BEYOND REASONABLE DOUBT

chapter 6

Declan's POV

She's at the sink when I walk in, three empty stalls behind her, and she spins around fast enough that I catch the exact second shock that replaces whatever she was thinking about before I opened the door. Her mouth soft, pink, the one I'd

been thinking about since this morning falls open. "You realize this is the bathroom."

“I read the sign." I close half the distance between us. She doesn't retreat an inch, hands landing on her hips like she's daring me to keep coming. Something floral clings to her, roses maybe, sweet in a way that matches exactly what I'd

imagined ten minutes ago and now can't stop thinking about.

"The sign says women," she says. "Not bathroom. Not men. Unless there's something about your anatomy I'm not aware

of, you don't belong here."

"Good to know you understand boundaries. Shame you don't apply that logic to your job. Following defense counsel

around a courthouse isn't how journalism works."

Her glare sharpens. "Following you? Let's revisit the facts. You were behind me in line. You cut in front of me. And in case it slipped your notice, I'm a regular at that shop. I didn't materialize there because you happened to be buying coffee.”

"So my choice of coffee shop just happened to work out in your favor."

“I'live four blocks from it. I'm there constantly. You clearly aren't, or I'd have seen you before yesterday, and I'd have

known better than to say a single word to you."

"You want me to believe you had no idea who I was."

"Believe whatever helps you sleep at night. I didn't know your name until you stood up to give your opening statement.”

“That's a shockingly unprepared way for a reporter covering this trial to operate.”

“Listen, Counselor Crush," she snaps, then immediately corrects herself, "Suit Guy recognizing a face isn't the same as

knowing a name."

I let one eyebrow climb. "And yet you know the nickname."

"Because my friend told me about your little internet fan club this morning.

. She also mentioned you hate it, which is a

stretch to believe given how much she insists you're actually decent.”

“I am decent. When it's earned. How do you know Nina?"

"Why does that matter to you?"

"Because apparently my name came up in conversation with her."

"Half this city has my name in their mouths this week. That doesn't make my personal calls your business. For the record,

I wasn't planning to show up this morning at all. That's why I was late."

"Why not?" The question lands harder than I intend. "You already knew who I was by your own timeline."

"Because I didn't want a scandal attached to my byline, and I definitely didn't want you assuming I'd trade an interview for

a night in your bed. I still want that interview. Not that way. And now here you are, in the women's restroom of a courthouse, with reporters camped outside who would love nothing more than a photo of this exact moment."

"Says the reporter currently in the room with me."

“I'm not following you. That's not remotely my style."

"You showed up this morning."

“I showed up planning to tell you the truth before you found out some other way. Then you left before I got the chance,

and I wasn't about to chase you down and bruise that ego of yours by explaining I almost didn't come.”

"Did you want to?" I ask.

"Want what?"

"See me again."

"Does anyone actively want to see an insufferable man twice in one day?"

"Did you want to see me, Sienna?"

"Does it matter at this point?"

It matters more than I want to admit. "Answer the question.”

"I would have shown up if you were just some good-looking stranger, because then I could have " She catches herself,

backs it up. "If you were just some stranger."

"Good-looking."

"Stranger," she corrects.

"So you could have fixed me?"

“Nobody fixes men like you."

“Then why consider meeting a man you'd already written off as trouble?"

"Because you sleep with trouble once and say goodbye in the morning. Clean. Simple."

Heat spikes through me, sharp and immediate. I take one more step, close enough now that there's barely air left between

us. "That was the plan. One night, then goodbye."

“It was an option."

"Was."

"Now you're my assignment, and I don't cross that line."

We'll see about that. "Who do you write for?"

“The Manhattan Ledger. The column's called "Justice, Served."

"What qualifies you to run a column like that?"

"A law degree from Harvard, five years practicing, and a family full of attorneys who never let me forget either fact.”

That stops me for half a second, though it shouldn't, not after the last ten minutes of sparring with her. "Harvard."

"Which beats Yale, for the record."

I can't help the smile that pulls at my mouth. "And yet I'm the one still practicing."

"Being good at something doesn't matter much if it's making you miserable."

"If it makes you miserable, why stay long enough to build a whole career on it?"

