Chelsea shakes his hand with a huge smile. “I’m Chelsea McQuaid . . . it’s wonderful to meet you. Jake’s told me all about you.”

“Salacious lies, I’m sure.” He winks. “Sit down, sit down. Let me get you some tea, Marietta just brought me a pot.”

Once we’re seated, with our cups in front of us, the Judge tells Chelsea, “You are beautiful, my dear.”

And cue the blush. “Thank you.”

“Now, I must apologize in advance, Chelsea, if I say or do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I . . . forget things . . . very quickly and often lately.”

Chelsea smiles—and she’s more lovely than any of the saints on her church’s stained glass windows. “Don’t worry. If you forget, we’ll be here to help you remember.”

And for the fucking life of me, I don’t know how she’s gotten by without filing a shitload of restraining orders, or without gifts and cards and flowers clogging up her mailbox every day. Because as I watch her with the Judge, I don’t know how anyone could know her and not ridiculously, pitifully love her.

• • •

Later that night, Chelsea and I are back at her house . . . soaking together in the oversized bathtub off of her bedroom. She sits in front of me, her back against my chest, her hair pinned up, a few damp strands hanging down, tickling my face. She’s been quiet for a while now—only the sounds of the water rippling against the side of the tub disturb the silence.

“What if we lose tomorrow?”

My lips linger on her shoulder. “We won’t.”

“But what if we do? Will they”—her voice cracks—“will they let me see them? Have visitation?”

She turns around to face me and I choose my words carefully. “I know people . . . who can find out where the kids are. And I know other people who make IDs—passports and stuff. Good ones.” I trace my finger along her jaw. “So . . . if we lose, I’ll call those people. You’ll take out any money you can . . . and you’ll just go.”

“Like . . . to Mexico?”

I chuckle. “No. The glowing-white McQuaid skin would burn to a crisp under the Mexican sun. Maybe . . . Canada? I wonder if Regan would pick up French faster.”

Chelsea stares at me, and her eyes seem a shade darker. Deeper. “You would do that for us?”

My fingers splay across her soft cheek. “I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

And that fact scares the ever-loving shit out of me.

The water tips over the edge of the tub as she rises up on her knees, straddling my hips. We kiss for minutes that feel like hours. Her hand dips below the water, stroking me even though I’m already hard and hot in her palm. And when she lines us up, sinks down, it’s slow and gentle. My arms wrap around her, pulling her closer, closer, and I kiss her breasts, toying with her nipples with my tongue. Her hips rise and fall; I move within her at a steady, unhurried pace.

And when she spasms around me with a tender whimper, when I pulse deep inside her with a rough groan, it feels like more. Like everything. Like nothing I’ve ever had before and something I can’t fathom reaching with anyone else.

Chelsea’s head still rests on my shoulder long after the water turns cold. Eventually, we climb out of the tub, dry each other off, and fall asleep in her bed wrapped around each other.

24

Ten a.m. the next morning, Chelsea and I walk into courtroom 7-A in the Family Court of the District of Columbia. We take our place at our designated table; Stanton, Sofia, and Brent sit in the front row behind us. Chelsea is nervous but composed. And me? I’m ready and I’m hungry for a win. It’s the feeling I always get. No nerves—just eagerness.

The attorney representing the Children and Family Services Agency takes her own place at the table across the main aisle to my left, smoothing down the skirt of her conservative, well-tailored black suit. She’s a redhead in her forties who looks almost as confident as I feel.

The bailiff announces that court is in session and we all rise as the judge—a gray-haired, spectacle-wearing woman who, if the lace around her collar is any indication, is a fan of Ruth Bader Ginsburg—enters the room. She goes through the formalities—who’s representing who—then she asks me to begin.

“I call the director of CFSA, Dexter Smeed, Your Honor.”

Dexter Smeed looks exactly like you’d picture someone named Dexter Smeed to look. Round glasses; thinning hair; pressed, starched white button-down shirt; brown tweed jacket; and light green bowtie. He’s sworn in and takes a seat in the witness box.

“Mr. Smeed, have you ever seen Chelsea McQuaid before today?”

“No.”

“Ever met her, visited her home?”

“No.”

“Sent her an email?”

Smeed clears his throat. “No.”

I nod, taking it in. “Have you ever interviewed any of the McQuaid children?”

“No.”

I step out from behind the table and lean back against it. “And yet you felt qualified to override the recommendation of the social worker on the case, Janet Morrison—who has seen, visited, and interviewed Miss McQuaid and the children—to order the removal of custody?”

“I did, yes.”

“And how did you make that determination, Mr. Smeed?”

“I periodically review the files of all the case workers in my agency. The file contained all the information I needed. It’s my job to be critical. To determine who is a fit guardian”—his eyes scan to Chelsea and pause meaningfully—“and who is not.”