Author: J. Saman
Category: Contemporary
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/j-saman/page,60,558335-start_again_series_a_billionaire_romance_box_set.html
“Better you than Teen Wolf over there.” She gives an exaggerated shudder, nodding her head in the direction of a guy wearing sunglasses, a fedora, and more hair on his face and neck than I’ve ever seen in my life.
I can’t help but laugh at that. Claire is . . . well, she’s great. Even though great seems like an absurdly lackluster word to use when it comes to this creature. She’s smart and quick-witted, with the perfect amount of devilry. And she’s fucking hot. Long, thick, glossy red hair tumbles in soft curls down her back. Her skin is like porcelain, smooth and creamy with pink-tinted cheeks. Perfect bow-shaped lips are stained a deep crimson color, and when she smiles, her white teeth practically glow. But by far and away, her best physical attribute—other than her crazy sexy body—is her eyes. They’re anime-size big and a deep sapphire blue. Beautiful really doesn’t do them justice.
I lead her to the back of the line behind Luke and the girl he’s escorting. All the groomsmen are in black, and the bridesmaids are in purple, strapless, knee-length dresses. I can feel Claire’s body heat and smell her perfume, and I think I want this girl. Actually, I might just want her a lot.
“A grand says you forgot the rings,” Luke says with a cocky grin, and I roll my eyes, smugly patting the breast pocket of my jacket.
My empty breast pocket.
Shit. Panic slams into my chest with the force of a wrecking ball. Where the hell are the rings? I’m positive I put them in this damn pocket when I got off the plane.
“Ha,” Luke rumbles out. “I knew it. This is why Ryan should have named me best man.”
“Fuck,” I hiss, and Claire is snickering, not even trying to be quiet. I turn to Luke wide-eyed, before looking to Claire, hoping a distracted Ryan doesn’t notice our little conversation. He’s busy discussing something with a woman I hadn’t noticed before. “What the hell am I going to do?” My hands are flying around, digging through every pocket on my body.
Claire just shrugs, but doesn’t seem nearly as concerned as I feel she should be. As concerned as I am. Unless . . .
Just as music begins from the other room, and right before we start to move, Ryan turns to me with a wide grin. A very knowing grin. His green eyes are sparkling with mirth.
“Something wrong, Kyle?” he asks in that way of his.
“You fucker,” I snap a little too loud and that woman Ryan was just talking to throws a look of disdain my way.
Claire, Ryan, and Luke all burst out laughing, before Ryan opens his palm to reveal the two platinum bands that he must have swiped from my breast pocket when he put that damn flower on my chest.
Bastard.
“Here.” He hands them to me, and this time, I slip them into my pants pocket so that if one of them wants to try to snag them again, they’ll have to practically grope my dick to do so.
“Welcome to the show, baby brother.” Ryan winks at me, and I flip him off before turning to face the cream satin-covered aisle that is now splayed out in front of us.
“Sorry,” Claire whispers, clearly not sorry at all. “But you have to admit, that was a little funny. I mean, could you imagine being the asshole who lost the rings? It would have been epic.”
I look over to her and shake my head. “Yeah, considering I just about had a heart attack, I don’t particularly find it that funny.” Okay, in retrospect, it’s a bit funny. I swear, only Ryan and Luke throw me off my game like this.
“Kyle Smile,” she sighs. “If we’re going to be BFFs, then you have to learn to roll with the punches a bit better.”
“Huh?”
“BFFs,” she repeats slowly, like I’m a small child. “Best friends forever. Didn’t you go to high school? Anyway, I’m an awesome friend, and since you’re the best man and I’m the maid of honor, it’s really the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Friends, huh?” I raise an eyebrow to her. “A friend would have given me a heads-up on the ring prank.”
“Maybe,” she muses with a tilt of her head. “But considering it was my idea in the first place, I really couldn’t.”
“It was your idea?” I say incredulously, my eyebrows hitting my hairline.
