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Prima Facie: (Law) A case or piece of evidence that is solid enough to be accepted as fact, unless proven otherwise; (Latin) At first sight
“Mr. Echolls, I’ve got to go!”
Logan spares a glance toward the back of the bus, where Kamryn Colston leans pleadingly over the top of the cracked green vinyl bus seat. Apparently, he is not shepherding fourteen teenagers on this field trip, he is shepherding fourteen walking bladders.
“Sit down, Kamryn. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Man!” Kamryn whines, slinking back down so that only the top of her auburn hair shows over the top of the seats.
“This is a long bus ride, Mr. Echolls,” pipes up Denise Sears from her position directly behind Logan. “Weren’t we supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago? The permission slip said—“
“Yes, Denise. I know what it said. Unfortunately, LA traffic obeys no permission slip.”
It has been a long bus ride. The trip from Neptune to downtown Los Angeles would normally be about an hour, but an early morning Sig-Alert had increased it to almost two. Hours. On a school bus. With ninth graders who started singing random snatches of songs loudly at the top of their lungs at about minute forty-five.
Must not kill children. Must not kill children.
When Logan volunteered to chaperone this field trip, he had been thinking about a day away from the grind of the everyday work week; he forgot that it would also mean children away from the structured environment of the classroom. Unleashed in all of their hormonal glory on the world and on him.
The kids have spotted their exit and are excitedly (read, obnoxiously) yelling out “Spring Street! Spring Street!”
Logan looks across the aisle at Mrs. Champert, coach of Neptune High’s debate team and his fellow chaperone for the trip. Her lips are pressed together and she has the thousand yard stare that suggests she is internally reciting the serenity prayer.
What is it about field trips that reduce fifteen year olds to five year olds? Granted, his own high school field trip memories do involve enacting a reign of terror from the back of the bus, but it seems impossible that he was ever capable of the sheer level of silliness some of these students display.
Finally, long minutes later, they arrive at the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center; the building which houses the central offices of the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s office. Logan had initially tried to convince Lacey Champert that the Neptune County courthouse—with which he was pretty damn familiar—would be a perfectly adequate site for the junior varsity debate team’s annual field trip. She, however, wanted them to see something, “with broader scope—more high stakes!” so he’d put in several hours and called in some favors to get the kids a day shadowing and observing in LA. They’ll spend the morning observing a trial, then have lunch with several of the deputy DAs and tour the offices before participating in one of the mock trials the education department hosts in the afternoon.
All in all, it’s a pretty sweet field trip and the kids have been looking forward to it for weeks.
Like anxious sheepdogs, Logan and Mrs. Champert hustle the kids through security and the bathrooms—now horrifically late—and then wait in what must surely be the longest line ever for an elevator bank. The court building attracts an eclectic crowd. Weary, resigned looking clumps of potential jurors mingle with sharply dressed legal types. Sprinkled amongst them are people with the spit-shined look of those trying, perhaps in vain, to convince complete strangers of their uprightness and innocence. Every time an elevator door dings open, the crowd surges, creating a constantly ebbing flow that makes it difficult to keep the group together. As they inch their way towards the doors, Logan directs a minatory look at Jacob Bello, who is nudging Tony Nguyen and appears to be on the verge of making a comment about an immense, sloppily dressed woman getting onto the elevators ahead of them. Jacob shrugs his shoulders in a defensive gesture and looks instead at the toes of his sneakers, scuffing them in a disinterested manner along the tile pattern.
Finally all at the fifteenth floor, they check in with the education department representative who escorts them towards the courtroom where they will be observing.
After a long list of “don’ts,” echoing lectures both Logan and Mrs. Champert have given many times, the kids slink into the back of a trial already in progress. The only other occupant of the small row of observation seats is a startled looking older gentleman—a retiree court watcher, Logan thinks.
The two chaperones bracket the line of students, Logan taking a strategic seat next to Jacob Bello, and settle in to watch the proceedings.
