Work in Progress

Decision in Favor: A sexy enemies-to-lovers courtroom rom-com with a clairvoyant heroine

Chapter 1, Scene 1

“Listen, Barrick, you have to bring this guy in for questioning,” I say to the tall, dark, and devastating prosecutor who’s smirking at me from the tiny pink chair in my office. 

“I’m not sure I could bring him in. Have you seen this guy?” He’s being coy. Barrick is over six feet tall and built like the Krav Maga expert he is. “I could take ten thousand cops and still not be able to capture this monster.” His eyes narrow as he thinks. “How about this? If you will go with me, I will go,” he says. 

I laugh in surprise. “Right. You’ll take me to apprehend an obvious murderer.” 

“An alleged murderer. Not even that. You have yet to show me enough to take to a judge.”

“I am a judge.” I roll my eyes at him. Well, I was. Goddammit. I know in my gut this is the guy who murdered my client’s sister. I can feel it in my bones. 

That’s not the whole truth—it’s not just my intuition telling me this is the bad guy. My client saw him brutally murder her sister. Her retelling was vivid and gruesome. I could see it as she described it.

This is my gift. And my curse.

I can see a crime as it’s reported to me. Reading the newspaper takes courage but I do it every morning, no matter what. The victims of those crimes—so often women, so devastatingly often women of color—deserve a witness. I decided long ago not only to watch, but also to fight. 

“You are a retired judge. That doesn’t actually count in Los Angeles, doll.” He’s doing his film noir voice. It’s the only reason I don’t call him out on the “doll” insult. He even looks like an old-fashioned movie detective in his crisp navy blue suit and skinny green tie. He is handsome, this prosecutor I’m so lucky to have on my side. I bat my eyelashes at him, my mocking acknowledgement of his faux-patriarchal taunt. 

He sighs. Loudly. “Look, if I can get a warrant—”

Hearing what I want to hear, I cut him off. “Perfect. Thanks. You may go,” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand and start to turn to my computer monitor. 

“Wait. I said ‘if’ I can get a warrant—that’s no guarantee. But my point is this. If I can get a warrant, I really do want to take you with me. I need you there, Divya. You’re the only one who can verify if Ciycera is the guy you think he is.” What he means to imply is it’s either me or my client who needs to verify Ciycera’s identity. And, no, I do not want my client anywhere near that man. 

“Very well, I will go with you,” I answer. “However, there will be no glory for you in it.” 

“Glory? For fuck’s sake, Div.”

“I’m serious. When we take this guy down, it will be by the hands of a woman.” 

“Whatever.” He gets up from the delicate guest chair he’s shoved his frame into. I swear I bought these chairs just to make this man squirm in them. “I’ll call you when I get a warrant. Clear your calendar tomorrow.” 

Putting on my reading glasses and completely turning my chair to look at the screen, I don’t even bother to answer him.

But that’s not enough for him. I catch his reflection in my monitor and smile to myself. His heat hits me and then his lips on the back of my neck. “You can’t dismiss me that easily, Mav.” The rumble of his deep rich voice sends a shiver down my spine. 

Involuntarily, I turn my head to give him access to the rest of my neck. “Can’t I?” Before I can even take a breath, my world is spinning. Literally. He’s spun my desk chair 180 degrees so I’m blinking up at him. My husband. 

“Kiss me goodbye, Mav.” 

With glee. I crush my mouth to his, run my fingers into his hair, arch my body up to him. His hands are on the arms of my chair, caging me in. He tastes like hot coffee, my past, and my future. “Always,” I whisper against his lips.

“Hm.” He huffs. “You were about to send me away.” 

I squeak as he scoops his hands under my bare thighs and I’m flying from my chair to his chest. I tighten my legs around his waist. “Maverick, you’re going to muss your suit.”

“And yours, too.” He wraps his strong arms around my back and crushes me (and my Alexander McQueen!) to him. We proceed to make out like newlyweds—lips and hands, teeth and tongues. 

His phone buzzes against my inner thigh. “Dammit,” we say in unison. Probably for completely different reasons as my curse is for pleasure and his is for the call that is most likely work related. 

He puts me back down in my chair—because how adorable is that?—kisses my nose, turns on his heel, and answers his phone as he leaves my office. “Te’o.”

I sigh. He’s so handsome. I adore that man. 

I spin around in my chair, giddy with victory and the oxytocin coursing through my veins. Of course I’m buzzing with Barrick on the brain. But mostly I am thrilled with my victory. He finally said “when” he gets a warrant. I won this round. I hear the front door snick shut behind him, and I take a deep breath. 

Now, I just have to prove I’m right. How the fuck am I going to do that?