

### Dedicated to my fellow jurors in Courtroom 3B

Love & Jury Duty

Copyright © 2019

by

Mareta L. Miller

Edited by Karen Boston Editing & Proofreading

This is a work of fiction. All names, locations, and characters are fictitious and are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, address the publisher at: Mareta L. Miller PO Box 12573 Las Vegas, NV 89112

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Inspiration & Acknowledgments

"Mom! We're going to be late!" Melissa yells from the living room.

I shove one last item in my bag and pull the lid over so I can no longer see the contents; hence, no more changing my mind. But it doesn't stop me from going through my mental checklist one more time. Make-up, check. Toiletries, check. Enough clothes for six days and seven nights in paradise, check. Bathing suits, both one and two-piece, check. Something sexy and a little sassy, double check.

I pull the zipper closed and heave the suitcase off the bed, nearly falling to the floor with it. I look around, sure I'm forgetting something, but nothing jumps out at me. Enough procrastinating. It's time to go.

I grab my garment bag off the hook and head to the living room, where Melissa is all but pleased with my tardiness.

"Our appointment is in twenty minutes. If we don't hurry, they're going to bump us."

"No, they won't. They'll wait."

"That's not the point, Mom. I want this day to be perfect."

"It will be. Why are you the one freaking out anyway? Shouldn't I be the one losing my shit today?"

"Classic role reversal. It's like you're the daughter and I'm the mother. It's a big day, your big day, and—" She wipes a tear from her eye. "I'm just so happy for you, and you deserve the best day ever."

"It already is, honey. For the first time in years, I have everything I could ever want. And this time, I believe it's for keeps."

Melissa smiles and looks at her watch. "We have to go, bride to be. I'll take your bag, you get your dress and get to the car. No more pussyfootin' around."

"Did you just say—"

"Yes, I did! Now move it, lady!"

Well, never did I ever think I'd hear my words coming out of my daughters' mouth. But now that I have, I do an inward fist-pump and give myself an _Awesome Mom_ award.

I shovel into her car while she loads my bag and, gasping for breath, hops in the driver's seat.

"What the heck did you pack? That thing weighs a ton."

"If someone hadn't booked our flight to leave so soon after the reception, someone wouldn't have been carrying my heavy bag."

"It sounds like you're complaining an awful lot about your Hawaiian honeymoon. And I just followed the directions your groom gave me."

"I'm not complaining; just saying."

"Did you finish your vows?" Melissa asks.

"I did."

"Can I hear them?"

"Later, with everyone else."

"You're being such a brat today, but since it's your day, I'm going to let it slide."

"Why, thanks, kiddo."

A hair, nails, and a make-up session later, I'm standing in front of a full-length mirror. I never thought I'd do this again. I pull the folded piece of paper from my bra and open it to read the vows I wrote. I'd like not to have to read them at all, to know them by heart, but I just know having him there in front of me will turn my mind to mush.

I read over the words, laughing as I recall the moment I first saw him. I remember how it all began, and the two unlikely words that were the beginning to our happy ending: Jury Duty.

Five. That was my lucky – or maybe I should say unlucky – number. Five times, I've cringed while going through the day's mail and seeing the tri-folded, blue and red printed piece of paper that bears the two words that immediately turn a majority of the population's stomach—Jury Duty. The words that remind you it's your duty to serve as a citizen but the rest of your life, or at least a few days of it, are now in the hands of the court system. The words that break down to forty bucks a day, but only after the second day, keeping someone else's secret, and deciding a stranger's fate.

Now don't get me wrong, I'd rather be on this side of the law than the other, but still, there's something about those two little words that make your blood run cold and anxiety set in. The first time I was called, I was nineteen and received an excuse the old-fashioned way. I called in and enthusiastically told the woman on the other end of the line that I'd love to embrace my duty, then asked if they provided daycare for my six-month-old infant. After a short pause, I was released. That wasn't even the result I was looking for, but it was a classic get out of jail free card, so to speak.

The second time was quite a few years later and after my divorce left me a single mom and a job that wouldn't pay me while I was gone. Considering I'd already had to pawn the jewelry my ex had given me to pay the power bill, no pay was not an option. So, my boss wrote me a letter stating as much, and I sent it in. I never actually got a confirmation, but as far as I was concerned, I was excused because they never came looking for me.

Three and four came at times when I had a job that would gladly pay for my servitude and a couple days out of the office sounded like a vacation to me. I eagerly called the night before to see if I'd be calling my boss to break the news or if I'd be showing up in the same bleary fashion I always did. I listened as the numbers were read off, and to my dismay, I would indeed be joining my co-workers for another good ole day at the office, followed by another night of more wine than should ever be drank by a single woman.

That brings me to number five. I received it during the busiest part of the year—tax season. Being an independent CPA, I can't miss any time between February and April. So, I logged on to register, and after hovering over the excuse button, my eyes were drawn to another option that didn't seem so lame—I could postpone. Why, thank you, kind sir, it's a win-win. I had sixty days (awesome), and I even picked a date in the middle of the week, thinking it might get me off all together. That day is tomorrow. I'm crossing my fingers and hoping I'll be passed up, but somehow I know this is it, my lucky days are over. My final notice came in the mail a couple weeks ago and logged me as juror number forty-one; that can't be good. Out of the fifteen hundred or so originally summoned, it seemed a pretty fair possibility that even if I didn't end up getting chosen in the end, the day would be wasted just going through the process. But I couldn't deny that I'm curious. What kind of case might it be? Will it be some stupid small claims case, or maybe a civil suit where some lowlife is looking for a pay-off? Maybe a murder case? Now, that piques my interest. I've always been intrigued by forensic science; just ask the numerous seasons of CSI that live in my Netflix que.

The line rings, the automated message plays, and my reservation for nine-thirty tomorrow morning is confirmed. It's annoying, but I knew it was going to happen. Rather than feeling pissed off or irritated about it, all I can think is, Woohoo, I get to sleep in.

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke up this morning, took my time showering, kissed my girl goodbye as she left for her seven o'clock class, then enjoyed an extra cup of coffee out on the patio near my pond. My turtle popped up her head to say good morning, and my fish sucked at the water's surface, hoping I'd throw them some food. I could get used to this. No place to be before nine, time to take a real shower, where cutting myself while shaving in a hurry wasn't the norm. Unfortunately, today is the only day I'll allow myself this concession. Whether I'm chosen or not, tomorrow it's back to seven AM, whether it's to catch up or keep up. My daughter does some filing for me, but when it comes to the CPA side of things, it's all me.

A little nervous about driving somewhere I've never actually been, I leave a little earlier than I think I need to. It would be my luck that the one time I get lost is when I'm at the court's mercy and afraid to hear those famous courtroom words: "You're in contempt!" I laugh out loud, just thinking of how stupid that sounds and really should cut back on my binge watching of Bull. Wait, can that really happen? If I'm late, will they fine me? Make me come back another day? Or worse yet, arrest me? Let's not find out.

I find my way to the suggested parking and walk the two and a half blocks to the courthouse wearing less than optimal shoes. I make myself shoeless, watchless, phoneless, and bracletteless to enter the courthouse, but the damn alarm goes off anyway. The officer starts wanding me down, around each arm, between my legs - like I'm trying to smuggle in Ben Wa balls or something - then up my back, where the alarm damning culprit was clearly detected with a red light and buzz. My bra clasp? Really? All this because I have tits, I swear! Then with a straight face, I'm released. After getting myself back together, I set out to find the Jury Services room on the third floor.

I walk past the bathrooms and vending machines, making a mental note of where to find them later, then into the room where the first part of my daily feat will be decided. Will the numbers excuse me, or will I become a prisoner of the system?

I walk up to a kiosk, figuring they're there to help streamline the system, only to see an unavailable sign permanently attached. My eyes then wander over to a less professional looking sign on the countertop that says "Take a seat, you'll be called shortly." As one who reads and follows instructions, I spy a seat that has one available on each side and make that my spot for the time being. A quick glance at my watch tells me I shouldn't have to wait long and pulling out my book to start reading probably won't get me far, so I sit and people watch, a favorite pastime of mine.

I watch as others enter the room, going straight over to the kiosk as I did, but rather than reading the sign and believing its words, they scan their juror badges and watch on as nothing happens. This happens time and time again, and I laugh and make comments under my breath about how stupid these people are. One man sitting a couple rows in front of me finally turns around and gives me a smile, acknowledging that he's finding this amusing as well. Then it dawns on me that maybe this is a test. Maybe it's the way the court system can weed out undesirables we obviously don't want making decisions for anyone else. I make a mental note to pay a little more attention to the faces of those who try to use the machines, as well as how many of them make it into the final pool - that's if I have to stick around long enough to become part of the final pool myself.

Watching all the bodies shuffle in, I look at my watch again. We've got about ten minutes before this show should start, and I'm already dying of boredom. I decide to wander to the vending machine for a drink and snack. I see the machine accepts Applepay; well, I just happen to have some Apple money stuck in my phone. A tap here, and I punch in my number, but nothing happens. Really? It's not enough that I'm at the courthouse for a crime I didn't commit, now they're keeping me from my vanilla Frappuccino, too? Have I mentioned lately how much I hate this?

Now I have no choice but to go back in the room and take a seat - with no coffee, mind you. But not too long goes by before a very hipster looking young man approaches the front of the room and introduces himself as one of the Jurors Services employees. He gives us a brief breakdown of how they'll get everyone checked in and that we'll be watching an introduction video to prepare us for what we might encounter throughout the process. Checking in goes surprisingly fast, then he drops the screen from the ceiling for the video introduction. Of course, the video is narrated by one of our local newscast's most famous married couples, and they present the whole thing in the most bubbly and charismatic way, reminding me too much of Elle Woods' Harvard entrance video. Do they really think making this thing sound fun is going to make people want to do it?

When the video's finished, the hipster stands before us again and announces that there are more people than they need today and he's going to read off a number range of those who may be excused. The room quiets, and everyone listens intently, fingers crossed, hoping their number will be read.

"Numbers ninety through one fifty, you are excused, and your jury service is considered complete."

As if I'd forgotten - which I hadn't - I look back down at my juror badge and see that ugly number forty-one staring back at me.

Why couldn't you just have had fifty more added to you? I'd be scot-free, I ask it as though it had any say in this at all.

I've decided in this moment that I have as good a chance as any of the other ninety people in this room of actually being chosen to be on a jury. I can either concede to this idea and make the rest of my servitude much easier on myself or have an attitude and ensure I'll hate everything about everything involved in the process. Knowing my attitude will surely impact the outcome, I choose to relax and see this experience for what it is: a new and probably not so exciting experience.

It's not too long before we're lining up like kindergarteners in numerical order. "Get acquainted with your neighbors," he says, "because you need to stay in this order throughout the process."

I look in front of and behind me to note the faces I'll need to identify my location in the line that's nearly seventy people long. The man behind me wears a bright yellow shirt, like the ones construction workers wear. The man in front of me is turned the other way, so the first thing I notice is his ass.

Yup, this is my spot. I could look at this view all day.