Logan is prepared to spend the entire time glaring at any of the students who need to be kept in line—he’s been in a courtroom plenty of times, after all, and doesn’t expect to be drawn in by the trial—but within seconds his attention is riveted to the deputy DA prosecuting the case.
Small and blonde, wearing the standard female lawyer outfit of a skirt suit and silk blouse, she should be easily overlooked, but instead she owns the room, her energy and intensity magnetic. The courtroom is quiet, and the low, clear pitch of her voice carries easily over the slight rustlings of the students and the jury.
When they arrive, she’s in the middle of a cross-examination. The witness in the box is a rabbity looking wisp of a man, who seems to shrink a full inch each time the DDA directs a question his way.
She starts out with simple queries, her words crisp and authoritative, clearly re-establishing information that the witness had already presented under direct examination. Logan drinks in her every gesture.
“Mr. Cordena, where were you standing when you saw the defendant?” An arch of her eyebrow. “You said you saw the defendant back away before the stabbing occurred, is that right?” A sharp flick of her wrist.
She lays down one question after another, leading the witness forward in helpless agreement—“Yes, that’s what I said.” “That’s correct ma’am”—like a mouse following a trail of crumbs.
When Cordena finally sees the trap gaping open in front of him, it is too late for him to backpedal his way out. A frisson runs down Logan’s spine as he silently roots her on. Yes. You’ve almost got him. Reel him in a bit more.
She moves calmly and assuredly forward—no theatrical pacing, no dramatic pause, just goes right in for the kill. “Then you couldn’t possibly have seen what you testified that you saw, could you Mr. Cordena?”
The witness stutters a bit before slumping down into his seat with a muttered, “Guess not.” An electric shock seems to run through the courtroom. Logan can actually feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Over at the defense table, the lawyers are scrambling, frantically trying to put together what turns out to be a weak redirect. Now back at her table, the prosecutor sits calmly, a small smile on her face, so confident and outsized that several of the jurors are still focused on her, rather than the defense lawyer trying to resurrect his case.
Whoa. By this point Logan is sitting slightly forward in his seat, his skin tingling. It’s not just that she’s attractive (and she is. So. Damn. Attractive) or extremely good at her job, it’s her. She makes everything else in the room seem dim. She walks in beauty like the night. She makes him think entirely in fucking clichés, apparently.
Logan sits, spellbound, while the prosecutor handles each witness in turn. Some get the same straightforward spearing as the hapless Mr. Cordena. Other witnesses she buddies up to, or prods almost angrily. Each seemingly random shift in tactics produces the same result; discredited statements, testimony seen in a new light. The case inches forward, although the defense lawyers are clearly on the ropes. Witness after witness, they put up and the DDA bats down on cross, like a particularly efficient cat. She is not just destroying their case, she is eviscerating it.
‘Ms. Mars’ the judge calls her at one point and yes, that is perfect. She is the god of war and he’s about ready to volunteer for the draft.
By the time the defense rests and Prosecutor Mars stands to give her closing arguments, most of the debate team kids and several members of the jury are looking at her with open admiration as well. Her closing strategy is a mixture of professionally competent and winsome that would sound ridiculous on paper. Completely unsurprisingly, it works well for her. She has several members of the jury smiling along with her as she lays out her case and reiterates the testimony provided by the prosecution’s key witness, who had taken the stand the day before and was apparently a grade-A jerk.
“…the defendant is guilty; a fact that Mr. Simonowich’s testimony, which the defense failed to adequately refute, proves beyond a reasonable doubt…even if you think he is an asshole.” She finishes with a flourish and an arch look toward the jury box. The kids sit up straighter and exchange looks in reaction to what is clearly illicit almost-profanity.
The Judge sighs wearily as though familiar with this particular prosecutor. “Warning, Counsel.”
“Sorry, Your Honor,” she says as she takes a seat.
Logan feels oddly flushed, the blood pounding in his ears is beating out a covetous rhythm. Her. Her. Her. Her.
