And we’re back to the nose-to-nose thing. Except even in heels, Kennedy’s really short—so I have to dip my head.

“I’m getting the feeling you two know each other,” Judge Phillips interrupts.

Kennedy and I answer at the same time.

“Not really.”

“That’s right.”

I give her an exasperated look, then inform the judge, “We grew up next door to each other.”

Kennedy snorts and folds her arms. “In houses that were twenty acres apart—it’s not like we were roomies.”

“We made out once when we were teenagers,” I volunteer. “Then she broke my heart. It was brutal.”

Kennedy’s mouth drops open again. It’s actually a nice look for her.

If it weren’t for the murderous expression that goes along with it.

“I broke your heart! Ha! That’s a lie!”

I gesture with my hands and raise my voice. “You went out with William Penderghast before the saliva was dry on my lips!”

And before the come was dry on my stomach. But I keep that particular detail to myself, because I’m a gentleman.

Kennedy gets right in my face. “Because you were already back together with your raging bitch girlfriend!”

And the judge clears his throat. Again.

Oops.

“Yeah, you two definitely know each other.” He leans back in his chair, eyes going between the two of us.

Kennedy steps forward to his desk, so I can’t see her expression. But her voice is softer, and deliberately even. “We haven’t seen each other in almost fifteen years, Judge. So the truth is, we don’t know each other at all.” She shakes her head, just a bit. “Not anymore.”

Maybe it’s the way she says it—monotone—without a hint of anger or annoyance or even sadness. Or maybe it’s just that the words are true. But my stomach drops. It falls in that sharp, unexpected, yearning sort of way—that feels exactly like regret.

Judge Phillips looks at us for a moment longer. Then he spins in his chair, plucks a framed photograph from the shelf behind him, and shows it to us. “I have five boys. Even after the first three, my Alice was determined to get her daughter. After Timothy came along, she finally accepted that she’d have to be content with daughters-in-law.”

In the picture, Judge Phillips and his aging-pretty-damn-well-looking wife stand in front of a lighthouse, flanked by five dark-haired, twenty-something-year-old guys in light blue button-downs and jeans.

“You have a beautiful family, Judge,” I tell him.

“They seem like fine, upstanding young men,” Kennedy adds.

“They are. Now. When they were teenagers, they were destructive, hot-tempered bastards who loved to piss each other off.”

I grin, because he sounds just like Jake and his wild brood of McQuaids.

“When two of them would really get into it,” the judge continues, “I’d lock them together in a bedroom and let them duke it out. Sometimes I’d hear a crash or a thump against the wall, but for the most part they’d work out their issues. And more importantly—I didn’t have to listen to them while they did it.”

He takes his wallet out of his pocket and tosses a couple of twenties down on the desk. He looks at the pile, joggles his head back and forth, and throws out a few more twenties.

“That strategy worked out so well I’m going to use it with the two of you.” He gestures to the money. “Go out, sit down, get some dinner and maybe a few beverages, and work out whatever issues you have that are turning my courtroom into a circus.”

The judge’s plan scores me court-mandated alone time with Kennedy—so I like it.

She doesn’t.

“Your Honor, this is highly irregular—”

“Yes, it is, Miss Randolph, but I’m ordering it anyway. Watching you two swipe and spit at each other has gotten on my last nerve.”

“Judge Phillips, I can assure you—”

“I don’t want your assurances, little lady, I want a smooth-running trial.” He points again to the money on the desk. “This will get me that—so don’t even think of walking back in here on Monday until your and Mr. Mason’s issues have been hashed out.”

She stamps her foot. “We don’t have issues! You can’t—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” I take the money and grab Kennedy’s hand in an iron grip. “We’ll work it out. Have a good weekend, Judge.”

Then I walk out of the room, pulling her behind me like a stubborn wagon.

In the hall outside the judge’s chambers, she yanks at her hand. “Don’t drag me!”

“Then fucking walk,” I growl back.

When I feel her resistance lessen, I give her back her hand and she keeps in step beside me.

“He can’t do this! He can’t order us to have dinner! What the hell kind of medieval—”

“He’s the judge, genius—he can order anything he damn well pleases. And we’ve already ticked him off. Riling him up further won’t play out well for either one of us.”

“But—”

I stop short and turn to face her. I drop my voice lower, tempting and persuasive. “It’s one meal. One conversation. Then we put it all behind us and you can go back to pretending like I don’t exist. Isn’t that what you want?”

She searches my face.

I’m lying, of course. Because now that she’s back, here where I can see her and touch her, where I can talk to her and tease her, maybe even one day make her smile—there’s no fucking way I’m letting her go ever again.