He then turns around. As nice as the view from the backside is, this is even better. His eyes are the first thing I notice; they're as blue as the sky that shines through the skylight in the center of the building I saw when I walked in. Then he smiles. It's a little crooked but showcases the most kissable looking lips I've seen in years. I estimate that he's around the same age as me, give or take a couple of years. Totally doable; no cradle robbing for me today.

Now, I've been out of the game for a while, choosing to focus on my daughter and career, but one glance at this man, and I'm thinking I may just be ready to hop back on the saddle \- specifically his.

Then I do it. I always do it. My brain goes rogue and takes my mouth with it. I say something totally stupid, unretractable, and louder than I intend.

"Got it, yellow shirt," hooking my thumb over my shoulder, "and nice ass," I point at it, the nice ass that is.

Just kill me now. I bring my hand to my face and take a sly look around, hoping I only imagined the words falling from my mouth.

I get a nod from yellow shirt guy and a blast of that crooked smile and chuckle from nice ass guy. It totally happened. Maybe I should faint so I can make a bigger spectacle of myself; I bet I'd get excused if I ended up on the floor. Maybe Mr. Nice Ass would even give me mouth to mouth. This could be an idea worth considering. But I can't follow through with it. If I do, I may never know Mr. Nice Ass's name. He'd just forever be the guy I conned into saving my life.

We stand there, waiting to be beckoned. Some complaining, some playing drama queen about having to stand, and some of them actually leaving the line to sit. I'm on my phone, checking emails and trying to keep my mouth shut—it's already embarrassed me enough for one day.

Finally, the marshal makes an announcement that we're moving out and to follow him, sure to maintain our places. Like good little boys and girls, we follow the leader through the double doors and around the corner until we're halted at the door of Courtroom 3B. He instructs us to power off our phones and gives very basic instructions as to where we'll be seated once inside, then inside we go.

I've only seen the inside of a courtroom once in my life. That was thirteen years ago and a different kind of court altogether. I was challenging my ex for custody of our daughter after he remarried and thought he was going to move my child to the other side of the country. He was wrong. He tried to play me for a fool with all that We'll share custody, and we'll stay living here until she's older bullshit. That's all it was when wifey number two wanted to move to bumfuck Nebraska. I lawyered up and showed his ass he could move wherever the hell he wanted, but my child was staying with me.

The first twenty or so in line file into the juror box and makeshift row in front of it. The rest of us are seated in the peanut gallery. The marshal makes some announcement, but I don't hear him over the beat of my heart as my arm brushes against Nice Ass guy's. Either one or both of us need to get out of this, because I'm not sure I'll be of any use if I'm constantly distracted by him.

A throat clears, and I bring my attention to the judge. My guilty conscience lays down the law, forcing me to behave, act my age, and pay attention.

"I'm Judge Marley..." great, every time I hear his name I'm going to think of an unruly golden Labrador and a flying table, "...and I'll be overseeing this selection process and the case at hand. I'd like to start by saying good morning and thanking you all for sacrificing your time to perform your civil right and duty as a prospective juror. This case is expected to last about a week, starting immediately after the jury is chosen."

A week? Fuck me.

"We'll start by having my recorder take attendance. When you hear your name and badge number, please respond with 'Here' or 'Present', whichever you prefer."

Easy enough, but my mind is stuck on one week. Could this get any worse? Sure, it could; it could take a month. I grasp tight to the positive attitude I promised I'd have.

I listen, not really paying attention as she goes through the names; chances are, most of these people won't be here after today, so there's no sense utilizing that much of my memory. Each person responds when their name is called, but as she gets closer to mine, I que in. I want to hear when she calls Nice Ass's name so I'll have something else to call him. Though I like Nice Ass just fine.

"Owen Mitchell, badge number forty?" Ah-ha!

He answers, "Present" But I've only a second to commit it to memory before my own name is called.

"Hannah Smith, badge number forty-one?"

"Present," I reply before repeating his name in my mind so I won't forget it. Owen. I can't say I've ever met an Owen before.

When the last name is called, the judge moves on.

"Now we'll go around to each of you, and you may make a request to be excused. Keep in mind that I'll only be able to grant very few, so please, let's keep the requests to dire circumstances."

This is my chance. I can plea the fact that I'm self-employed, a single mom putting her kid through college, and I quite simply can't afford to be out for a week. He'll have to pity me and let me off, right?

The microphone goes around the room, and more people than I expected give reasons why they, of all people, should be excused. Anything and everything from vacation plans and flight reservations to medical issues to having grown mentally ill kids living at home who can't be left alone. Each request was met by an interrogation from the judge, who has, no doubt, heard every excuse in the book. He's asked people to reschedule, employ help, and he even went as far as suggesting someone else in the household should take off work to handle things in their absence.

As the other people make their pleas, my excuse doesn't sound so good anymore. Instead of gaining pity, I actually begin to think it'll just cause me more public embarrassment.

The microphone makes its way to Owen, and he passes it to me without initiating a plea of his own, his fingers so briefly grazing mine. I have a split second to decide if I'm going to ride it out or sound like an idiot. I decide to pass the mic on without a word, settling for a deep sigh instead.

When the microphone finally gets to the last person, I don't think anyone in the room is prepared for the arsenal of excuses she spews. She has issues with work, issues with her health, a juvenile delinquent, a grown delinquent, ill parents, ill dogs - you name it, she has it. Of course, she's grilled like all the others, but her answers aren't as well thought out as her excuses. In the end, I feel like an excusal based on lack of intelligence is more likely than for any of her reasons given.

We're excused for a fifteen-minute recess, and just like after a movie lets out, nearly every woman in the room heads for the bathroom. I manage to get the same stall I had earlier and designate it mine for the remainder of my sentence. But unlike earlier, it doesn't dawn on me until I'm opening the stall door that I didn't hear a flush. I look back at the toilet to see that it's manual. A quick thought back to my last visit tells me it's likely I never flushed it. I feel red with embarrassment, but there's nothing I can do now, right? Of all the places in Las Vegas, I'd figure the courthouse would have the latest and greatest, including automatic flushing toilets.

Fifteen minutes later, everyone is back in line. There's chatter among those requesting dismissal, and unfortunately for a couple of them, they expose that their requests are more flexible than they've let on. Liar, liar, pants on fire, I want to say. But it's none of my business, and I'm not five years old.

A few more minutes pass, and we wait. A few more; we're still waiting. I shuffle from foot to foot, turn my phone back on to text my daughter that I'm still under lock and key, and try to look everywhere but at the man in front of me. He stands with his back against the railing, looking perfectly comfortable—perfectly perfect.

How long has it been since the sight of a man has taken me this way? I appreciate handsome men on the daily, but something about this man has me yearning to appreciate him a little closer, a little more hands on, so to speak. Maybe if I could just strike up a conversation, I'd have a reason to stare into his eyes once more. Maybe I'd find out if his inside matches the outside. Maybe—

"Alright! Everybody here? We're ready to go back in," the marshal calls.

Well, maybe will just have to wait until later.

Everyone accounted for, the marshal opens the door and starts shuffling us back into the courtroom. A quick glance at my watch tells me fifteen minutes became thirty-five minutes, and I decide that court time works a lot like football time—sixty minutes of playtime somehow becomes three hours. Go figure.

First order of business, the judge reads off a list of names, explaining that they're officially excused. Most of them are among those I thought had legitimate excuses. Of course, the one with the arsenal of bullshit, true as it may have been, was released. And there are a couple others I feel were actually discarded rather than excused.

Now, I wasn't in the room, but here's how I see it going down. Each of the lawyers listening to all this crap probably get the chance to weigh in. In the end, they both have the goal of winning the case, so each one wants people who can understand, process the evidence, and hopefully decide in their favor. People who sling bullshit excuses to get out aren't likely to handle the task or do it well. Those people become expendable and undesirable; hence, excused.

We shuffle seats to fill in the empties until I'm now the last one in the makeshift row in front of the box. Now I'm sitting right in front of the judge.

He goes through a list of group questions that don't require explanation unless they apply to me, which none of them does. Questions like, have you ever served on a jury? Are you a felon? Do you recognize any of the parties involved? Do you know any of the counsel?

While others had explanations to offer, I sat silent. I listen intently, sizing up their answers, and form my own theories of who would be discarded next. It's like a game at this point. Hey, what else do I have to do?

Owen sits silent, as I do, and I cheer inside. If I do get chosen, maybe he will, too.

My stomach starts to growl, and I damn myself for having a second cup of coffee with no food. I look around, hoping no one else heard it, and just when I think I'm in the clear, it growls again.

This time, there's no doubt everyone hears it. Owen doesn't look at me, but I can see his lips curve into a smile and his shoulders shake with a silent chuckle. And the judge, after casting me a glance, looks up at the clock.

"I think we should go ahead and break for lunch. It's twelve forty-five now, so let's have everyone back at one forty-five to resume." He turns his focus to all of the prospective jurors, probably assuming not many of us planned on still being here for lunch. "There's a sandwich shop on the first floor, and across the street there're a few places to choose from. You're excused for now, and we'll see you back at one—let's make it two o'clock. Have a good lunch." His eyes fall directly on me, a knowing smirk on his face.

Everyone rises for us, and we file out of the room. I head in the direction of the sandwich shop, not wanting to have to come back through security. I'm one of the first to get in the line, and with a quick look at the menu, I decide on a small sandwich and a salad. Oh, and a large Coke. I'm going to need it to make it through the afternoon.

One of the other women in my jury pool stands behind me. We struck up some small talk while waiting in line earlier, so I know she has a son who just started college this year. But the tie that binds us is the sisterhood of single moms.

When the man at the register tells me my total is almost thirteen dollars, we both sigh aloud.

"That better be one hell of a sandwich," she says.

"For this much, it better be an excellent sandwich. Though I'm not really counting on it."

She looks at me in agreement, and I step away while she places her order. Then she comes to join me on the pick-up side.

"Hi, I'm Lani." She holds out her hand and splays a friendly smile.

She's an island girl with long, beautiful jet-black hair, the perfect tan complexion, complete with a plumeria flower behind her right ear. If I had to guess her age, I'd put her in her early thirties—the combination of Asian and islander blood acting as a fountain of youth flowing through her veins. I can already tell I'm going to like this girl.

"I'm Hannah. It's nice to refer to someone as a name rather than a number."

"Right? The process seems so impersonal. I figure if I have to do it, I want to make the best of it."

"My thoughts exactly."

They call my name, and I collect my tray, then I walk over to the counter to get cutlery and condiments. I linger subtly while Lani collects her lunch, and we walk together, finding an empty table. But it's not a clean one. Without missing a beat, Lani reaches into her bag and pulls out a handy wipe.

"I always have wipes in my bag just for times like this." She smiles and cleans the tabletop before taking a seat.

I sit down across from her and pull my phone and power it up, unwrapping my sandwich while I wait. I don't think I've been MIA this long in forever. Between work and my daughter, I'm never off the grid. I look over at Lani as she's checking her phone, too, and I have a clear view of her juror badge. I notice it reads Lokelani Kahele.

"Lokelani? That's pretty. Did I say it right?"