Lacey Champert—clearly not as enthralled as he—peers down the row of students and taps the face of her watch at Logan meaningfully. He steals a glance at his cell phone. Lunch time. Logan catches the eye of the bailiff who comes and escorts them out of the courtroom, the kids filing quietly past while the lawyer for the defense stands to begin his closing remarks.
As he focuses his attentions back on the kids and on his schedule for the day, Logan feels a vertiginous sense of dislocation, as though he’s overlaying old responsibilities onto what suddenly seems a completely new world. They’re having lunch in the building’s cafeteria with a few of the prosecutors from the DA’s office.
Maybe she’ll be there.
______________
Veronica Mars should be riding on a successful trial high. The jury returned their decision in an almost unheard of twenty minutes. Guilty on all counts. And on what had been rather a tricky bitch of a case at the outset, too.
She’s only got a few hours before she has to brave the freeways on a fact finding mission to some podunk county down near San Diego and all she wants to do in the meantime is she go hide in her office, kick off her heels, and work her way through the pile of motions that have accumulated on her desk.
And that relaxing afternoon of legal motions and vending machine pop tarts can be all hers if she can just get clear of one thing. She breezes up to the division secretary’s desk. “Hi, Alta. Is Geoff in?”
Alta gives a brisk nod in the direction of the Head Deputy’s office door and Veronica thanks her and continues forward.
“Geoff, what’s this about me showing a group of kids around?”
He shuffles the papers on his desk, purposely avoiding her gaze. “Uh, yeah. Group from Neptune. The DA called in the favor himself. Someone down there has friends in high places.”
“This is ridiculous, I’ve got a stack of motions to work through and I’m supposed to be out in the field this afternoon on the Duhagen case.”
“I just got a return call on the Duhagen case. Their person is out of the office today and can’t meet, so look who miraculously has free time”
“Jesus, Geoff. There are a million other things I need to do. That asshole Brandon Mathers is filing for change of venue again and—“
Her boss sighs. “Look, Veronica. You’re going to have to take the hit on this one. Candace, Hector, and Emalia already did lunch with them. Danny volunteered to adjudicate their Mock Court. Art and Christie are out in the field, Larya’s in court…”
The writing on the wall, Veronica waves a wistful mental goodbye to her plans for a productive afternoon. “And you are clearly too important, leaving…moi.”
Geoff nods, unsympathetic.
“All right. But I am not changing diapers.”
“You put that in writing and I’ll sign it.”
“You’re all heart, Geoff.”
____________________
As predicted, she barely has time to sit down at her desk before Alta buzzes her to say that the kids are back from lunch. Veronica pulls herself together inwardly and summons her best perky-professional face as she walks down the hallway to meet them. The kids have spilled out of the elevators into the floor’s lobby in a bright flood of chatter that comes to an abrupt halt when they see her.
She widens her eyes and directs her gaze somewhere into the middle of the group. “Hi, I’m Deputy District Attorney Veronica Mars and I’ll be showing you around a bit.”
After a beat of silence where the students merely stare at her, a low, rich voice speaks up from the back of the group. “Oh, we know who you are.” It’s the male teacher; his voice dripping with sly amusement. “We were watching you at work this morning. You were quite the pitbull. I felt sorry for opposing counsel.” Their eyes lock and she suddenly can’t look away. His warm brown eyes study her as though they are the oldest of friends. As though he knows her. Then he smirks and her senses come back online. Jackass.
A small girl standing near to Veronica, her hair an impressively complex mass of braids swept up into a bouffant bun, chimes in. “You were amazing ma’am.”
Veronica blinks, drawing herself out of the weirdly intense moment with the teacher. “Oh, thank you…”
“Denise.”
“Thank you, Denise. I didn’t even see you guys in the courtroom.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Veronica can see the teacher smirk again. Something about his face, his…energy sets her on edge. Definitely a jackass. Denise continues. “You’re going to win that case, aren’t you?”
Please, child. “I already did, actually. The jury came back about half an hour ago.”