She gives me a hip bump, winking one large blue eye at me. “Yeah. It was all me. But Ryan wasn’t exactly opposed to the idea.” I just scowl at her. “How’s this then, I’ll make it up to you?”
“Oh yeah?” I smile wide, unable to stop myself. “How are you gonna do that?”
“Well, it won’t be easy. But I’ve got all night to think of something. And unfortunately for you, it won’t be anything naughty.”
“That is unfortunate,” I whisper as we move slowly down the aisle to the cords of Pachelbel’s Canon. “I’m not so easily won over, you know.”
“That’s what they all say before they’re begging me to be their friend for life.”
“Is that a dare?” I smile, pulling her into me just a bit closer before I’m forced to release her.
“Kyle, babycakes, it’s a promise.” I chuckle lightly, shaking my head. I kiss her hand and then let my new friend, Claire, go so we can watch our loved ones get married.
But I think she’s right. Our brief encounter has only made me want more of her. More than just tonight. And the sad reality is, she’s Ryan’s assistant. And Kate’s best friend. And I’m leaving tomorrow at first light. I can’t sleep with this woman and run. There’s just too much here for that.
Suddenly I’m hit with an odd sense of irony. I might have just met my first real female friend. And that’s all she can ever be.
1
Kyle
Almost ten months later
* * *
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?” Judge Harold Smith asks the foreman. This is the moment all lawyers get off on. It’s the buzz that builds in our blood, pumping out the perfect cocktail of anxiety-filled anticipation and suspense-filled adrenaline. It’s heady, and no matter how many times I’ve stood here and waited on the simple words to slip from the judge’s mouth, it never gets old.
I draw in a deep breath through my nose, savoring the ever-present aroma of orange-scented wood cleaner, perfume, and guilt. The crowded courtroom falls silent, a minor miracle considering how boisterous they’ve been since the onset of this trial.
“We have, Your Honor,” the portly, balding foreman says with a slight waver to his thick Brooklyn accent.
My client is standing beside me, waiting on a verdict that he seems pretty damn confident about. I’d love to think that his confidence stems from my brilliant legal prowess, but I know better and so does he. Sure, I tried the case well. I punched holes in every piece of evidence the prosecution set forth. I created enough reasonable doubt in their case that he should walk away a free man.
But that’s not what has him suppressing his grin.
No, I’d bet my guilty-as-fuck client has used coercion and intimidation in addition to my expertise. Franco Rovelo is being tried for murder, attempted murder, extortion, attempting to bribe public officials as well as a myriad of other felonies. But because he’s the premier mob boss of New York, he’s ensured that he’ll never spend one day in prison.
I am still very new at this. I’ve only been practicing law for two years. But that doesn’t mean I’m not really good at my job. I am. I’m really freaking good. Which is why I was given this shot. It’s why the partners trusted me. This is a make-or-break case for my career, and I worked my ass off on it. My firm is extremely sought after, and my caseload is increasingly busy, filled with the wealthiest scum to ever crawl the earth. If I keep this up, I may even make partner in the next five years. That’s a pretty big deal.
So, why am I not celebrating this victory? Why am I not trying as desperately as my client is to hold back my smarmy smile?
Because this piece of shit is, as I said, guilty as fuck, and I’m helping him to walk off scot-free.
Sure, you could make the case that if not me, someone else would be defending him. You could say that everyon
e is entitled to a defense as guaranteed by the Constitution. That it is up to the prosecution to prove guilt, and it’s simply my job to show reasonable doubt. I don’t even have to prove innocence.
And in this particular case, that would be impossible.
The honorable Judge Smith takes the ruling the jury has dictated, reads it over, and says, “In the case of the State of New York versus Franco Rovelo, the jury unanimously finds the defendant not guilty on all charges.” The courtroom erupts into simultaneous cheers of joy and cries of outrage to the point where the judge has to bang on his gavel and yell for order just like they do on television.