"You did, but a lot of people don't. That's why I just go by Lani." She looks down at her phone, and her eyes go wide. "God, my boss is blowing up my phone, asking if I've managed to get out of this yet."

"Nope, you're still a prisoner."

"Right? You know I was going to ask to be excused, but after hearing all the others, I decided not to embarrass myself."

"Same. I didn't want to get grilled in front of the entire room; it wasn't worth it. I get it though. He's probably heard every excuse there is."

"True. That's why I sucked it up and kept my mouth shut. My boss is cool. We'll work something out. What about yours?"

"Well, considering she's me, my boss is pretty fucking amazing." Whoops! I didn't mean to drop an F'bomb so soon, especially in front of a someone I just met. Which way will this go?

"Wow, that's cool. What do you do?"

Yay, she's still with me for the moment, but before I can answer, I hear another voice. One that, in the few words I've heard, I'd be able to identify anywhere.

"Do you ladies mind if I sit with you?" He motions to one of the empty seats at our table.

"Sure. Help yourself," I say, all of a sudden feeling like the heat has been turned up in the room.

He sits down with his burger, and I stir my salad to keep myself from staring at him. But steal a glace or two out of the corner of my eye. I pick up my sandwich, which seems like a practical thing to do since it's lunch. What wasn't a practical foresight was the blob of mustard that manages to fall onto my hair as I take a bite. I just can't take me anywhere.

"Here." Owen hands me a napkin, and I reach out to take it from him.

"Thanks. It's my first time eating a sandwich in public." I motion to my mess, and he smiles.

"Well, lesson number one. If it's a good sandwich, it's worth the mess." He winks, and I melt inside. Then he picks up his burger, and as if to make me feel better, he takes a bite that dribbles down the front of his shirt.

Chewing a mouth full of food, he shrugs. "That rule applies to burgers, too. This is a pretty good burger," he says after swallowing. Lani and I laugh, and he takes another huge bite.

My phone jingles with an alert, and I look over mid-bite to see an email from one of my clients.

"Looks like I'll either be going to work after we get out of here or early in the morning, depending on how far we get today."

"What is it that you do?" Lani asks, and out of the corner of my eye I can see Owen listening in.

"I have a small, very small CPA firm. Just me, myself, and I. But I get by. What about you guys? What are you missing to serve the court?"

"I'm in construction, a project supervisor," Owen answers before putting a fry, almost seductively, into his mouth.

"I work for an event planner. I'm her right hand...actually, her only hand right now because we have one girl out on maternity leave and another on vacation. She's pretty much freaking out that I'm here but understands there's nothing I can do about it," Lani answers. Everything she says sounds so positive, even when it's not. Like a rainbow after a rainy day.

"I kinda figured this was going to happen though—getting to this point. I got my first notice back in March. With tax season in full swing, there was just no way I could put work on hold. So, I postponed the inevitable. I just knew they'd make me pay for it somehow. Voila, here I am, having my thirteen-dollar lunch with you fine people at the courthouse."

"I postponed mine, too," Lani admits.

"Me, too," Owen adds.

"So, we're like a group of flunkies. The postponers. It doesn't sound as cool as The Outsiders, but we're also not a gang of greasers in Oklahoma." They both laugh, and I start to think maybe this jury thing isn't going to be so bad after all.

They were only ten minutes late letting us back in, and I notice one more person gone. I remember her asking the marshal if she could stay to talk with the judge privately when we were excused for lunch. She had plane tickets booked by her husband's company so she could go see where his promotion was moving them. If I was her, I'd get it, but I'm not, and the darker parts of me only heard whining from a rich housewife. Most of us are losing money by being here, but being able to see her next rich housewife city is so much more important than that. I'm sure.

We're shuffled down one more seat, and I'm no longer the last in the front row. The strategy has shifted to asking more direct questions of each potential juror. The first few I found intriguing, but since then I've become bored. Each person is being asked the exact same, if not very similar, questions to determine our personal stance on the trial subject matter. The plaintiff's attorney, Mr. Barnes', voice is so monotone and his questions so repetitive that it's taking all I have to stay awake and not daydream of a knife to the head.

So far, I've examined the carpet, noting the alignment of the blocks and trying to match them up. I've counted the plugs at the bottom of the judge's podium and the witness stand. I've counted the lights on the ceiling and noted there are sixteen, but none of them is lit because the hidden track lighting is being used. There are three fire alarm pulls on the walls and five fire sprinklers on the ceiling. To be honest, if someone came in here with a gun right now, I probably wouldn't remember one damn thing about them, but I could sketch this room down to the finest details.

It's a medical malpractice suit, so there are a lot of questions about our relationships with doctors. They want to know how we feel about training in both our personal careers and theirs. They also ask about spouses, personal interests, and notably the most important of all, whether we're capable of awarding money for pain and suffering. Every single time he asks that particular question, he explains it again, like we didn't hear him explain it before. I'm about to choke him.

Because I'm the last in the hot seats, I start building my answers for when I'm asked. The smart ass in me just wants to answer everything he's going to ask in the form of a monologue, but I know I don't have the nerve.

The attorney begins questioning the woman seated behind me, and, as it has about seven times before, the money question comes up—again.

"I've heard you explain over and over to everyone before me. All you can ask for is money. And yes, I am capable of following that instruction if and when needed."

I may not have had the balls to say it, but damn, somebody did. You go, girl.

Thank goodness I wasn't taking a drink, because Mr. Barnes may have been wearing it. I don't even try to hide my laugh, and neither does anyone else being interrogated. I'd actually love to turn and give her a high-five for saying what all of us were thinking, but the real question is, will Mr. Barnes pick up what she was putting down?

He keeps moving through the rows, asking his questions. Thankfully, he's moving along a little quicker now. The killer is that he gives no indication as to whether or not the answers are putting anyone in the keep or toss category. Sometimes he makes notes, sometimes he doesn't. It's really very much like being in a therapist's office. You just want to see what the hell they're writing!

The microphone is passed to Lani, then he starts the drill her.

"Locolani, did I pronounce that correctly?" I giggle under my breath. He just called her Loco.

"Close enough, I go by Lani." She's sweet about it.

He starts with employment and marital status, which I already know the answers to. Her answers are short and sweet, which makes his questioning shorter and sweeter. I'm definitely following her lead.

Next up is Owen, and my carpet tile counting gets put on hold.

"Mr. Mitchell," he starts, "it says here you work in construction?" Oh, come on, skip the boring questions and get to the good stuff. I need intel here. I listen in closely.

"Yes, sir, I'm a project supervisor," Owen answers proudly.

"And what's your marital status?"

There we go.

"I'm single."

The rest follows suit, with more case-related questions, and I zone them out. I'm focused on single, mature, and employed. What else do I need to know about him right now?

When Owen is finished, I prepare for my questioning. But instead of turning his focus to me, Mr. Barnes looks to the judge. "Shall I go on, or will we continue this tomorrow?"

Wait, what? I just sat here watching you take all day to do what could've been done in a couple of hours to be first on tomorrow's itinerary? If I had laser eyes, he'd be bacon.

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea. We'll start tomorrow at nine. Everyone, be here and ready to go so we can get through this tomorrow."

Everyone stands, and we shuffle out for the last time today. I'm left to obsess over my answers until tomorrow. At least then I'll start getting paid my whopping forty bucks a day, and I'll get to see Owen again.

We all head for the single escalator that leads to freedom for the evening. I'll go spend a couple of hours at the office, then probably stop at Taco Bell on my way home. My kid can't be mad at me when I come home late but bearing tacos.

The building is pretty much empty except for security and the janitorial staff, who has his earbuds in and is rocking out. It's not intentional, but because we all parked in the same garage, we walk the two blocks as a group, then everyone scatters in different directions inside the garage.

Lani and I take the stairs, and I exit on the third flight.

"Goodnight Loco! See you in the morning." Giggles erupt from both of us.

"Right Hannah banana!"

"Like I've never heard that one before!" I yell after her.

"See you tomorrow!" she yells from the floor above.

I walk to my car, digging my keys and parking ticket out of my bag as I get closer but stop when I hear my name.

"Hannah!"

I stop and turn to who's beckoned me. If I hadn't recognized the voice, this would have freaked me the fuck out.

"Owen. Are you lost?"

"Um, no. I'm parked right there." He presses a button on his keys, and the taillights of a truck blink. "I was wondering if you'd like to go get a drink or something?"

Whoa. What?

"I'm sorry but I need to go to my office for a bit, catch up on emails and stuff. You know how it is." By the look he's giving me, he recognizes the blow off speech when he hears one. But that's really not what I'm doing at all. I'm trying to talk myself out of going to work because having a drink with him sounds a thousand times better. "But I am thirsty and I'd totally love a beer right now." Ditching work is totally worth the crooked smile on his face.

"Which direction is home for you?" he asks.

"Henderson. You?" I keep it vague because despite how perfect he looks, he could just be crazy.

"Henderson. Small world, isn't it?" Whoa.

"Definitely. So where to, then?" You're letting him chose? Yes, dumb ass, because you never go anywhere.

"You know Brady's, behind the mall?" Owen asks.

"I've never been there, but I've driven by."

"I'll meet you there, then?"

"Okay." Honestly, that's all I've got...well, that and a racing heart.

He fidgets with his keys for a second, as do I, then with a smile he turns to walk toward his truck. I watch him, you know—his nice ass and all—until he's out of sight. I then finish the walk to my car. Did that really just happen? Did we just have a conversation and arrange a date in less than fifty words? And did I really say yes?

I haven't been out of the game completely since my divorce, but I haven't been an MVP either. My daughter, school, and career have always taken priority while my love life took a back seat. But now Melissa's in college, with a boyfriend of her own. My firm is doing as well as I could've hoped for. And a hot guy who, on the surface, has his shit together just asked me out for a drink. I think I owe it to myself to have that drink and stare at his beautiful face all I want for the next hour or two.

I pull into the parking lot, which is pretty empty, but it is a Wednesday night. A pair of headlights pull in and park in the spot beside me, and I look over at him and see a smirk, telling me he has something he can't wait to say. I grab my purse and step out of the car, just dying to hear what it is. But as I near the back of my car, I catch him looking at my feet.

Great! He's got a foot fetish. I knew he had to be a weirdo.

"I just don't get it." He crosses his arms and brings his hand to his chin.

"Get what?"

"How those little feet could be so heavy on the gas pedal—I may never know." I can't help giggling. It's not the first time I've been called a speed demon.

"They're good at kicking ass, too—keep it up, and you might just find out."

He raises his hands in surrender. "Got it. Though I do love a good challenge."

"Noted. Right now, I challenge you to stop giving me shit about my driving and buy me that drink you promised."

"Challenge accepted." He waves me on to walk beside him, and that's exactly where I want to be.

We walk into Brady's, and I look around, not really sure what I'm seeing.

"What is this place?"

"It's like a Chuck E. Cheese's for grown-ups."

I look around and see arcade games, pool tables, video poker, and a wall covered in televisions with recliners. One wall has beaded necklaces, with a logo for every sports team I can think of, but off to the right is the food and bar; that's what I'm talking about.

