Unedited, subject to change, cause that’s what I do, I change things. Enjoy!
I leaned over and grabbed my phone from its charging dock. It was past 9 o’clock, but I knew Gibson would be awake and I didn’t want to wait until morning to tell him to move forward.
Petition looks great. Everything I wanted. I know we won’t get it all, but it’s worth asking, right?
I hadn’t expected a response, but three dots appeared on my screen as soon as I sent the text.
Gibson Kincaid: Always worth asking. I’ll file in the morning. And place the ad in the AJC.
My heart galloped double time at the thought. I knew Warren would see the notice in the paper. Could we do the ad kind of sneaky? Maybe the Sunday edition? I’d at least get the weekend to be happy.
Gibson Kincaid: Whatever you like. I can aim for Sunday. That’ll be a thick one and he might not even see it.
Oh, he’ll see it. I smirked, knowing Warren. He was an online and print subscriber, and Sonja was right— he was the type to google himself. I just want to delay it, if I can.
Gibson Kincaid: Agreed, then. Sunday. You nervous?
Terrified. I hope I can sleep. I did some aromatherapy, though. I feel more relaxed than I did earlier.
Gibson Kincaid: I thought you left early to see your girls? You worked in a spa appointment?
Oh, no. Home-made spa. You hook this thing up to your shower… I chuckled, stopping myself from over-explaining a girly shower thing to a man. What am I talking about? You don’t care.
Gibson Kincaid: and…
And… it mixes essential oils with the steam and the water. It energizes or relaxes or de-stresses. You actually care about this?
Gibson Kincaid: I’ll be honest… I have no idea what you’re talking about. But if it helps, I’m happy for you.
It helps. Matter of fact, I feel pretty relaxed right now.
Gibson Kincaid: So that’s from the aroma thing. Or is it me?
I smiled, knowing this conversation was very slowly moving into an inppropriate exchange between client and attorney. But also not caring.
Probably a little of both. Though you’re pretty soothing. You have a way about you…
Gibson Kincaid: A way? Is that like… feeling a way about something? Is feeling a way a bad thing?
*laughing* No. Not bad. You’re good at reassuring, Keeping your promises. I guess you’re good at the rescue thing.
Gibson Kincaid: Rescue? Is that what you think I’m doing? Rescuing you?
Whether you intend to or not, I feel like you’re hauling me out of a burning building. I’m grateful.
Gibson Kincaid: When you’re paying for my work, gratitude is not necessary. Cashier’s check or credit card will do fine. :)
So… has your mother found out about your newest client yet?
Gibson Kincaid: Oh yeah.
Gibson Kincaid: And…she’s not happy. Let’s say that.
I cringed, hoping I wouldn’t see Sylvia Kincaid soon. Or ever. Damn. I hope it’s nothing irreparable…
Gibson Kincaid: My issues with my mother didn’t start with you or your case and won’t end there. Don’t feel bad.
Gibson Kincaid: I do things differently than she would. Than she wants me to. But I can look myself in the mirror and I can sleep at night. Makes it worth dealing with her.
Ever thought of… just… not working for her?
Gibson Kincaid: If you only knew.
So, yes? :)
Gibson Kincaid: In a word, yes. I’m working on it.
Gibson Kincaid: Listen, I’m still at Sam’s and he’s running the sweeper and mumbling about people still sitting here. Guessing he means me.
Gibson Kincaid: I’m going to pack up and head home. It’s a drive out to my house and I shouldn’t have sat here this late.
I’m sorry to keep you. I could have texted in the morning, I guess.
Gibson Kincaid: Don’t be sorry. You brightened my night.
My face burned hot at the perceived compliment from Gibson. Did he mean it to sound that way? Probably not. But I was reading it as one. And enjoying being complimented.
Ok. Talk soon…pls let me know when you file.
Gibson Kincaid: Of course. Talk soon.
I pressed the lock button on the phone and plugged it back into the charger, snapped off the lamp and settled back against the pile of pillows under my head. Sleep was coming for me, fast and furious.
But first, thoughts of Gibson Kincaid danced through my head. His deep, sexy voice and wide, sexy smile and muscular, sexy arms and smooth, sexy, chocolate skin and… sex, sex, sex, sex, sex.
I wanted to have sex with Gibson Kincaid. Loud, filthy, delicious, liberating, satisfying sex.
The kind of sex that reminds you why people have sex. The kind of sex where you can’t walk right afterward. And you don’t give a shit.
I wanted that kind of sex. With Gibson Kincaid.
I heaved a frustrated sigh and rolled over, fighting the urge to kick up a fantasy starring my divorce attorney and stroke myself to a sweaty orgasm. I was, thankfully, exhausted, every breath bringing me closer to deep slumber.
Besides… he’s a man with an S on his chest, I thought, right before I fell asleep.