“Nooo”—Sofia shakes her head—“you’re what the opposite of fine looks like.”

“You’re miserable,” Stanton says.

Thanks, buddy.

“Chelsea’s kind of miserable too,” Sofia adds, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

“And you’re both making us miserable,” Brent says. “It’s like osmosis, it’s just spreading out from you. It’s messing with my mojo, and it needs to fucking stop.”

“Jake”—Stanton stands, his eyes more serious—“it’s obvious you want to be with Chelsea. Why the hell don’t you just put yourself out of your misery and be with her?”

Finally, a little fire sparks in my voice. “Because I don’t want her getting hurt.”

“She’s hurting now,” Sofia argues.

“But this way, I still get to keep her!” My gaze drifts to each of them, daring them to say I’m wrong. “I know how to fight, and how to be a lawyer, how to be a friend.” By now I’m breathing hard. “I don’t know how to be a family man.”

“We thought you might say that.” Stanton nods, then gestures to Sofia. “Ladies first.”

Sofia rises and paces like she’s cross-examining me. “How many ounces of formula does Ronan drink?”

“What does that have to do—”

“Just answer the damn question.”

“Six.” I sigh. “Except at bedtime—then you gotta top him off with an extra two.”

She nods. “And how many words does Regan know?”

“Three. Hi, no . . . and Jake.” I can’t stop a grin. “She’s brilliant.”

Sofia sits and Brent stands. “What is Rosaleen’s favorite color?” he asks.

“Rainbow. Whatever the hell that means.”

He nods. “What is Raymond afraid of?”

I don’t even have to think about it. “Space rocks. Meteors. Anything he can’t predict or control.”

Brent takes his seat. Stanton leans on the back of Sofia’s chair, looking me in the eyes. “What does Rory want to be when he grows up?”

“A Supreme Court justice—God help us all.”

Stanton smirks. “What is the name of the boy Riley has a crush on these days?”

I frown. “Preston Drabblesmith.”

And he’s an actual kid—not a character from Harry Potter.

Stanton comes around and smacks my arm. “Congratulations, Jake. You already are a family man.”

I think about his words, their questions, while Brent and Sofia smile like idiots—and I get what he’s saying. It’s just . . . “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Stanton rubs his chin. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret—none of us know what the hell we’re doin’. You think I knew what I was doin’ when they put a baby girl in my seventeen-year-old arms? Shit, man, I didn’t stop shaking for three days.”

“You think Chelsea knew what she was doing when she rushed here from California to raise those kids?” Sofia adds.

“All you really have to do is love them,” Stanton says. “That’s the biggest thing. After that, the rest . . . just falls into place.”

“Besides,” Brent says, “do you actually think there’s anyone out there who will bust his ass as hard as you will to make them happy?”

And that’s the easiest question of all.

Fuck no.

So . . . what the hell am I still doing sitting here?

I stand up. I leave the briefcase, the paperwork. Screw it all. “I’ve gotta go.”

But just as they’re all smiling, smacking my back, and rushing me toward the door, my boss, Jonas Adams, walks through it.

“Good evening, everyone.”

There’s greetings all around. And not a little shock—because Jonas Adams, founding partner, doesn’t come to his associates’ offices. Not ever.

He clears his throat. “There’s been an incident, Mr. Becker. Mrs. Holten has, unfortunately, taken a fall down a flight of stairs.”

The excitement and anticipation that was bursting out of me just seconds ago shrivels on the vine. My eyes close and I swallow hard, and there’s not a sound in the room, except for my question.

“Is she alive?”

Adams takes off his glasses and cleans them with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Oh yes, Sabrina is alive, just a bit bruised. The police have arrested Senator Holten, so I’ll need you to head down to the precinct, assist him with any interrogations they may attempt, arrange for bail—”

“No.”

The one syllable is so clear and sounds so right on my lips. Almost as right as Chelsea’s name. I know the kind of man I am—and I know what I can do. And more important, what I won’t fucking do. Ever again.

“I won’t do that, Mr. Adams.”

His eyes squint, like he can’t see me clearly. “May I ask why not?”

“Because he’s guilty.”

“Has he confessed as much to you?”

“No. But I know he hurts his wife.”

Adams’s cheeks bloom angry red and his chest puffs out. I’ve wondered if Jonas is really that blind or just willfully ignorant. Either way, doesn’t matter.

“William Holten is a client of this firm, and more than that, he has been my friend for over forty years. He deserves a defense.”

“Not from me.” I shake my head, staring him down.

Adams’s lips tighten into a nasty little bow. “Mr. Becker, you should think very carefully about your next words, because they will determine your fut—”