"So, what'll it be? Are you a beer girl or vodka slushie girl?"

"Not that I'd be compromising my status as a woman with the slushie, but I'm a beer girl. An IPA girl, but since I have to drive, a Corona will do."

"Two Coronas, please," he says to the lady behind the bar, "and twenty in tokens."

"You got it."

"Tokens?" I whisper.

"Yup. I told you, Chuck E. Cheese's. We're going to take our beers and play games, collect tickets, and see what we can get."

"I'm pretty badass at skeeball, or at least I was at my daughter's tenth birthday."

"That was just last year, right?"

"Please, if you thought you were getting yourself a younger woman, I'm flattered, but you're wrong. My daughter is nineteen and a sophomore in college."

"Trust me, I'm not under any illusions of what I'm getting from you. I have no expectations or big plans beyond this moment. I just wanted to have a beer and play some arcade games. And I wanted to do it with you."

I'm blushing, and he knows I know I'm blushing. But I must say, that was the most sincere pick-up line I've ever heard.

The bartender shows up with our beers and token cup. Owen hands me one and clinks his bottle to mine.

"So, where to first? Shoot some hoops, play some classic Centipede, or show me your awesome skeeball skills?"

"Well, my awesome skeeball skills don't quite kick in until after my second beer, but my Centipede game is on point all the time."

"Challenge accepted. But mark my words, you will rue the day you took me on in a game of Centipede. I hope you're not a sore loser."

I give him that oh really? look. "Same. Now put your tokens where your mouth is," I say with attitude.

"I like you. You're feisty."

"You ain't seen nothing yet, Mister." I give him my best Rizzo face, the one that says I'm a bad-ass bitch.

The last three hours and four beers have gone by like I'm hanging out with an old friend. Owen just has a way about him that makes me forget I only met him hours ago. It feels like I've known him for years.

He's never been married, but he was in a fifteen-year relationship. When it ended, it was just him and his fourteen-year-old son, who's now eighteen. He's been with his job for seventeen years and has been offered partner but won't accept it. He says he doesn't want to be the owner because he enjoys being part of the team and getting his hands dirty.

It turns out both of us kick Centipede ass and suck at skeeball. Apparently, my skeeball skill was more like a one-hit wonder than champion of the world material.

I look down at my watch, then back up at Owen.

"Is my time with the princess up for the evening?"

When he puts it like that, I want to say no, but—

"I should get going. Check in on the kiddo, take a hot bath, mentally prepare for the fun tomorrow will bring."

"Another day of jury duty," he says with a sigh.

"Yeah, but so far I think one good thing has come of it."

"And what's that?" he asks.

"If I have to tell you, it's clear the feeling isn't mutual." I know that's not the case, but something inside me wouldn't mind hearing I'm wrong.

"Rest assured, the feeling is very mutual. I just thought maybe you were referring to hearing the judge say 'Marshal', like, a million times in one day or the fact that his name is Judge Marley. I've honestly envisioned an unruly Labrador dragging tables since the minute he introduced himself."

I burst out a full-on belly laugh.

"The marshal thing makes me think of the Cosby skit about Jeffrey on the plane. 'Jeffrey, Jeffrey, Jeffrey, I two years old.' But the fact that he looks like the judge from Night Court has had me since I laid eyes on him," I admit.

"Oh yes!" He burst out in laughter. "I remember that show. That's hilarious!"

When the laughter dies down, we both look at each other, knowing this night must come to an end.

"I'll walk you to your car," he says lightly.

"I'd like that, thank you."

He walks me out, his hand causing tingles at the small of my back. If I were twenty years younger, I'd invite him back to my place. I'd hold on to a guy like him and never let him go. He's the whole package—smart, good looking, successful. Especially at my age, he's a hell of a catch. But I'm not twenty years younger, and that damn thing called responsibility has warped me into thinking that type of behavior is immature at best.

"I had a really good time tonight, Hannah."

We stop at my car, and I turn to him. "I did, too. Thank you."

"I'd like to see you again, Hannah."

"You will—tomorrow. I promise." I smile at my smart aleck remark, then in the most seductive manner an almost forty-year-old woman can muster, I click the lock and open my door.

"You're going to make me work for this, aren't you?"

"Anything worth having is worth working for. I had a wonderful evening."

"Tomorrow, I'll try to beat wonderful. It'll be fabulous, amazing, out of this world." I stifle a giggle; he's just so damn cute.

"Goodnight, Owen."

Sleeping is a task tonight as I toss and turn. His face, his eyes, those kissable lips that were mine for the taking...they'll be all I dream about tonight.

This morning, I zipped right through security. My bra misbehaved again, but I expected it. The man with the wand today was in better spirits than yesterday, and I think he even attempted to flirt with me...hmm, I've never had a cop before.

I stopped for coffee from the little shop inside the courthouse - which, of course, was out of non-dairy creamer - but three sugars and a couple ice cubes make it drinkable. If this morning starts up where yesterday left off, I'm first in the hot seat. My answers to the questions will either seal my fate or put me up for elimination, which I'm not really sure I want anymore.

A voice comes up behind me, and though it's barely a whisper, I tense and tingle at the sound of it.

"Good morning, beautiful."

I can feel his warmth and turn to see the face that consumed my dreams all night. Wow, it's even possible he looks better today than he did yesterday.

"Good morning." I blush and look around to see who may be watching. "Thanks again for last night. I had a great time."

"I did, too. I was thinking if you're free tonight, maybe we could get a bite to eat."

"I'd love to, but I really need to spend a couple hours at the office. You know, try to keep up so I don't have so much to catch up on."

"Any way I can help? Maybe Chinese and an offer to be your personal assistant?"

"You're adorable, Mr. Mitchell."

"Why, thank you. So, what do you say?"

"I like chicken chow mein and spring rolls."

"A woman after my own heart," he says, crossing his hand over his chest. "So, are you ready for your day in the hot seat?"

"It's not like I don't know what he's going to ask. He's pretty predictable."

"Well, as hard of a request as it is, try not to get yourself kicked out. I kinda like having you here. You make the experience more bearable." Swoon much?

"I'll try, but if he asks about my felony record—"

"Felony record? Please. I'll bet you've never even stolen a pack of gum in your whole life." He's got me there. My friends used to call me "Honest Hannah" because I couldn't lie my way out of a paper bag, let alone cheat or steal.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Just a gut feeling."

Somehow, he sees me.

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ms. Smith, how are you holding up?" Mr. Barnes has the floor.

"Fine, sir." He looks at the piece of paper containing the information I gave on my registration survey.

"It says here you work for a CPA firm."

"Yes, sir, I actually own it."

"And do you have employees?"

"Only my daughter, who comes in occasionally to help with filing and such."

"And yet I don't recall you asking for an excusal. Being here must have an impact?"

"It does, but it's not tax season, so I'll make it work."

"So, what kind of training did you have to open your own accounting firm?"

"I completed my bachelor's in accounting, then my master's. I also took business management courses and worked with a mentor for about a year before I took the leap."

"And with all that education and training, do you advertise yourself as an expert in your field?"

"Do I know my job? Yes, I know it well. But I wouldn't say I'm an expert. I'm just one of many competent practitioners. Vegas is a big city."

"I'm sure you're just being modest, Ms. Smith. It also says here that you're divorced?"

"Ten years now."

"And you said you have children?"

"One daughter. She's nineteen and attends UNLV."

"You must be very proud."

I'm sure I'm beaming at being able to brag about it. "Yes, I am."

"Do you have any feelings or objections to the type of procedures my client had done?" He motions to his client, but I do not look her way.

"No, sir. To each his, or her, own."

"And are you able to make a decision of a monetary settlement if the jury finds in my client's favor?"

"Yes, sir. That's the job."

"Thank you very much, Ms. Smith." He motions to the judge that he's done with me.

Wait! What happened to all the fun questions you asked the others? Like what do I do for fun or how I managed to put myself through school as a single mother? I just got royally gypped. I wasn't even given a chance to screw with him.

He moves on to the next victim without batting an eye. Now, like the others, I get to sit and listen again. Counting tiles, lining up patterns, watching the other court staff stare at their computer screens and wondering what they're really looking at. It can't be porn, because all of them can see each other's monitors, but I'm not willing to rule out Amazon, CNN, or Albertsons order online. Maybe even the menu for Jimmy Johns. Speaking of Jimmy Johns, my stomach thinks it's time for lunch already. As long as it stays quiet about it and doesn't repeat yesterday's spectacle, I'm good.

About a half-hour later, Mr. Barnes finishes with the last juror in the box and announces the completion of his voir dire. All I can think is, Thank the freaking Lord, because his voice is giving me a migraine. Then, as though Judge Marley, and Me, could hear my hungry thoughts, he sets us free for lunch.

Lani and I, with our lunchboxes in tow, head for the cafeteria area, while Owen gets in line to order.

"I swear if this afternoon goes like this morning, they won't be choosing me for the jury, because I will go publicly crazy," I say, opening my lunchbox and laying out my food.

"I know! I get what he's trying to do, but repeating the same questions, not even worded differently with everyone...the monotony was killing me."

"I'm just glad I get a break from him standing right in front of me."

"Why?" She starts to take a bite of her sandwich.

"Well, at the risk of you spitting food all over me, please tell me I'm not the only one who's noticed his bulge."

"His what?" Thankfully, she covered her mouth, because that was totally spit worthy.

"Oh, come on!" I exclaim. "He's got a big, fat nut bulge that's been practically staring at me the last two days."

"Okay, I made a mistake. I thought we were the same level of crazy, but you, my friend, are insane."

"Fine, I'm insane. But make me feel a little less perverted and tell me you saw it."

"Saw what?" Owen's voice comes from behind me, and I feel myself turning seven shades of red.

"Um, the defense attorney picking his nose. It was disgusting." I give Lani a wide eye and smile to get her collaboration.

"Oh yeah, totally disgusting," she says, shuddering for dramatic effect.

Awkward conversation averted.

They're only thirty minutes late letting us back in after lunch, and as soon as we're seated, Judge Marley starts to speak. He excuses two more fellow hostages. Be free, butterflies. The pool is shrinking, and my chances of exiting this party are getting smaller and smaller, but so are Lani and Owen's. I think we all agree that if we're going to get stuck here, we'd prefer to be stuck here together.

They move in the last two from the gallery, meaning Mr. Barnes gets to ask more questions. Damn! It takes every bit of strength to keep me from doing one of two things: Either requesting that I ask the questions myself to speed up the process, or asking the two newbies straight up, Have you been listening for the last two days? What's your position? No doubt both would get me in trouble, which is the only reason I keep my mouth shut and count tiles—again.

Yada, yada, yada, and another tile matching session later, he's finally done and another is eliminated. It's like the Hunger Games, without the cold-blooded murder. I make the cannon sound in my head.

I turn behind me to take a headcount. There's seventeen left, and they need nine. For eight more of us, the odds will be in our favor. For the rest, let the Hunger Games begin.

