Tainted Love: A Lovestruck Novella, Book 1 (15 page)

My whole life it's always been, "
Oh, Page made the honor roll? Well, Logan got a perfect score on his SAT
." And "
Page got into Georgetown? Well, Logan was offered a full scholarship when he got accepted
." I'm so freaking tired of it! 

Turning my back on my brother without another word, I pick up the stack of documents and glance through them while heading back to my office. That's when I notice the screen shot of Christina Loftis's Facebook page.

He'd actually found it.

I have to admit that he's done a good job gathering everything he could in less than a day's time.

I pause in the middle of the hallway to close my eyes and replay our most recent conversation. Malone had flipped out on me after my criticism for marking on potential exhibits. There was no way he'd know that, having never done this sort of thing before now. He was probably pissed that after all the time and hard work he'd put in that the first thing I did was snap at him. Of course he got all defensive. That's what he does for a living. Okay, so now that I understand that I'll try not to be so quick to attack him again.

My eyes are still on the paperwork in my hand when I get back to my office. I'm lowering my bottom down into my computer chair before I realize I'm not alone.

"Ah!" I squeal, fumbling to hold on to the stack of documents.

"About time," Malone grumbles from the chair he's currently slouching in across from my desk.  

"Geez Louise, you scared me," I say, holding the papers to my galloping heart. 

"Everything okay in here?" Mark, our federal criminal attorney, asks from my open doorway. He purses his lips like he's trying not to grin, but epically fails when a snicker escapes.   

"Perfectly fine. Now run along, imp," I mutter, getting back up from my chair to go slam the door in the annoying dwarf's face. I swear the man's only a few inches taller than Peter Dinklage, and tells more dirty offensive jokes than Daniel Tosh.

"Listen," I say to Malone when I take my seat again. "There's an office pool going that I don't intend for anyone to win."

"A pool?" he asks, slanting his thick black eyebrows together. Somehow they're actually sexy as all get out, and nothing like Bert's on
Sesame Street
.

"Yeah, my lovely coworkers are betting on me. You, too, actually."

Malone leans back in his chair, both hands behind his head with his elbows out. Can the man do anything without making it look sexy? "Really? What's the bet?" He asks.

"How soon before you make me cry, how soon before I screw up, how soon I'll quit your case, and how soon you fire me."

"Well damn," he mutters. "You a crier or something?"

"No, I'm not a crier! I've never shed a tear in this office, and can’t recall the last time I shed one at all."

Although, it was most likely when I was around ten or eleven years old. I'd found a litter of newborn kittens near the dumpster behind our Methodist Church. After my parents and I dropped them off with a local vet because they wouldn't let me keep them, I told them I wanted to save puppies and kittens when I grew up. In response my mom said, "No, Page. You're too smart and pretty to shovel shit for strays. You're going to marry a rich man." And my dad followed up her statement with, "Or you can go to law school just like your brother." That had been it, my only two options, end of discussion. It was the first time I realized my life would never actually be my own if I didn't want to disappoint them. Any variation from their decree, and to them I'd be a failure. That pressure's only gotten worse as I've gotten older.         

"But all your coworkers think
I'm
going to make you cry?" Malone asks.

"Yep."

"That's pretty fucked up."

"Tell me about it," I agree with a burst of laughter. "So, here's what we're going to do. I'm not going to cry and I'm going to try to be nicer to you. You're going to stop yelling at me, and we're going to work together on your case, so that everyone else in this building can go screw themselves. Deal?" I ask.

He looks at me a second before he finally nods. "Deal."  

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New York Times
bestselling author Lane Hart lives in North Carolina with her husband, author D.B. West, their two daughters, a few lazy cats and a pair of rambunctious Pomeranians. When Lane's not writing she spends her free time relaxing at the beach while looking for sea turtles in the summer months and cheering on the Carolina Panthers in the fall. Lane loves to hear from her readers on Facebook, Twitter, on her website, or by email!

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