I turn to my defendant, who is hugging his wife, Gloria, and wait my turn to shake his hand. After he’s done kissing, hugging, and reassuring, he stands up to his full height—a good three inches shorter than me—and reaches out his thick, meat hook of a hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Grant,” Franco says in his Italian accent, which is probably fake, considering he was born and raised in the Bronx. “You did an excellent job. I shall refer you to every one of my associates,” he leans in to whisper, “when they require your services.”
“Thank you, Franco,” I say, not bothering with the formality of his surname. “Congratulations on the verdict. I am so pleased for you and your family.”
I get a tight nod for that and a half smile, because no doubt the son of a bitch can see through my façade.
He turns and leaves hastily, his wife under one arm, his eldest son under his other. I watch them go, trying to find comfort in the fact that his family hasn’t lost their patriarch. That his wife has her husband, and his son has his father. But I’m still left cold.
I shake hands with the dismayed district attorney who can’t even be bothered to congratulate me or make eye contact. That’s fine. She’s not my favorite person either.
I’m about two steps toward the exit when I hear my name over the buzz of the lingering crowd.
I spin around on my eight-hundred-dollar, Italian leather shoes to see one of the partners of the firm, my direct boss, Ty Jones. Ty is one of the top defense attorneys in the world. He’s also my mentor, and I’d be lying my ass off if I didn’t say that I love the asshole.
“Hey, Ty.” We give each other a hearty handshake followed by him slapping my back. “I didn’t know you were going to be here for the verdict.”
“Had to see my protégé in action, didn’t I?” He gives me a self-satisfied grin. “Congratulations on the NG.” He calls a not-guilty verdict NG, in case you missed that one. “Excellently fought and won.” His deep brown eyes light up, no doubt thinking about all of the publicity and new clientele this not-guilty verdict will bring the firm.
“Thank you. It was a great win.”
We make our way to the exit together, most of the courtroom having cleared out. “With a difficult client,” Ty adds, slapping my back once again. “The other partners are very happy with your work, Kyle. Keep this up and we’ll be seeing your name on our letterhead soon.”
I nod my thanks, but don’t offer anything else. I’ve heard this speech before. So has every other associate and junior partner after a win.
“You heading back to the office?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ve got an appointment uptown.”
Ty smiles wider, showcasing a set of perfectly straight white teeth that seem to glow against his dark skin. “Going to meet your latest girl?” he teases. “What’s this one’s name again? Marti, Maddison?”
I roll my eyes at him, only making him laugh harder. Ty has been married for thirty years to a former model, and they have six kids together. He wears five-thousand-dollar suits and drives his hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes to his beach house in the Hamptons after defending celebrities and some of the toughest cases out there. But for some reason, he gets his kicks by giving me shit about my love life. Or lack thereof.
“It was Margaret, and we’re done.”
“So soon,” he mocks, making a tsking sound as he shakes his head, feigning dismay. “What went wrong this time?”
I shrug. “Same as always. I work too much,” I grin at him, and he laughs out loud and hard, slapping a hand on my back once more as we make our way through the throngs of people lining the courthouse hallways.
“Well, I’m glad you do, Kyle. You’re my ace in the hole.”
I leave Ty on the steps of the courthouse, push through the waiting paparazzi with a few small comments about justice being done and hop in a waiting cab, to head all the way uptown to see my doctor. This sort of appointment is not something I’d ever share with Ty, or anyone else for that matter, and since I’m always scheduling these appointments last minute around work, I’m cutting it close on time.
Just as we set off, my phone rings. I smile the second I see the picture staring up at me. “Hiya, cupcake,” I breathe into the phone, all of my stress starting to melt away as I hear Claire’s voice through the phone.
“How’d it go? Did you kick some serious ass?”
I smile wider, leaning back a little in the seat. “I did,” I tell her.
She laughs. “I knew you were just being modest or superstitious or whatever the hell you call your crazy, I’m going to lose,” she mocks my voice, “nonsense. I mean, you always freaking win, so why bother with that crap?”
“Because I’m modest or superstitious or whatever the hell you want to call my crazy nonsense.”