Now it's Mr. Watson's turn. I say a quick, silent prayer. Please make this less painful than your opponent. Prayer almost immediately answered, he starts his spiel by thanking us and apologizing for the process being so boring. But it is part of the process, and he'll try to move his along, keeping it as painless as possible.

He moves on, asking some group questions, only further questioning people who raise their hands to answer. I sit there picking my fingernails and cuticles because none of them applies to me. Because this is a medical malpractice suit, most of the questions are aimed specifically at medical situations and experiences. Medically, my life is pretty uneventful, and since the specific medical matter at hand is cosmetic in nature, I've got nothing to say.

He does bring up some good questions though, that just in basic life make sense. The one I like the most is, if we agree with the statement, if something goes wrong, someone's got to pay. Wow, that's deep, and I give it a moment of thought. Things go wrong every day; some can be avoided, many can't. But does that mean someone needs to pay for it? Especially if it's an accident? I think pay is the word that's wrong in this question. I think taking responsibility and paying are two different things. I also understand the difference between malicious and an accident. I shake my head, relaying my answer as no. I don't believe someone necessarily has to pay. And with that, I consider my jury duty coffin sealed.

As promised, Mr. Watson's questioning is nowhere near as painful and seems to fly by. Judge Marley gives us another break, no doubt to talk about us behind our backs again. As the first out of the room, I stand back to let Lani catch up. I know we're both beelining for the ladies' room.

"So, what do you think? Think you'll be chosen?" she asks while we wash our hands.

"Definitely. I didn't say enough, and I didn't show opposition or favor. I'm pretty sure one of those chairs is mine. What about you?"

"Same. My boss is going to hate it, but it is what it is. I think it'll be an interesting process, but listening to Mr. Barnes for three to four more days—I just don't know if I can do it sober."

"You're telling me. Between his voice and fat nuts, I may need therapy."

We both break into a fit of giggles.

"You and his nuts."

"Don't you ever put me and his nuts in the same sentence again!"

And more giggles.

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, a fifteen-minute break turns into thirty. Contrary to whatever you may think about the court system, punctuality is only a suggestion. When the marshal lets us back into the room, we find Hershey's kisses and Peppermint Patties on our chairs; see, even the judge knew the last couple of days were trying and wants to sweeten us up. The kisses don't tempt me at all, and I toss them into my lunch bag, but he hit the mark with the Peppermint Patties.

"So, having exhausted our gallery, it comes down to all of you. Counsel agrees that of the seventeen of you left, nine can be chosen, and will make up our jury. Now counsel will review the pool and utilize their strikes, review each other's strikes, and collectively choose the jury."

I nod in understanding, as I'm sure everyone else did.

"Marshal, please hand the list to the Mr. Barnes. Mr. Barnes, you'll start."

This list goes back and forth three or four times before both attorneys have done whatever it is they do with it. In my head, I see a paper marked with X's, whose character is expressed with hard, deep lines and red ink. Maybe even some F U's because one or the other was cockblocked form a juror they wanted. It really doesn't matter because we'll never see it.

The marshal hands it back to Judge Marley, and he reviews it. He gives his approval and hands it to the recorder to make the official final draft. My mind goes back and forth in those few minutes. Not that I'm out to ruin lives or anything, but if I am chosen, I want Lani and Owen suffering right along with me.

The recorder hands the list back to the judge for review one more time before he nods in approval and hands it back to her, again.

"The recorder will now read the names of who will serve on this jury." He nods to the recorder, who stands.

"Sara Parker, Hazel Lewi-White, Vivian Sanders, Daisy Rivera, Sam Lopez, Oliver Davis, Lokelani Kahele, Owen Mitchell, and Hannah Smith."

And just like that, I landed my very first spot on a jury and have newfound friends along for the ride.

Judge Marley congratulates us—what a dick move—and swears us in. He briefly explains that eight of us are the jurors who will take part in the deliberations process, and one of us is the alternate juror. It won't be disclosed who's the useless ninth wheel until just before deliberations. Seeing no point in starting the trial with only forty-five minutes left in the day, he gives us this fancy departing speech. In a nutshell, from this day forward, or at least until the trial is over, we can't talk about anything that happens in this room with anyone, including amongst ourselves. And we're not to do any research about the parties or subject matter involved, meaning no CSI shit - damn! He may as well just give me a damn cot in the back room and hold me prisoner, because I love to play with my Google.

He sets us free, and Marshal - whose name isn't really Marshal - asks us to wait in the hall so he can get everyone's numbers in exchange for an emergency number to the court. The trial will officially start at nine tomorrow morning.

"So, I guess this makes us jury buddies," I say to the group. "I'm Hannah, but you can call me Hannah."

I can see them shaking their heads like I'm crazy, everyone but Lani and Owen. The two of them laugh because they already know I am.

Everyone throws out their names, and I try to file them in the good part of my memory. But because I sometimes forget where the good part of my memory is, there's a good chance I'll have to ask some again.

Marshal passes around a notepad for us to write our phone numbers, then passes out parking and contact information for the duration of the trial. This is accompanied by a kind warning that if we don't show up, we'd better be in an accident, admitted to a hospital, or dead. I figure if one person doesn't show up, the alternate gets promoted, but what if two end up out? I'd have to assume that would start the grueling process all over again, and considering how much time's already been invested, that would totally suck.

"Any questions?" Marshal asks.

"What's your real name?" I ask, just needing to know. His name tag shows only a first initial and last name of Jackson.

"Jeramiah," he answers with a smile.

"Do you mind if I call you Marshal? I mean, I've already heard it a million times. It's pretty much committed to memory."

"Marshal is fine."

"Okay, then. See you mañana."

On our last long hall to the garage, we all bid farewells and see you tomorrows. Lani leaves us at the second level, while Owen and I continue to the third.

"So, I'll go get food and meet you there?"

Those giddy little butterflies start fluttering, just like they do every time he mentions us being alone. "Yeah, I'll text you the address."

He opens my car door for me and closes it once I'm inside. As he walks away, I pull out my phone and start to text him my office address, but I pause for a minute before hitting 'send'. Am I crazy? Should I really be doing this? I don't know much about this guy and could be opening the door for a serial killer for all I know.

"You're ridiculous, Hannah." I laugh out loud and hit the 'send' button. "If he is a serial killer, you'll both have pretty awesome reasons for not reporting to jury duty tomorrow."

I unlock the door to my office and turn on the lights. It's a very simple, one room space with a filing closet and bathroom in a fourplex. It's all I need to keep the business at the office and out of my home. I check my drop box to find only a few pieces of mail, mostly junk. There's also a packet from one of my clients, which is nothing difficult or pressing.

I startup my computer, figuring I can get this knocked out pretty quick and go to work entering numbers. Thankfully, this is one of my five-star clients. She always has everything in order, so it's just simple entry, and the program does the rest. After twenty minutes or so, I glance at my watch and figure Owen will be showing up any time. I run to the bathroom, run a brush through my hair, give myself a little spritz of body spray, and once over in the mirror.

"Hannah, what are you doing?" I ask my reflection. And I answer myself like a crazy person. "Either primping for my murder or first kiss in a long, long time. Let's hope it's the latter."

I hear a knock at the door and rush to answer, knowing it's my gentleman caller. I peek through the closed blinds to find Owen, looking handsome as ever with bags in hand. I open the door to let him in, relocking it behind us.

"Where should I put this?" Owen asks me.

"On the desk is fine. Would you like something to drink? I have bottled water and Coke."

"Water is fine."

"Two waters coming right up." Hannah, you're an idiot.

When I return, he has the buckets set out, complete with chopsticks, soy sauce packets, and fortune cookies.

"So, what do we have here?" I ask as I drag my chair around to join him on the other side of the desk.

"Chow mein for the lady. I hope chicken is fine." I nod in approval. "Spring rolls, and I also got some beef and broccoli, crab rangoons - and no Chinese takeout would be complete without fried rice."

"Are you sure you haven't read the Single Woman's Guide to Chinese Dining? Because this looks exactly like my order the last time I bailed on cooking."

"If you're asking if I'm some psycho who fished your takeout order out of the trash—the answer is no, and you should watch less CSI." No, I wasn't thinking that at all...well, not yet, but I probably would have eventually. "Apparently, we have similar tastes."

"Can I admit something?"

"Go for it," he answers.

"I haven't done this in a long while. I mean, have dinner with a man I just met, two nights in a row. And the thought actually crossed my mind that maybe you were a serial killer. You can definitely blame that on too much CSI."

"Did this thought occur to you before or after you gave me the address?"

"Both."

"Wow! You're either a special kind of crazy or the most optimistic woman I've ever met."

"Guilty on both counts." I grab the box of chow mein, douse it with soy sauce, and lift the chopsticks to my mouth but pause. "You're not a serial killer, are you?" I sit frozen, waiting for his answer, not wanting to choke on my noodles if the answer is yes.

"No, Hannah. I'm not a serial killer." I shove the bite in my mouth to keep me quiet for a minute so I don't ask another stupid question. "I'm a lot of things, but I never tried the serial killer thing. I'm a lover, not a killer." Was that last part a prologue to seduction? Because I'm feeling it. Whoa!

"So, these other things you are, are you willing to elaborate? I swear the killer question won't come up again."

"Well, I'm a very amateur golfer, I play saxophone, I scored fourteen-fifty on my SATs, and I play baseball."

"Like, not pro baseball, right?"

"I did play in the minors right out of college, but a life on the road wasn't how I wanted to raise my family. And since the majors weren't promised, I left. I'm perfectly happy playing for a small league. It keeps it fun."

"I'll have you know I played softball in high school. I wasn't super good, but I had a blast and met forever friends. The only two people I still talk to from high school are teammates."

"So, you probably dated a baseball guy? The two kind of pair up, or at least they did when I played back in high school."

"I never did what I was expected. No baseball boys for me. I liked the bad boys. You know, the dark and mysterious, leather clad, motorcycle riding with a cigarette behind the ear type."

"And you were afraid I was a serial killer? Sounds like I should have said yes. I could've gotten you all hot and bothered."

"No! I liked the bad boys, but I never dated them."

"Why?"

"It's stupid." I take another bite to give myself a minute before making a fool out of myself. "I, uh, I was afraid they'd want more than I was willing to give."

"Ah, I get it. Well, I'm not a bad boy, as I hope we've finally established. And it's never too late to date a baseball player. No one's expecting it now." I blush.

"Mr. Mitchell, are you asking me to go steady?"

"Do guys still do that?"

"I have no idea." I laugh.

"If I said I'd like to continue dating you to see where this goes, what would you say?"

"I think I'd say..." Follow your gut, Hannah. "I'd say yes."

"And say I wanted to kiss you...would you allow me?"

I drop my chopsticks into my bucket. "Yes," I answer, breathless.

He leans in, and I meet him halfway. Our lips touch, and it's a good thing I'm sitting, because my knees go weak. I don't ever remember a first kiss making me feel like this, not with anyone. But with Owen, it's a new and life-altering experience.

I instinctively raise my hand to bring us closer but stop just before I almost dump my chow mein down his back. And just like that, the best first kiss ends in a fit of giggles.

"Was it really so bad you were going to dump food on me?" he jokes.