Another student, emboldened by Denise’s success, asks, “Wow! Isn’t that quick?” and the tour is off and running. Veronica walks them around the office and through several parts of the building that are open to the public, spouting facts—“The Los Angeles DA’s Office is the largest local prosecutor's office in the United States”—and fielding questions about her performance in court. Several of the students, Denise and a boy in a crisp red tie named Ryan, seem to be particularly interested in verbally reenacting her takedowns of the defense witnesses in the Seeger case.
The kids are engaging enough that Veronica gives them most of her attention, the rest of her mind occupied with its usual task of processing and classifying new information. New people. The students are a little more diverse than she might have expected, given what she knows about Neptune, but otherwise they are straight upper-middle class suburbia, nothing too interesting there, although the sulky looking brunette buzz cut in the back bears watching.
The female teacher is so stereotypical that it is almost ridiculous. All she needs is a bag with an apple emblazoned on it slung over her shoulder and she’d be right out of central casting. But the male teacher… Ever since she was a little girl, Veronica has had an almost compulsive desire to figure out puzzles. Unravel people and find out what makes them tick.
He is a puzzle, but somehow, with only brief looks exchanged between them, it feels like he’s unraveling her. Most of her instincts are screaming player, jackass, not to be trusted. But the way he looked at her in that first moment…
He’s not conventionally handsome, exactly. His ears, nose, and cheekbones describe sharp lines that should be awkward, but somehow aren’t quite, on him. Tall, well-muscled in a lean way, and with, she can’t help noticing, no real ass to speak of, he shouldn’t draw more than a second glance, but Veronica is uncomfortably sure that she’s been staring at him.
There is an easy sort of bob-and-weave about him, even when he’s standing still, and when he’s in motion…well, he draws a reaction. And if that reaction is maybe centered a bit between her legs, that’s nobody’s business but hers.
He’s good with his students; they clearly like and respect him. He helps clarify their questions and teases them in a fondly familiar adult way, although something about the interactions doesn’t seem quite teacherly, somehow. All the while, though, he’s shooting her those looks; the ones that give her that feeling of being known. Seen. Naked.
Oh no, Veronica decides, I don’t trust him at all. She’s almost positive she doesn’t. One of the girls toward the back of the pack is trying to get his attention and the tail end of her question—“…do we, Mr. Echolls?”—penetrates Veronica’s consciousness. Echolls. Sounds…familiar. Have I heard that recently?
The tour finally wraps up back in front of the elevators, Veronica handing off the kids to an intern who is going to escort them upstairs to start their mock trial. She lingers for a few minutes, continuing to field some questions, as the first group of students boards the always crowded cars.
The doors ding open and the last few remaining students reiterate their thanks to her and step on board. Echolls ushers the last of them in—it’s a close fit.
“Hey, Denise. Tell Mrs. Champert that I’ll be right up, okay? I’m going to take the stairs.” He directs a look over his shoulder at Veronica, who is still standing there for some reason, and gives a mock shudder. “Tight spaces.”
Why are you still here, Mars? Leave. Go.
Denise nods eagerly and the elevator doors close, leaving Veronica alone with the teacher and his intense stare, now shifting from playful to penetrating. How the hell did I ever think he was average looking? There is a fleeting moment where she thinks of snakes and mongooses; then he takes in a deep breath that she can feel in her own gut and asks, “Can I get your number?”
You are dangerous. Dangerous and I could never trust you.
“No,” she says, and walks off, her heels clacking on the tile floor. She wishes it didn’t feel quite so much like she was running away.
________________
Well, you fucked that up, Echolls.
