“No. This is fine. I don’t want to block other cars.”
He seems curious as to why we’re parked in the hospital driveway and sitting here. I wish I had a better explanation for him, but I’m at a loss as well.
My phone buzzes on the seat. Leisa’s name flashes on the screen. I answer on speakerphone. “Don’t tell me.”
“Yep,” she replies, sighing. “She called court to order for nine thirty. Can you make it in time?”
Hospital personnel walk inside just as an older couple exits, but there’s no sign of Belinda. I check my watch. 9:03. Even if there was no traffic, I wouldn’t make it. “I’m across town. There’s no way.”
“How late will you be?”
The hospital doors slide open, and my gaze lengthens, locking onto blond hair that lifts in the wind and blue eyes searching as if she’s looking for me.
Tuesday.
I’ve been looking for the wrong woman.
My heart starts thumping in my chest in unwarranted anticipation now realizing that Belinda set me up.
“Loch?” Leisa’s voice returns as I open the door to the SUV. “Mr. Allendale is at the courthouse to meet his clients for a ten o’clock appearance. Would you like me to have him step in for you?”
“Yes. I need to go.” I hang up, get out, and shut the door.
Tuesday stands in stark contrast to her appearance at the coffee shop. Although she’s bundled up in her coat, the skirt dipping out the bottom, and the same heels I last saw her wearing, everything about her is softer, from the lines on the sides of her mouth to her stance and the gentle waves that run through her hair and over her shoulders.
She’s fucking stunning.
But when I catch her gaze, it’s like she’s lost—stormy clouds full of fear settling in. It’s a look that should never cross her face.
I start for her. “What the fuck am I doing?” I mutter to myself, tempted to run my hand through my hair. I don’t. I have court later, and I pride myself on always being put together, even under pressure. “Hi,” I say. “Not sure if you remember me from the coffee shop?”
She’s staring at me, and for a split second, I detect a hint of recognition spark in her eyes. “I, um . . .” She starts but is already shaking her head in doubt.
“Of course, not.” I’m shaking my head to let her off the hook. Stopping a few feet away from her, I continue, “It was a brief encounter. Before—”
“Before?” she asks, her eyes traveling from mine to my mouth, lower to my chest, where her gaze lingers, and then back up. Tilting her head, she studies me like I’ll give her the secrets to the universe if she searches long enough. “Before what?”
“Before you were mugged.” Touching the back of my head, I add, “And hit your head,” as if she needed the reminder. I shake my head for acting a fool. Why am I like this with her?
“Ah.” Disappointment is seen in the curve of her shoulders as she takes a breath and then lets them fall. Rubbing just above her eyebrow, she asks, “You were at the coffee shop?”
Holding out my hand, I reply, “As you know, I didn’t make my best first impression.” Not that she did either, but the impression stuck enough for me to be here today, behaving like an idiot. “I’m Loch Westcott.”
As she slips her hand in mine, our gazes fix together, and her smile encourages mine. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Loch. I’m Tuesday.” She smiles as genuine as I’ve seen on her. “You rode with me to the hospital?”
“It was the right thing to do.”
“Thank you.”
A flush of embarrassment floods her cheeks as her gaze lowers between us. “One of the nurses said you also stayed to make sure I was taken care of. Is that true?”
Despite how wrong she rubbed me, she was still beautiful the first time I saw her, but now, she knocks the breath from me. I look down at our hands still latched together and take a breath, finally easing in her presence. Her hand falls away from mine too soon and then she tucks both of hers into her coat pockets.
“How are you?” I ask.
A gentle shrug pops her shoulders before a weary smile hangs on her face. “Maybe you can help me.”
“I’d be happy to.”
Pulling a piece of paper from her pocket, she says, “I need to go to this address, but I don’t know where it is.”
Before I resort to another episode of the boyhood awkwardness she keeps bringing out in me, I offer, “I have a car.” I glance at the Escalade. “And driver. Brady. We can give you a ride?”
She glances at the vehicle parked ahead at the curb and back to me. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She hands me the paper, and I walk with her. Opening the door, I say, “Brady, this is Tuesday.” I offer her a hand up. “Tuesday, this is Brady. He’s been with me since—”
“Since he arrived in Manhattan,” Brady adds, nodding.
“Yes, five years now.” After giving him the address, I add, “He knows this city inside and out.”
I climb in after she’s settled on the far side of the back seat. “I appreciate it. I didn’t know how I would get there since my purse was stolen. I’ll repay you as soon as I can.”
“No need.”
Brady pulls into traffic, and says, “It’s not far from here.”
Because stress had my mind muddled, I hadn’t thought about who would look for her. I hadn’t made the connection that Nurse Belinda hinted to the need for me to be here. Until now.
Why did she tell me?
I hold out my phone. “Do you need to call anyone?”
“No.” Although the phone is within her reach, she seems determined to pretend it doesn’t exist and shifts her body toward the door, angling her knees away.
I’m known for my skill in analyzing my opponents and getting them to confess their secrets inside the courtroom. My talent extends outside of work as well. Women don’t stand a chance at withholding much from me. I can usually see it coming by their obvious tells—a lick of their lips as they stare at mine, desire darkening their pupils, and getting handsy with me.
But I’m struggling to read this woman. With Tuesday, I’m wading in unfamiliar waters. She’s got my attention in a tight grip, so I struggle to focus on the details of the situation.
There’s nothing for her to admit or confess. The bottom line is I’ll be dropping her off soon, and we’ll never see each other again. So maybe she’s playing this right, and I’m doing this all wrong.
Keep it casual. Stop acting like a kid with a crush. Remember how she owned me with her sharp tongue in the coffee shop. She knows how to stand on her own. That puts things back in perspective. “Glad you’re okay.”
That brings the bright coloring of her eyes back to me. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure this is the right address?” Brady asks.
Her head jerks back toward the window, her gaze rising to the top of the building. I expected to see a high-rise with a uniformed doorman decked out with epaulets crowning his shoulders. Or at the very least, a skyscraper leading to a company befitting her designer attire—high-powered meetings, even something creative like advertising. This place is neither of those.