"On the contrary, Mr. Mitchell, it was so good, I forgot I had food in my hand. I wanted more."

"Food?" He's totally fucking with me now.

"Yeah, food! You know what? You're impossible."

He takes the carton from my hands and places it on the desk. "Let's try this again, unarmed."

I pull in my bottom lip with my teeth to hide a smile.

This time he comes to me, bringing his hand to my face, freeing my lip with his thumb, and softly pressing his lips to mine. My hands, free to do as they will, find the front of his shirt and pull him closer. Our tongues dance, our hearts race, and my phone starts ringing with Melissa's ring tone in my purse. Of fucking course!

I pull back just a little. "That's my daughter," I whisper.

"You should answer it."

Reluctantly, I stand and scurry to my purse, catching it just before it stops.

"Hey, honey." I sound so guilty.

"Where are you?"

"I stopped by the office to get some work done. What's up?"

"I'm at home, waiting for you, with a salad and Hulu queued for last night's episode of A Handmaid's Tale." Melissa's words come out as if she's the mother and I'm the daughter here.

"Oh, honey. I totally forgot. This jury duty thing has my schedule all messed up."

"So how was today?" she asks.

"I'm not sure how to answer that. I was chosen as a juror." Owen sits, contently eating, while he listens to my half of the conversation.

"Is that good or bad?"

"Neither, I guess. It just is." I won't say it to her, but with Owen along for the ride, I'm going with good.

"You sound thrilled. So, will you be home soon?"

"Yeah, I'm just finishing up."

"OK, see you soon. Love you, bye." And the line clicks to silence.

"Is everything okay?" Owen stands and walks around the desk to stand in front of me.

"Yeah, she's fine. She's waiting for me to watch this show we usually watch together."

"You need to go, then." It's not a question, but rather the words of an understanding parent.

"Yeah. But Owen..."

I place my hands on his chest...his strong, hard chest.... Hannah, you're losing focus here.

"I don't want to start this with you thinking I'd drop anything and everything every time she calls. She's an adult. It's just that it's been just me and Melissa for so long, we have a groove. You know what I mean?"

"I do, and I don't think that at all. You have your daughter, I have my son, that's the way it is. Sometimes we just need to go."

"For someone I was afraid was a serial killer a couple of hours ago, you're pretty amazing."

"So are you. Let's finish eating, no more funny business." He points at me like I'm the one who started it to begin with, so I raise my hands in surrender. "Then I'll clean up, and I'll walk you out."

"Sounds like a plan."

Coffee in hand, I walk across the street to the courthouse, which is much better than the hike we had the last two days. Through security, up the two escalators, and straight ahead, I find the others waiting. I see Owen talking to Oliver and Sam, probably about some dude thing like baseball or golf, if you can call that a dude thing.

"And so, there were nine," I say in greeting as I approach.

"Not quite yet," Hazel says. "Vivian's not here yet."

"Well, if she doesn't show, we're down to eight and our alternate issue is no longer an issue."

What I wanted to say - but didn't - is, with any luck she won't show up, but I don't share my dislike for her with the others. I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks she's a bitch. Whoopsie, did I just say that? She was one asking for excusal but obviously didn't get it. I don't even remember what her reasoning was, but it obviously wasn't good enough.

Then, as if she knew I'd wished her MIA, she runs towards us. "I'm here! I'm here! I got stuck in traffic."

Who cares?!

Lani gives me the eye, the one that says we're sharing thoughts, and I laugh.

"What's so funny over here?" I can feel the heat in my cheeks at the sound of his voice and wonder if it'll always be this way.

"Nothing," I answer mischievously.

"Sure." He winks and leans in close so only I can hear. "I'll get it out of you later."

"Don't be so sure, Mitchell." His eyes narrow, and I can tell he likes me a little feisty.

"Everybody here?" Marshal calls and does a count. "Good. First thing, you're getting a new badge." He passes them out to us, and we clip them onto our shirts. "Second thing, for the parking garage across the street. Each day, I'll give you a ticket to go with the ticket you received when you parked. You have to scan both tickets to get out. If you lose your ticket, you gotta pay, simple as that. If you need a last-minute bathroom break, go now, because they're going to be ready in a few minutes, and breaks will depend on how everything goes in there."

I give myself a pee check and think I'm good, but then I remember what a bitch my bladder is, especially after coffee. I'd better be safe than sorry. I guess we're all thinking the same thing, because we move like a swarm to the ladies' room. When we return, all the girls are pee-free, and we line up in order at the door. Marshal orders the court to rise for the jury, and we all file in and into the little box that's our space until the trial is over. On our seats are more kisses, a Peppermint Patty, and a small notebook with a pen and our juror number written on it. I hoard the patty for myself, line up the kisses on the partition in front of me, and sit with the notebook in my lap.

"Good morning, everyone," Judge Marley, and Me, starts. "We're going to get started in a few minutes, and as counsel and I discussed, we think we can wrap this up by Wednesday so you can start deliberations and possibly deliver a verdict Thursday. The day of deliberations, we'll get you some bagels and coffee and pizza or sandwiches for lunch.

"The notebooks are for you to take notes. Your notes are confidential and are to stay in this room whenever you leave. I promise no one will look at them. Take note of anything you want or think you may need to remember, or nothing at all. You'll be able to use them in deliberations, but they will be surrendered at the end. During this trial, it is up to you to decide if the testimonies and evidence are helpful in proving guilt or innocence. Some may be helpful, while others may not be. I ask only that you listen to each and decide for yourself.

"So, we'll get started with the opening statements, and maybe get a witness on the stand before lunch. Mr. Barnes, the floor is yours."

Mr. Barnes's opening statement explains all the pain and embarrassment his client sustained at the hand of the doctor and why we should, by the preponderance of evidence, find in her favor. Then Mr. Watson gets up, guns a-blazing, declaring that the doctor did nothing wrong, that what happened was unfortunate, but not the result of negligence.

I do understand and respect the system. I know it has its place, and for the most part, it works, but this part reminds me of when my daughter and nephew used to fight as children. He did this—no, I didn't. Between the two, this goes on for about two and a half hours, and my opinion of the two attorneys' presentation holds true. Though Mr. Barnes has more miles on his tires and, no doubt, knows his stuff, listening to his voice for hours is just painful. Mr. Watson, on the other hand, has charisma, and you find yourself really feeling like you're part of a conversation. Of course, you're not allowed to say anything, but he knows he's got your attention.

The first witness called up is the plaintiff's daughter. For some reason, I find that interesting. In a criminal case, a child or relative would be called to corroborate an alibi, but this is a medical malpractice case. What could she possibly offer that would help me find in her mother's favor? I suppose I'm about to find out.

Mr. Barnes starts the questioning and asks her to recall conversations and describe her mother's behaviors before and after the procedure in question. It's clear he's trying to paint a picture of how this mishap has impacted her life.

I listen to every word, filing them in either the useful or useless category. But there is something I catch and question. The procedure was scheduled seventeen days before her mother's upcoming wedding. I find that odd, given the healing time is approximated at twenty-one days. It's possible the doctor told her it would heal quicker, but why on Earth would you take that chance? Especially when vanity is obviously such a priority?

Then I notice that in all that's said about her mother going from being an extrovert to introvert, life of the party to locked up in her house, the wedding was never mentioned. I'd assume if it went through as planned, she'd have been mortified because she wasn't the glowing bride. Something's not matching up here.

Mr. Barnes passes the witness to Mr. Watson, and I just know he'll get to the bottom of this. He doesn't disappoint me. It's a cat Mr. Barnes didn't let out of the bag on purpose, but it turns out the wedding didn't happen. Not because of her appearance, but because her fiancé suddenly passed ten days before their wedding day. I didn't see that coming. But now it has me questioning all the mood changes. She wasn't just recovering; she was mourning. Strangely, my CSI brain also has me thinking she may have had something to do with his death.

The daughter - whose name I didn't pay attention to, so she'll be referred to as the daughter - is excused from the stand. Unfortunate for Mommy Dearest, I'll be tossing her testimony in the useless file. Nothing she said provided any hard evidence of negligence. Plain and simple.

We're excused for lunch, and that fancy little speech I can now intelligently name as an admonishment was read by Judge Marley to remind us of the no talkie talkie rule, which is harder now than before because now we know stuff.

"What did you bring for lunch today, beautiful?" I look around, wondering who might have heard him. Thankfully, Lani went to the bathroom.

"Can I ask a favor?"

"Anything," Owen answers as he takes a seat across from me.

"Can we keep this whole you and me thing between us, just until the trial is over? I don't want anyone thinking we're tainting the jury or some crazy thing like that."

"I guess I didn't think about it like that." He's thinking; this could get scary. "I'll make you a deal. Here you're just some crazy lady I met in jury duty, but tonight when I take you out, you're the crazy beautiful woman I'm dating." Oh damn, he's good, but—

"I, uh, can't go out tonight. I have plans."

"And what plans could be better than hanging out with me?"

"Not better per se, but I have book club. I chose the book, and I'm hosting this month, so I kinda have to be there."

"Book club, huh? As in—"

"A club for nerdy divorcées who like to read and talk about books, and occasionally drink wine and bitch about life."

"Sounds great! Where can I sign up?" He unwraps his sandwich and takes a huge bite.

"It's women only."

"Ah, so you bitch about men, too? I get it." He feigns offense, but that mischievous smile is in his eyes. "So, tomorrow night, then?"

"Maybe. Text me." I wink and focus on my food as Lani walks up.

"My boss is freaking out. We have an event tomorrow, and she's had to handle all the last-minute details on her own. I told her to chill out and I'll be there in a few hours. Good thing jury duty doesn't do weekends."

"Amen, sister."

We all sit silent for a few minutes, and I know what's on all our minds.

"So, is it just me, or is it weird now that we can't talk about it? Like, before we didn't want to because we didn't know anything, but now—"

"Yes," they say in unison.

"I'm glad we're all on the same page."

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Escorted by Marshal, we take our seats in our little box, and the testimonies resume. Mr. Barnes calls his client, Mrs. Tate, to the stand, and for the first time I get a good look at her. Knowing approximately how old her daughter is, I guess her to be around fifty, but she looks good, except for some scarring I suspect is the reason we're all here.

He starts by asking questions that are almost identical to the ones he asked her daughter. I assume this is to build a platform for the suffering part of the compensation. I'm not inhuman or heartless, and I can see that talking about what she's endured is hard for her. I also see someone who weighs so much of her self-worth based on her looks. I think for her, the emotional trauma is much worse than the physical, but that's because her looks are her addiction.

They show, and enter into evidence, photos from before the procedure and after the procedure, mostly selfies she took. She told us of the crap-load of creams and stuff she uses on the daily and the money she's spent and will continue to spend to repair what was done. But there are holes in her explanations. Like how she never demanded to talk to the doctor instead of one of his employees and often didn't go into the office at all. You'd think someone who was so worried would've been more proactive. But then you throw the death of her fiancé in the mix, and it comes together just a little bit.