Beyond delighted when the prosecutorial goddess had turned out to be the one giving them their tour, Logan had been so distracted that he’d had a hard time focusing on the questions and comments the students lobbed his way—usually his favorite part of working with the debate team. Instead, he’d continued to watch her as they moved through the DA’s office, enthralled by her quickness and the way she was able to pitch her answers to be student-friendly without sounding like she was talking to a bunch of concussed kindergarteners. She moved with such a firm stride—not the mincing daintiness her stature might have suggested—and her ass in that plain black skirt was the eighth wonder of the world. He had been so busy falling into immediate lust with her, in fact, that he had failed to realize that she…she did not feel the same way about him. He had vastly overplayed his hand, none of his usual suaveness on display in that blunt question, and she had bolted. Oh, this is not ending here.
Logan dashes up the stairs, where he catches up to Lacey Champert and their group of students. Waving his cell phone at his fellow chaperone, he claims a vague “emergency” and tells her to go ahead with the kids to start the mock trial prep. Lacey frowns but nods at him and Logan sprints back downstairs, taking the stairs two at a time in bounding steps.
Back on the floor where her division of deputies is housed, he slows to a smooth walk, head straight up, shoulders back, blending in. Scanning left and right, he spots her name on a placard adorning a slightly ajar office door. Logan taps lightly and her low “come in” zings through him.
Deputy DA Mars sits at her desk, the questioning anticipation on her face changing to something unfathomable as she takes him in.
She blinks. “You.”
He decides to regard that as an invitation to step inside the office, rushing to get his words in before she gathers herself and orders him back out. “I’d like to apologize. I handled that poorly. I didn’t even introduce myself, did I? Logan Echolls.”
She blinks again and he can almost see her slip the prosecutor back on; her voice brisk and professional “Apology accepted, Mr. Echolls.”
Not in the business of harassing genuinely unwilling women, no matter how fine their asses are, Logan takes a moment to scan her for cues. Despite the voice, she looks not so much standoffish as sparkling. Alive. Her posture, leaned back in her chair, is open, if challenging. Most tellingly, instead of pushing the issue of his presence in her office, she seems to be waiting for his next volley.
He decides to chance more rejection. “Should I leave now?”
“I’m sure you have responsibilities elsewhere.”
Hmm. Survey says…inconclusive.
Don’t they say the best defense is a good offense? If his father taught him nothing else it was to always come out swinging. He leans against the doorjamb. “You don’t like me. Do you?”
“I don’t know you.” She raises her eyebrows calmly. “Don’t have any interest in knowing you.”
“Why not? I’m very interesting.”
“And I’m very not interested.” Her answers zip right back at him, full of confidence, and yet…
Logan glances up at her from under his lashes. All indicators are that she’s still hooked; she’s still flashing him all of the invisible “go” signs. So what is the problem? “Well that is a shame. Seems pretty prejudiced, if you ask me. I thought DAs were supposed to be open minded.”
She snorts. “Who told you that?”
Logan ambles forward a few steps. To his left is a small wooden side table containing a riotous bouquet of peonies in a wicker basket. Thinking furiously, he runs his fingertips over the soft, tightly furled petals of a large burgundy wad of flower, expanding the petals outward and then releasing them back to brush gently against his thumb.
Take the drop, Echolls.
Logan steps a little closer to her desk, employing the smolder for all he’s worth. “I was wondering if you might be willing to go to lunch with me this weekend.”
The corners of her mouth twitch upwards oh-so-very slightly and for just a second, he thinks yes! Then she places her palms firmly on her desk, pushing herself up to a standing position. “I don’t make a habit of dating men I don’t know.”
Wipeout.
She strolls around the desk and walks over to the bookcase set into the far wall, carefully not turning her back to him. Logan rotates in place, following her movement like some sort of damn satellite. He picks up a cheap plastic San Diego Zoo snow globe from her otherwise pristine and professional desk and tosses it lightly from hand to hand.
“So, all of your dates are, what? Vetted by an outside agency? With men you’ve known since you were twelve?”
“Try, men who are introduced to me by people I trust.”
He sets down the snow globe and moves toward the bookcase where she stands. She slips past him, heading toward the visitor’s chair, which she straightens with precise movements, before leaning on the back. They are almost literally circling each other at this point, his every move mirrored by her countering one.
