“Stop scowling,” his mother said. “I like Rick so I expect you to be polite. One day you’ll meet someone who makes your heart sing and you’ll realize that life isn’t meant to be lived alone.”
Annoyed at the concession he’d been forced to give, he folded his arms across his chest. “I like to be alone.”
“He has a daughter . . .”
“Mom . . .” Thirty-four years old, CEO of his own company, and his mother was still trying to set him up. “I’m busy building something great. The last thing I’m interested in right now is a relationship, and especially not with the daughter of a man who can’t even sit in a car.”
His mother didn’t understand that being at the top meant he could finally breathe. It meant that when the time finally came to have a family, his children would never have to wonder where their next meal would come from or where they would be sleeping at night. It meant that if someone got sick, he could pay for the best medical care. It meant security, and that was all he’d ever wanted.
“It’s not just about a relationship,” she said softly. “It’s about love.”
“I don’t need love.”
“Everyone needs love.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Especially you.”
? 5 ?
Compared to Zara’s previous law firms, Cruz & Lovitt was barely a blip on the Bay Area legal scene. With only two partners, three associates, and a handful of staff, the boutique personal injury firm couldn’t afford financial district rents. Instead, the partners had converted the loft of a historical residence in Lower Potrero into a unique modern office space. Zara loved the exposed brick walls and wide-plank wood floors that ran through the reception and kitchen area. Bright, airy meeting rooms had been converted from former bedrooms, and her spacious office had once been a dining room. Furnished with a large black leather couch, reclaimed-wood shelving, and a wide live-edge desk beside a huge casement window, her office would have been the envy of the city associates she’d left behind. Except for her unexpected visitor.
“Why are you sleeping on my couch?” She nudged Faroz Jalal awake. The firm’s private investigator had made himself cozy with the yellow throw and pillows she’d bought to match the Lion King musical print on her wall.
“It’s more comfortable than a cardboard box.” He yawned and rubbed a hand through hair cut military short. A former CIA operative—or so he claimed—Faroz wore combat boots buffed to a perfect shine, camo pants, and a tight gray T-shirt that clung to the planes and angles of his lean frame. He was in his late thirties and had been working with the firm for the last three years. “How did it go?”
Zara dropped her laptop case on her desk. She’d spent the morning on a movie set, and the afternoon in a tiny boardroom with her stuntman client and four sweaty insurance lawyers who didn’t seem to have heard of deodorant.
“We couldn’t come to a settlement so it looks like we’re heading for trial.” Zara grinned. There was nothing she enjoyed more than litigating a case in court. “I thought taking the insurer’s legal team to visit the movie set would make a difference. It’s one thing to read about someone jumping out of a burning helicopter; something else to see exactly how far our client fell when his safety harness snapped. But they still weren’t prepared to give us what we wanted.”
“Did I just hear you didn’t settle the case?” Tony “the Tiger” Cruz walked into the office, his lanky six-foot frame hidden beneath a slightly oversized suit, thick blond curls escaping from beneath his green Yoda beanie. A former stuntman, Tony had suffered a career-ending back injury after an accident on a movie set. A bad settlement with the studio’s insurers had led him to pursue a career as an attorney. After a few years working for the public defender’s office, he’d opened the firm with his friend Lewis Lovitt. Their clients came through Tony’s connections to the movie industry, a network of paid informants, and aggressive advertising based on a branding platform that was second to none.
“Looks like we’re going to court.” Her smile faded when Tony frowned. “Or not?”
“Not.” He turned to Faroz and lifted a brow. “Don’t you have work to do? I thought you were chasing down a lead for that banana peel slip-and-fall.”
“Report is on your desk. The plaintiff is a serial banana peel planter. Five grocery stores this month.” Faroz stood and stretched. “I guess I’ll go chase a few ambulances since a man can’t even relax for five minutes in this sweatshop.”