they’re gone before I flip it open.
Exactly like season two ;)
Like a love-struck idiot, I carry that note around with me for the rest of the year and then tuck it away in my underwear drawer for safekeeping. Every time he says hello to me I practically swoon. When he arrives to class after me he sits behind me, and he smiles when he passes me on campus. And when the mock trials start up in class, we’re always against each other. It feels a lot like flirting.
But when it comes down to it, regardless of how friendly the competition seems, we’re all looking out for ourselves. So in our final year of law school when I go to him for help, I shouldn’t be surprised that he screws me over so he can have the thing I worked so hard for.
Fat lot of good all the visualizing success does for me in the end.
Chapter One
Blast from the Past
Kailyn
Present Day
The problem with temp assistants is that they don’t know the rules. Such as rule number one: Take down the name of the client before you book them an appointment. My regular assistant, Cara, is on vacation and I miss her so much right now. The only thing I know about my mystery client is that they’re a couple looking to set up a trust for their daughter. Pretty freaking broad. And I have zero time to call for details because they’ll be here any minute.
My mug is halfway to my mouth when my temp assistant throws my door open. “Your next client is here!”
Half a second later she’s ushering in a couple who look to be in their mid- to late fifties. A few steps behind them is a much younger man. A man I recognize.
The same man whose teenage self is forever immortalized on my It’s My Life mug. The mug isn’t particularly flattering, boasting an image of Daxton sobbing with the hashtag #mondayforever stamped under his tear-stained face.
I almost lose my grip on the mug. As it is, the liquid sloshes over the side and runs down my hand. Thankfully, it’s just water—yes, I drink it out of a mug. I like cups with handles. I rush to set the mug on my desk and wipe my wet hands on my skirt.
I guess my clients are no longer a mystery. “Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, it’s so lovely to meet you!” Shit. My voice is so pitchy.
I shake their hands as they introduce themselves as Craig and Evelyn, and then turn to Daxton, who’s only half paying attention since he has a phone in his hand and he’s clicking away on it. Probably plotting to take down another friend.
He’s still ridiculously gorgeous, possibly even better looking than he was five years ago. He’s filled out, the lankiness of his twenties giving way to a physique I’m sure he spends many hours a week staring at in a mirror while he lifts weights.
Beyond being attractive he has that magnetic appeal so many actors possess. It makes him the perfect lawyer. His beautiful face and commanding presence scream trust me. But I know better.
I hate that I can still appreciate how nice he is to look at. I wear a tight, practiced smile as I hold out a hand even though the last thing I want to do is touch him—okay, that’s a lie, I actually have a nervous flutter in my stomach. It’s annoying.