“How very Jane Austen of you. If references are what you want, I’ll have you know that nine out of ten women have reported finding me a very trustworthy date indeed.”
“And the tenth?” She cocks her head in a please-tell-me-more façade of disinterest.
“Oh, she was just made up for statistical purposes. No one ever believes you when you claim one hundred percent.”
Logan traces his fingers across the bindings of the books in the bookcase. Legal tomes, mostly, a few binders with the Los Angeles county seal on them, and a small set of academic books on—he squints a little at the titles—“Film noir?”
Ignoring the implied question, she sighs. “Are you determined to fondle everything in my office?”
Logan can’t help it, he raises an eyebrow in lecherous delight and she flushes in response, looking furious at herself for the slip. Yes! “I’m just trying to figure out why you’re so determined to hate me. Perhaps the clue is in here somewhere.”
Tapping the spine of a book entitled The Dark Side of the Screen, he quotes softly, “‘Hate is a very exciting emotion; haven’t you noticed?’”
A small smile of recognition curves her lips and she continues the quote. “‘Very exciting.’” After a moment of contemplation, she walks toward him for the first time to ask, “So what comes next, Gilda?”
He leans his shoulders back against the bookcase, kicking his legs out in a casual crossed stance. “I think…you tell me why you’re trying so hard to get rid of me.”
Except that just now she’s not trying hard to get rid of him; she’s closing in on him. That covetous rhythm starts up in his veins again, a low distant drum beat. Her. Her. Her. She stops, about a foot away, and juts her chin out. "I'm working here. This is my job."
"And what do I appear to be doing?" He spreads his hands.
Veronica assesses him with a head tilt and eyes narrowed suspiciously. He can almost see the tumblers click into place. “You’re not a teacher.”
Her perspicacity is no surprise at this point, but he’s impressed nonetheless. “How did you know?”
“I’m a lawyer, my dad is a cop. I have lots of training figuring people out.”
“Well all right then, Nancy Drew. Figure me.”
She taps her index finger to her chin. “Okay, Mr. Not-A-Teacher, first up is what you are doing with the kids.” She smiles sweetly. “Court ordered community service?”
“Ooh, a swing and a miss. One more try for all the marbles?” Logan grins to himself. No one in his professional life can understand why he volunteers his time to help coach the debate club at Neptune High—an alma mater he didn’t enjoy while he was a student and isn’t particularly proud of today. His reasons, as with most of his life, are deeply private and held close to the vest.
She cocks an eyebrow and scans him again. “Something that involves wearing a fancy suit and sitting around listening to a lot of people talk, I’m guessing.”
He laughs. “Close enough.”
At that moment a stocky woman knocks on the door and enters in the same efficient motion. Sparing him not a glance, she raps out her statements in one long inflectionless phrase. “Veronica, I got some new supplemental reports for the Duhagen case this afternoon and put them in the file on your desk while you were with the kids."
What’s this?
Veronica crosses the room, fishes a folder out of the neat file stacked on the end of her desk, and gives the woman a distracted, "Great. Thanks, Alta." Alta turns and leaves with as much economy as she appears to do everything.
"Duhagen? You're working that case? That's a Balboa County case, isn't it?"
Veronica still has her head down, perusing the file. "Yeah, but there’s a murder in this jurisdiction the brass thinks may be connected. Boss wants me to liaise. See if we want to add our charges."
She suddenly looks up and blinks, with an I-shouldn’t-have-said-that look on her face. “Um, don’t spread that around anywhere, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Logan knows that mentioning this could be a real fuck up for her and he wants to reassure her…especially under the circumstances. “I won’t say a word; you can trust me.”
File held loosely in her hand, Veronica stares at him. Their eyes lock intensely and she searches him as if she can dig into the smallest recesses of his soul. All that Logan can register are details. There are small flecks of gray mixed in with the blue of her irises. A detached eyelash sits in the crease of her lid. He has the urge to cup her chin in his hand and blow it away tenderly. Jesus, man.
