Wednesday morning arrives with the inevitability of a train wreck you can see coming but can't quite bring yourself to prevent.
The Lucky Leaf is exactly as aggressively zen as I remember. Caroline's already here—corner booth, case files everywhere, wearing a sage green blazer that should be illegal in professional settings but somehow works perfectly on her.
She spots me and her whole face lights up. No corporate mask, just genuine delight that I showed. My wolf does its happy dance, and my conscience files for early retirement.
"Nice to see you again!" She gestures at the seat with one hand while highlighting something with the other. "I was worried my chart enthusiasm scared you off."
"It takes more than color-coding to scare me," I slide into the booth, hyperaware that in two hours she'll be sitting across from me in a conference room discovering who I am.
I should tell her now, I should feel guilty for keeping silent, but, right now, I can’t handle that.
"So I have to show you this brief I'm working on," she's already pulling out her laptop, completely unaware my stomach is staging a revolt. "It's for this custody case where the dad's lawyer keeps—wait, first things first. Beverage decision time."
The barista appears. Same deadpan expression, same visible judgment of my life choices.
"He'll have the ceremonial matcha latte," Caroline announces before I can protest. "With the lavender foam and edible flowers. Trust me."
"I'm sensing a pattern here," I say. "You order increasingly ridiculous drinks while I pretend to hate them."
Her grin could power a small city. "But you DON'T hate them, I can tell. You're a secret fancy latte enthusiast hiding behind black coffee masculinity."
Well… She's not wrong and I hate that.
The drinks arrive, with actual flowers floating in pale green foam, white syrup drizzled artistically, served in a cup that says "BOSS BABE".
Caroline watches me take the first sip with anticipation that's borderline violent. It's delicious, earthy and sweet and completely destroying my coffee credibility.
"You love it," she says with smug satisfaction.
"It's OK."
"LIAR," she pulls out her phone. "Okay, photo time, for my collection of 'People I've Converted to Fancy Drinks.'"
"Absolutely not—"
But she's already snapping pictures. Me holding this ridiculous green monstrosity, probably looking like someone's facing their execution but the execution is surprisingly pleasant.
"Perfect," she shows me the photo—I look simultaneously annoyed and charmed. "This is going in my 'Wins' folder."
"You have a folder for that?"
"I have folders for EVERYTHING. I'm a divorce lawyer, and organization is my love language." She's scrolling through her phone now, showing me approximately seventeen different color-coded folder systems that should be overkill but instead are weirdly impressive.
We spend the next hour like this. Her showing me cases, me offering input without revealing I'm also a lawyer who definitely understands the strategy she's describing. Flirting disguised as professional discussion disguised as flirting.
It's the most fun I've had in months.
"Okay, real talk," Caroline sets down her latte, studies me with those blue eyes that miss nothing. "Are we doing this, like actually doing this? Because it seems I like you but I also don't want to be someone's emotional crisis while they figure out their complicated situation."
The best decision here would be to be honest and tell her about Claire. But my damned nature of being Lysander Fenris tells me to shut up and continue playing that game instead.
"I'm figuring it out," I hear myself say instead. "But yeah, I'm interested. In you."
Her smile shifts and goes from playful to genuine. "Okay, good, I’m the same with you here. But Lys?" She reaches across the table, touches my hand. "I need you to actually figure it out. Not just say you're figuring it out while continuing to date someone else."
"I will."
She glances at her watch, gathers her files with practiced efficiency. "I have to run. Meeting at noon, big corporate thing, you know," she grins. "Wish me luck, as I'm going to be terrifying."
My stomach drops into my shoes. "Good luck with that."
"Thanks," She leans across the booth, kisses my cheek with warmth that makes my chest hurt. "See you Friday? Same time, different overpriced beverages?"
"Yeah, let it be Friday."
She slowly gets up, gives me what I understand to be her most charming smile—it's impossible to imagine anything more charming—and leaves, leaving a trail of perfume behind her. This scent will remind me of this moment, because in a few hours she will walk into my office—and the magic will disappear. Perhaps forever.
My phone buzzes. Claire: The conference room is ready. Caroline Montgomery's assistant confirmed she'll be here at noon. Are you heading back soon?
I stare at Caroline's empty seat, touching the lipgloss mark on my cheek that I should wipe off but don't. She kissed me. Caroline Montgomery kissed me an hour before walking into my office to negotiate.
This is going to be a spectacular disaster and train wreck. Spectacular something. I text Claire back: On my way.
The drive back to the office takes fifteen minutes, which feels like fifteen hours. I'm running through every possible scenario—how Caroline reacts, what she says, whether she's been playing me this whole time.
No, the surprise on her face when we collided was real. The rambling about briefs and bad breakups was authentic. She has no idea who I am, which makes this worse somehow.
I park, take the elevator, walk through the office where everything looks normal but nothing is normal and in thirty minutes my carefully compartmentalized life detonates.
Claire's waiting at my office with her professional mode activated. "She's early, already in the conference room. I put water, coffee, the presentation materials—"
"I'll handle it," my voice comes out rougher than intended.
She studies my face. "You okay? You look out of place."
"Fine, just ready to hear their pitch."
"Okay," she doesn't believe me but won't push. "I'll be right outside, but signal if you need me to intervene."
I walk toward the conference room where Caroline Montgomery is waiting, where in approximately thirty seconds she discovers I'm not just some guy who tolerates matcha beverages.
My hand touches the doorknob. My wolf perks up with interest, I’m walking into disaster with my eyes wide open.