The witness is passed on to Mr. Watson for questioning, and he goes right for the solar plexus by producing the consent form and waiver. He goes through it, line by line, noting that Mrs. Tate initialed every box. It blatantly notes the complications she specifically experienced. It goes on to say they're a possibility, even with the best doctor, administering the best care. She knew from the get-go they could happen, and in her case they did.

She's notably and understandably upset, and seeing that, Judge Marley calls for a break. He reads the fancy speech, and we exit the room. As is now normal, all the women in the group go straight for the bathroom, all but Vivian, the obvious outsider. And the men huddle for man talk, all but Owen. He's wandering to the other side of the hall, probably trying to stretch his legs a bit and guess who's hot on his trail. I'm way too old and it's way too early to be getting all jealous and shit, but that woman is testing me.

I wanted to keep us all hush hush, but all I really want to do is walk over there and kiss him for all to see, especially her. But today, I'll pretend to be the grown up I appear to be. I'll go pee and trust he's as crazy about me as he says he is.

The break is a short one, and when we reconvene, Mr. Watson does the honor of finishing out the day by completing his questioning of Mrs. Tate. I know I'm supposed to remain open-minded, hear all the evidence before I form any opinions, and I am. But let's just say that the scales of justice are no longer balanced as far as I can tell. But there's more to hear, and it could still be either side's game.

"Mom. I'm leaving for work," Melissa calls down the hallway, finally finding me in my room, putting away laundry.

"Okay, babe. Have a good day."

"What are you going to do today?"

"I'm going into the office for a bit, but other than that, I'm not sure. Maybe I'll go for a drive or read a book by the pool, I don't know yet."

"Well, have fun doing whatever. Oh, and remember I'm staying at Landon's tonight."

"Oh, right. I guess I'll make something you hate for dinner. Maybe a baked potato." She makes a face. I've never understood her detest for baked potatoes; it's practically un-American.

"Whatever, Mom. Knock yourself out." She walks over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow sometime." She walks out.

"Be safe, I love you." I yell after her. It's my token goodbye that's been repeated millions of times over the years.

"Always, I love you, too," she yells back.

For so many years, a moment, or a day, to myself was very few and far in between. Now, it's all the time between my work, her work, and school. I knew the day would come, but I still wasn't prepared for it. I'm just really glad I only have to go through it once.

I hang the last few things in my color-coded closet and wander into the kitchen to find something else to distract myself from doing what I know I should, which is going to the office for a bit. Maybe I should check my email before I go to all the trouble. Maybe there's no need.

I open up my laptop and pull up my email. I scroll through, looking for anything that screams for my attention. I click on one, but it's just a reminder of an appointment for the week after next. This jury duty shenanigan should be over by then, so I respond with my confirmation. And that's that. Sitting in a room with up to fifty strangers just has me wanting a little quiet and alone time. I'm sure there's a book, or a hundred, in my Kindle for me to get lost in.

Cozied up on the couch, I'm lost in the words of a shifter book when my phone chimes with a message alert. I keep reading, telling myself I'll check it at the end of the chapter, but it leaves me hanging, so I leap into the next, eager to get answers. My phone chimes again, and I know if I don't look now, I'll forget again.

I reach over blindly, eyes still on my book, then at the end of the paragraph look at the alert. My heart skips at seeing his name.

Owen: I feel like something's missing from my day

Me: And what would that be?

Owen: You

I blush and smile like a fool. Thank goodness he can't see me.

Owen: Still there or did I just freak you out?

Me: I'm still here

Owen: How about lunch?

Me: Okay.

Owen: I'll pick you up

Some might argue telling a guy I've only known for three days where I live isn't the best idea, but those people haven't met Owen. There's not one thing about him that raises any red flags, especially now that we got the serial killer thing out of the way. And though it's only been three days, I really like the guy. I send him my address.

Owen: I'll see you in half an hour?

Me: Sounds good

I've fixed my hair, put on a little make-up, and changed my outfit twice in the last thirty minutes. But it is what it is now that I hear a knock at the front door. I glance at my watch. He's right on time.

I grab my purse and keys on my way to the door, then take a deep breath and do a little shake-out before opening the door and coming face-to-face with a hottie in a baseball cap.

"You are quite punctual, Mr. Mitchell."

"Would now be a bad time to tell you I've been here for ten minutes but know you should never show up too early to pick up a woman?"

"I'd say that could come off as creepy, but you're a smart man."

"You ready?"

"Uh, yeah." But I don't see his truck. "Did you walk here?"

"I drove my Jeep. It's my weekend ride." He points to the topless grey Jeep parked at the end of my driveway.

"Nice." I've always thought Jeeps were sexy.

"Yeah, the chicks dig it," I give him the oh really look, and he starts laughing. "I'm kidding. You're actually the first chick - I mean woman - to ride in it."

"What an honor." I pretend to feel privileged, all the while poking a little fun at him.

"You are a sassy one. I can tell you'll keep me on my toes."

"And you'll love every minute of it," I say as I walk past him and down the driveway.

The entire way, I tease him about his driving skills, all the while lustfully admiring how he handles his stick shift. I feel like a teenager again, with the wind in my hair, a hot guy in the driver's seat, and hairband rock blasting.

We end up at Town Square, which is one of my and my daughter's favorite shopping destinations. This guy is a smart one. He brings a girl to mall with multiple culinary options so no matter what kind of food she's in the mood for, he has it covered. I'm liking this guy more every minute, but a tiny annoying voice inside says he's bordering on too good to be true.

"So, what'll it be? I skipped breakfast, so I'll eat anything right now."

"I'm kind of in the mood for sushi. Are you a fan?"

"A fan I am. Lead the way." I giggle, then grab his hand and do just that.

I like that he's a little corny; it makes me feel less awkward. I was never the girl dating the guy with the big truck or cruising the strip in a topless Jeep with a hot guy behind the wheel. I was a wallflower who hung out with other wallflowers, cruised the strip in my mother's station wagon, and never got attention from the guy I wanted. But today, I'm seeing what being that other girl would've been like.

We walk into the restaurant, and he asks for a table for two, adding that something near the window would be nice. We're seated at the window and beside a wishing fountain that's littered with silver and copper coins.

"Is this okay?" the hostess asks.

"It's perfect," we both answer at the same time, causing her to smile at her job well done.

"Your server will be over in a moment. Enjoy!" Then she disappears.

We both pick up the menus and look over them. "There's not a thing on this menu I won't eat. So, I'll let you do the ordering."

"But you invited me to lunch."

"But you picked the place, and I like surprises."

"You're impossible," I say, knowing I'm not going to win.

"Not impossible, but I am hungry." I roll my eyes, but his man-child-like antics are endearing.

"Fine." I take a minute to choose an appetizer and a couple rolls.

The waitress comes over, and I give her our order. I look at Owen one last time, giving him a chance to speak his peace, but he tells me I did a fine job, and she leaves us.

"How was book club?"

"It was good. What did you end up doing with yourself?"

"Watched Road Trip and ate pizza. It was a blast." I start laughing and look away. "What's so funny about that?"

"The last time I watched that movie, I was high as a kite. It was hilarious! The skinny guy in the black frat house, oh my goodness! I think it even makes the memory of the movie even funnier."

"Well, well. I never." He shakes his head.

"Oh, cut the shit. Tell me you've never gotten stoned."

"Of course I have. Not recently, but I'm not saying I wouldn't. It is legal now."

"What about your job?" I ask, knowing 'legal' doesn't equate to 'job acceptable'.

"It's not like I'd go to work high."

"Well, duh. But do they check you guys on the regular?"

"No. It's a family owned company, not some super huge corporate circus. Why?"

"What do you say to finding one of the stupidest movies ever and watching it totally stoned? Snacks are on me and my daughter's gone for the night." I smirk and tilt my head suggestively.

"I wouldn't be able to drive home."

"I have a couch. If it's not your thing, we don't have to, I just—"

"Let's do it! You're already crazy, sending your address to serial killers and stuff. I think you'd be hilarious."

"Oh, trust me, it's on."

"What the hell is that?" Owen exclaims, looking at the spider roll between us.

"It's soft shell crab," I say, laughing. "I thought you said you'd eat anything on the menu?"

"I will, but I've never seen that before. Are those legs?" I giggle.

"Yes." He's so cute when he's clueless.

"Alrighty, then." He picks up a piece with his chopsticks and dips it in his wasabi and soy mixture. "Down we go, helpless little soft crab." He pops it in his mouth, chews, swallows, and smiles. "That's pretty good. See, I stayed true to my word. I ate it."

"Glad you like it. I thought it was weird at first, too, but it's really no different than eating fried shrimp. Try this one, it's one of my favorites."

"What's in it?"

"Try it, and I'll tell you." I bobble my head at him. He puts it in his mouth, and I can tell it's a hit. "It's spicy tuna and eel sauce."

"Wow, that's good. You're pretty good at this."

"Why, thank you." I take a bite and have gone to sushi heaven.

"So, you're serious?" he asks.

"About what?"

"Tonight."

"You mean impaired movie watching? Yeah, why not? I mean, if you don't want to, we won't. I'm not into peer pressuring."

"I want to. It's just...you surprise me."

"How is that?" I'm confused and wondering if I just fucked this all up.

"Every time I think I'm figuring you out, you show me a new side of you. You're fun and free, a woman who's worked hard but hasn't forgotten how to play. You haven't forgotten through all your hardships how to appreciate life. And now I find out you're a closet stoner. A woman like you is rare and really very special."

I don't know what to say. How is it a man I've only been seeing for four days sees me in a way a man I was married to for ten years never did?

"I..."

"Don't feel like you have to say anything. Just know how special you are."

I nod. "What I was going to say, before you cut me off, is that I'm not a closet stoner. I think fun is wasted on the young, and you have a way of making me feel young again."

"Then let's have some fun, shall we?"

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We sit on the couch, our loot spread out over the coffee table. Two weed brownies, a bag of Fritos and can of bean dip, and a Redbox rental of Dude, Where's My Car?

"So, the guy said these will take about an hour to kick in. Are you ready?" Owen asks.

"Well, after all my talk, I think it's time for some action. Wouldn't want you to think I'm all bark and no bite."

"I don't think I could ever think that."

"Well, just in case..." I reach over and grab the brownies, handing one over to him. "Cheers!"

We tap our brownies together and open them. The faint scent of marijuana hits us as soon as the seal is cracked. Nope, these ain't grandma's brownies. They don't taste awful, and the weed is definitely there. Licking the last crumbs off our fingers, we look at each other.

"So, what now?" he asks.

"We wait." I shrug.

"What do we do while we wait?"

"I don't know." I think of what I have in the house, and suddenly a light goes on. "You stay here."

"Okay, I'll just sit right here," he says as I leave the room.

I disappear into Melissa's room and come back with her Nintendo Classic in hand. As soon as Owen sees it, his eyes go wide. I can almost literally see the fourteen-year-old in him struggling to break free.

"I got this for Melissa for Christmas last year but sneak it out of her room when she's not home." I smile mischievously.

"Why don't you go buy one for yourself?"

"Stealing hers is more fun. Duh!"

"Of course it is." He forehead smacks himself, and I giggle as I join him back on the couch and hand him a controller.