Finally, after long eternities, her expression registers a dawning puzzlement as she nods slowly. “Yeah, thanks…I think I…do trust you.”
With a funny sort of shuddering jerk, Logan can actually feel his world detach from the tethers that have held it up until this point and go spiraling out into the unknown. Searching for something new. Something better. God, this could be it, this could be everything—he just knows it—if only she would give him a chance. One more try. “Look. “ A deep breath in. Oxygen for his brain. “I’d really like to see you again. If you won’t give me your number, can I give you mine?”
There is a singular look of determination on her face and, before he can quite comprehend it, Veronica marches over to him, reaches up, plants her hands firmly on either side of his neck and pulls him down into a kiss.
And…
And...
And…goddamn. Logan has never been so intensely aware of the skin on his body before. Every single particulate piece of him is humming. Her tongue is tracing along the side of his, stroking hungrily. Her. Her. Her. He finally gathers ahold of himself and deepens the kiss, pressing voraciously into her mouth. This woman—Veronica—tastes fucking amazing. He reaches down to her hips and jerks them roughly toward him, seeking alignment, closeness, more. Yes more. Please more. Her fingernails bite into the flesh of his neck as he sucks on her tongue. She’s making soft grunting noises into his mouth that are completely fucking doing it for him and this is not a kiss—not anymore—this is some hard R-rated shit that just happens to be occurring with their clothes on. This is mouth sex and this may very well be the hottest moment of his entire life.
The kiss breaks on a mutual gasp, and they both breathe sloppily. She leans back in to prison the skin of his bottom lip between her teeth, nibbling lightly. Everything is real and nothing is. He can feel the cool brush of air against the back of his neck as the room’s air conditioning kicks in. Trace the slightly rough texture of the gabardine of her suit jacket, bunching under his hands. Smell…smell…
“Is something…burning?” He murmurs into her mouth. After that kiss, it seems vaguely possible that they have, indeed, set something on fire.
“Break room next door. Alta always burns the popcorn.” She is still caught in his gaze, her head tilted up toward his, their breaths lacing together. Once again, she seems to be searching his face for something—what, Logan doesn’t know, but he fucking hopes she finds it.
Without breaking their stare, Veronica reaches behind her, patting blindly around on her desk until she grasps her cell phone. She thrusts it toward him with a “Here. Punch it in.” and retreats a few feet away to wipe smears of lipstick off the corners of her mouth.
Logan’s hands are trembling as he adds his phone number to her contacts. It takes him three tries—“Ligan,” “lpgn,” and finally “Lgan.” Good enough.—to punch in his name.
With her a few feet away, reality starts to set back in. “I have to get back up to the kids.”
She rallies a bit as well. “What are you doing with them anyway?”
“Call me and find out.” He blinks. “Please call me and find out.” He takes a moment to straighten his clothes, tries to settle himself. It doesn’t work. He has to go. Has to go. But what if she doesn’t…
His gaze falls on a mound of papers on the ground—the file she had been holding before. The Duhagen case. Suddenly feeling immensely more confident, he bends down and scoops up the papers, straightening and setting the folder back on her desk. She still stands, silent, across the room. Logan taps the folder in farewell, his fingers drumming a quick pattern before he spins on his heel. "See you later, Counselor."
Back in the stairwell, he takes a minute to stop and catch his breath. Exhilaration is still coursing through him, his whole body simultaneously alive and languid in the most pleasurable of ways.
Logan pulls out his cell phone and puts a quick call in to his office.
“John, I know I said not to forward any calls to my cell while I was out today, but if a call comes through from LA on the Duhagen case, go ahead and put her through.”
His secretary’s words wash back through the phone as Logan plays back the kiss over and over in his mind—hot, so fucking hot. This will be shower material forever—tuning back in just in time to catch the tail end of John’s long diatribe.
“…sure? She’s supposed to be a real ball buster.”
“Mmhm. Yes, I’m sure.” Logan doesn’t have to see his own face to know he’s grinning widely. “I definitely want to talk to her.”