“None of your business."

"What if I've decided to make it my business?"

"Give me a real interview, and I'll answer whatever you ask, in exchange for answering whatever I ask."

“I'l consider it."

"An interview with you, and one with your client," she pushes.

“Now you're overreaching."

"You don't get anything you don't ask for."

"Do you think he did it?" I ask, watching her closely, weighing exactly how much I'm willing to hand her.

"What I think," she says, "is that you're winning this trial so far."

“Let's hope the jury reaches the same conclusion.”

"Because he's innocent?"

"Yes. And you can print that, along with this I don't take cases I don't believe in." My phone buzzes against my thigh.

“That'll be my cue to leave. For now."

"What about my interviews?"

"Card."

She digs one out of her bag and hands it over. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and it's enough to make me pause, phone still buzzing, my eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before finding her eyes again. I believe her. She really didn't know who I was that morning. Which means I picked a fight with a total stranger and then wanted, badly, to make up for it

in far less clothing.

“I'll call you," I say, already moving for the door, pausing just long enough to add, "I don't plan on being your assignment

much longer.”

soxxrrrERs

Sienna POV

For the rest of the afternoon, I watch Declan work the room, except he isn't a stranger to me anymore. He's the man who cornered me in a bathroom twenty minutes ago. The man whose hand brushed mine and somehow rewired something

under my skin, probably because those blue eyes were locked on me the entire time it happened.

None of that changes the fact that he's still lead counsel on a case I need him to talk to me about, on the record, but at least the air between us is clear now. I told him the truth. Mostly professional truth, if you overlook the part where I

informed him he's an unfixable ass, and the part where I basically confessed to considering a one-night arrangement with him before I knew his name. I'm choosing to believe that following me into a women's restroom cancels out whatever points I lost with those confessions. After that stunt, I'm no longer sure he's the decent guy Nina insists he is, but I am sure

he's trouble, wrapped in an extremely expensive suit and entirely too aware of the effect he has on a room.

By the time court adjourns, I've also decided he's earned that spotless win record honestly. Every witness he touches falls apart, every argument lands exactly where he wants it to, and he never once looks like he's working hard to make it happen. That kind of effortless control is its own kind of danger. I carry the thought home with me, and by the time I'm curled up in bed with takeout and my laptop, I've talked myself into believing nothing that happened in that bathroom was an accident. I keep circling back to four words: you can print that. Was that a test, to see what I'd actually write? Or a

message, delivered on purpose, meant to travel exactly as far as my column reaches?

Either way, I decide to deliver it. I write up the day's events, the medical examiner scheduled for tomorrow, the prosecution's continued struggle to produce anything beyond theatrics, and close with this:

Once again, the defense exposed weakness rather than manufacturing strength, and once again, the prosecution's case relied heavier on drama than on evidence. Tomorrow, the medical examiner takes the stand, and that testimony may finally settle what two days of theater couldn't. For what it's worth, from where I'm sitting, Declan Cross remains both competent and convincing. Sources close to him insist he won't defend a client he believes is guilty, and in a brief

exchange today, he told me the same thing directly. That doesn't settle the question of innocence. But our system runs on the presumption of it until proven otherwise, and so far, the prosecution hasn't proven much of anything. We'll see what

tomorrow brings.

Sienna

I edit it twice, send it to my editor, and close the laptop feeling like I've accomplished two things at once: given my readers something worth reading, and given Declan Cross proof that he can trust me with whatever he tells me next. Whether I can trust him back is a separate question entirely, one I don't have an answer to as I sink back against my pillows and stare at the ceiling, replaying the bathroom encounter against my will. He'd smelled like cedar and something darker underneath. He'd looked even better up close than he had across a courtroom, which shouldn't be possible and somehow

was.

He's still exactly the kind of arrogant I can't stand. He's also exactly the kind of trouble I won't be able to avoid for the rest of this trial, which means I need to figure out how to play his game without losing anything that matters in the process. Games like this tend to end in exactly one place, and it isn't a happy ending. I know that better than most people, and yet here I am, wide awake at eleven at night, replaying the exact sound of his voice when he said he'd call me, wondering how many hours it will actually take before he does.