She sighs, and I know she wants to ask me about my case, but won’t. We’ve already had that discussion. And the truth is, I don’t want her to know about Franco Rovelo. I usually tell her about my other cases, but this one is different. And I refuse to think too deeply on why.
“Where you headed now? Back to the office?”
“Yes,” I lie. Yet another thing I’m not telling her about.
“Awesome. Dude, thank you so much for bailing me out with my date last night. That guy was a total letch and just wouldn’t take my not-so-subtle hints.”
“I’d love to say that’s what friends are for, but I think that’s really more what your female friends are for.”
I was in my office last night when my phone pinged a text from her.
Claire: Code Red. I need your help! Now!!!
Me: What up? I’m working on a motion.
Claire: You can work your motions later. I need you to call me and tell me that my house is on fire or that there is some sort of emergency that requires my presence this very second. Something. Anything. Now!
Me: Um . . .
Me: You don’t live in a house and I can’t think of any emergency off the cuff.
Claire: Jesus, do I have to hold your hand? It doesn’t freaking matter what it is. Just. Call. Make it good, babycakes. Kisses.
So, I did.
In the months since Ryan’s wedding, Claire and I have talked or texted nearly every day. Sometimes it’s just a quick hello. Sometimes it’s for hours, but that’s rare since I don’t have a lot of time.
She’s become my guilty pleasure in a purely platonic sort of way.
Because that’s what we are. Friends.
She made that shit clear the first night I met her.
“I gotta run,” I tell her as we draw closer to my destination. “Go do something productive with your day.”
“Later, skater.” She hangs up, and my smile lingers for approximately three minutes until the cab stops.
I step out right in front of the medical office building of the hospital. I’m late. Only five minutes, but by the time I get upstairs to the office, the receptionist is going to be pissed. I’m practically panting when I reach my floor. The elevator was maddeningly slow, stopping on every goddamn floor it could before it reached mine.
“I know, I know,” I say to Helen, the receptionist, who’s scowling at me like I’m screwing up her entire day by showing up ten minutes late. I get it, though. I can’t stand it when people are late. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Go sit down, he’ll be with you shortly.”
“Did my blood work come in?” I ask before I leave her.
“It did.” I get a genuine smile for that, her dark brown eyes standing out against the light color of her hair. “Go have a seat,” she says sweetly, my tardiness forgiven.
Before my ass can hit the leather, the nurse is calling my name. Apparently being late means I don’t have to wait. She checks my height, weight, and vital signs, but once she takes my temperature, she frowns.
“You have a fever,” she says, looking at the screen of the ear thermometer in her hand.
“I do?” I ask, surprised. I don’t feel sick. Maybe a little run down, but that’s sort of par for the course with me.
“Yeah,” she says, flipping the thing around so I can see the screen as well. “100.8.”
“Oh.” I don’t really have a response for that. It’s not exactly a high fever, but it’s definitely something.
“I’ll let Dr. Winters know you’re here.” Her tone morphs back into professional mode as she leaves me to sit on the hard pleather bed with the white paper crinkling beneath me, wearing only my gray boxer briefs and a stupid paper gown.
A shudder runs up my spine as my skin pebbles with chills. Maybe I do have a fever.
I don’t have to wait long before the surly, middle-aged man, wearing his standard starched white lab coat, khakis, and frameless glasses hanging low on the bridge of his nose, walks in. I’ve never seen the man smile in all the years I’ve been coming to him, but I guess when you work in hematology and oncology, there isn’t a whole lot to smile about.
“Kyle, it’s good to see you,” he says, sitting down on one of those rolling stools before rolling himself over to the computer on a nearby desk.
“You too, Dr. Winters. How’ve you been?”
He gives me a nod as he types in his password and pulls up my chart. I’ve been coming to see Dr. Winters since I moved to New York to attend NYU as an undergraduate. That was ten years ago. When I first met him, I was still considered to be in remission from the double run of leukemia I had as a kid.