"Here, find a game you want to play, and I'll get us some drinks. You want a beer?"

"I'd love one," he answers without looking up. When I return, he has Donkey Kong Jr. on the screen. "I love this game!"

"Then let's play. Let's see just how much of your monkey ass I can kick!" I shoulder bump him.

"I'll have you know I was holding back the other night, but no more, woman. Tonight, it's on."

He hits start and begins his feat of collecting fruit while dodging little sharky things to save papa Kong from the cage. And whatever on he said it was going to be, it isn't. He actually sucks, but it's fine because we're having so much fun.

We've switched turns off a few times now, neither of us rocking our nineties game tonight. Then out of nowhere, my mouth gets dry. I know what that means. Shit's about to get real fun.

Owen's monkey falls into the water, and he screams at it like it can hear him. All of a sudden, it's so funny that I almost fall over giggling. Owen joins me, and together we fall into a mess of laughter that lasts a few good minutes. By the time I catch my breath, my sides hurt and I have no idea why I even started.

"This is even better than I remember. Maybe it's the added sugar, I don't know. Hell, I don't care." I start laughing again, but it doesn't catch like it did last time. "Do you want to watch the movie or keep playing games? I'm down for either."

"Watching the movie might be safer."

"The movie, it is." I hop up from the couch and put in the movie, which is a little more trivial than it should be. I feel Owen watching me and look back at him. "Are you looking at my ass?"

"I am, but you aren't leaving me much choice. It's there, and I'm looking."

"Well, make sure you clean the droozle off your lip before you kiss me. I don't want droozle all over me." I wink and turn back to what I'm doing.

"Did you say droozle? What the hell is droozle?" He starts laughing.

I turn and look at him, trying to be all no-nonsense, but he only laughs harder.

"Droo—drooz—drool. I meant drool!" He continues cackling. "Fuck it! I like droozle. That's my new word. Droozle, it is from here on and forever." I raise my finger to the sky in proclamation just before I give in to his giggles and fall down next to him on the couch.

"You're so freaking cute." He bops me on the nose.

"You're cute, too. You and your nice ass."

"I do recall those being the first words I ever heard you say. Who knew we'd end up stoned, on your couch, getting ready to watch one of the most craptastic movies ever made?"

"Not me. I gave up on men years ago."

"Oh, you did, huh?"

"Yup! Men nowadays only want the young, slutty type. I'm a mature woman. I have a brain. No guy wants that anymore."

"Not no guy. I do. In fact, you're exactly what I want."

"Good, because that's exactly what I am." I bop his nose. "Are you ready for the movie?"

"I'm ready!"

"Okay, here we go!" I make an exaggerated effort of pushing the button on the remote and pull the bag of Fritos into my lap.

We laugh, we commentate, and eventually we crash, snuggled up next to each other on the couch. The couple of times I wake up his scent makes it impossible to move. I don't fight it, and considering that we're sharing such a small space, it's the best night's sleep I've had in years.

"Mom!"

I jerk awake at the sound of Melissa's voice. Then I remember I'm not the only body on the couch.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were staying at Landon's house?" Owen starts to stir behind me.

"I forgot my work badge. But what I'm doing isn't nearly as good of a question as, what are you doing?" She caught me in a predicament she never has before, and though she's amused, I'm—I don't know what I am.

I sit up, which in turn wakes up Owen. "Uh oh. Busted." He sighs, causing me to bury my face in my hands and Melissa to giggle.

"Good morning. I'm Melissa, Hannah's daughter."

"I'm Owen." He sits up and extends a hand. "I promise, nothing happened." And in four words, he just made this even more weird.

"Yeah, okay. Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to get to work. I'll see you later, Mom." She leans in and kisses me on my cheek before heading to the door. "And nice to meet you, Owen."

"Okay, sweetie. Have a good day. Be safe. Love you," I yell after her just before the door closes.

"Well, it's been at least twenty-five years since that's happened." Owen lies back on the couch, hand to his forehead. I can't help laughing.

"Right, only this time it was worse. It wasn't a parent; it was my child. And you and your nothing happened." I laugh harder. "Don't you know by saying that, she thinks something did happen?"

"I didn't know what else to say! But you know what?" I glare at him. "We'll look back on this one day and laugh our asses off."

"Oh, we will, will we?" He rolls his eyes, thinking.

"Yeah, I think we will."

He pulls me down to him and kisses me, morning breath and all. And let me tell you, his kisses, they're so much better than coffee.

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A morning make-out session later, I walk over to the couch, two coffees in hand, and take a seat next to Owen on the couch.

"So, what are your plans for the day?"

"Actually, I have a game at noon."

I start getting all warm inside just imagining him in a baseball uniform.

"Would you like to go with me? It's not a great deal of fun for the spectators, but I'd love to look at the stands and see you there, rooting me on. I'll even take you for a hot dog and ice cream afterwards." He bumps his shoulder into mine, somehow knowing ballpark food would seal the deal.

"Soft serve, right? Not that scoop stuff?"

"Is there any other kind?"

"And I'll need a chili dog with cheese. Oh, and onions. You won't want to kiss me for the rest of the day."

"Bet me." He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips, and after he withdraws, I sit for a few seconds, allowing it to linger.

"Fine! I'll go!" He pushes me back on the couch, tickling me relentlessly until I'm about to pee my pants. "Owen Mitchell! Stop! I'm going to pee my pants!"

"Full names, huh? You just bought yourself another tickle ticket."

"You mean a tinkle ticket. I promise you, I'll pee on you if you don't stop." He lets go, sensing I would totally do it.

"That's better. You almost got yourself a golden shower, buddy."

"No, thank you. I need to run home and get my stuff."

"Alright, I'll hop in the shower while you're gone."

"On second thought, maybe I should stay." He wags his eyebrows suggestively.

"Nice try. I'll be ready in forty-five."

"I'll be back."

He leans in, leaving me with a kiss that easily could've changed my mind about him leaving, but I let him go. This guy is worming his way into my heart, and truth be told, if he keeps it up, it won't be long until he's in my pants, too.

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Owen stands at the plate, bat in his hands, in a stance that perfectly accentuates that ass I so admire. It's the bottom of the ninth inning, the score is tied, and there are two outs. The first pitch is a ball, the second a foul back for a strike, but on the third he swings and that ball flies out toward left field and into the hole. He takes off running, as do the left and center fielder, but they both fall short, and the ball hits the ground as he passes first.

"Run! Run! It's on the ground!" I yell from the stands.

He rounds second just as the outfielder throws in, but it falls short and the second baseman runs out to pick it up. The third base coach waves Owen through third, and home is his for the taking.

"You've got this, Owen!" I whistle and clap.

The shortstop throws, Owen slides in, and he's called SAFE! His teammates run out onto the field, jumping and hollering about their win, and he smiles with so much pride. Then, through the crowd of men, he looks at me and winks. I'm freaking melting.

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Thanks for today, for the game and the chili dog." We sit outside my house.

"Thank you. I think you're my good luck charm. I didn't want to admit it before, but we don't win a lot. But it's fun."

"Whatever. With your background? You're probably the best on the team."

"I don't know about that, but I do know hitting that ball with you there watching was like a get the girl dream come true."

"Oh, so you think you got the girl, huh?"

"I'm hoping."

"Okay, maybe you got the girl, but it had nothing to do with mad baseball skills. You already had her. It's crazy, really. I tell my daughter to take her time, not to fall too fast or too hard, and here I am doing just that."

"Really? You're falling for me?"

"I am." All of a sudden I'm shy, because I never thought this would happen for me again.

"I'm falling for you, too." He leans over and pulls me to him, pressing his lips to mine and igniting that fire inside me that grows bigger every time he touches me. I should go, but every part of me wants to stay. But I move away, instantly feeling the fire flicker out.

"I should go."

"I know. But rest assured that you'll see me tomorrow. You're court ordered to do so." A giggle escapes, ruining the heat of the moment. But that's one thing about him that draws me in.

"You're crazy." But it's a good kind of crazy.

"Shh, it's a secret."

"Goodnight, Owen."

"Goodnight, Hannah."

I feel like I'm leaving a part of me behind as I get closer to my door. A part that hasn't felt like this in years. But like he said, unless one of our worlds ceases to exist in the next fourteen hours, I was sworn in and ordered to spend nearly every day of my life with him until this case is over.

I woke up this morning to roses and coffee—emojis, that is, in a text from Owen. Not a bad start to a Monday. But staring at the text, all I can think is, how? How could, what I thought was going to be one of the worst experiences of my life have brought me this guy? Maybe they're right. It happens when you least expect it.

A couple of years ago, I tried the dating thing—actually, the online dating thing. Melissa talked me into it, helped me set up my profile, and screened the ones who waved at me, or whatever they did. I knew it was time to get back out there. Hell, Joe and I broke up a decade ago, but I was scared because the world of dating has changed so much. Hell, you don't even meet people in person anymore.

We, Joe and I, had everything. We made a home, a child, I thought everything was great. Turns out, great wasn't good enough for him. He wanted tight-pussied, hop on the back of my motorcycle, stripper material. So, I let him have it, in exchange for my daughter, half the equity in the house, and a big, fat fuck you. The only other thing I wanted from him is to be a good father to Melissa, but that was asking a little too much.

Anyway, Melissa found a couple of men she thought might be my Prince Charming. One of them catfished the shit out of me so hard, I couldn't even find him at the restaurant. I walked around looking for this guy who, from his profile photo, looked a little like Jack Black, who I think is adorable. When I heard my name, I spun around to find a guy with tattoos on his face and a gold grill. Needless to say, when he asked if I was Hannah a second time, I said no and got the hell out of there.

The second, and last, guy was nice—at first. We met at a bar, had a beer, and shared a plate of nachos. I thought it was going quite well. Then on my way back from the bathroom, I saw him with his hand on some other woman's ass. I left him there with her ass and the bill. That's when I decided that I wasn't ready for this new, and absolutely not improved dating world.

I climb out of bed and head to the kitchen for my real coffee, then text a photo of it to Owen with an emoji kiss.

Me: Yours was sweet but I need the real thing

Owen: Ditto on the kiss

I don't have to be at the courthouse until nine-thirty, but of course my internal clock is stuck on six-thirty. That means I have time to run by the office and stop to grab a sandwich for lunch since grocery shopping never got done yesterday. But ask me if I regret it. Absofreakinglutely not! I'd trade grocery shopping for Owen in a baseball uniform any day. Just the thought brings heat to my cheeks. In fact, thinking about him in any way causes my whole body to want things. Things I haven't done in a long, long time.

With that, I think it's time for a shower—a cold one.

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Again, we find kisses on our chairs, only kisses today. So, as I've done before, I set them on the small wall in front of me, knowing at some point Owen will steal them away. Today, it doesn't take long. He gives me a side glance, reaches over, stealing them, then leans in and whispers, "These will do for now, but yours are better." So much for that cold shower I took earlier.

Today's witness list is made up of experts meant to assist each side. The plaintiffs call Dr. Hoidytoit—just kidding; I didn't really listen when they said his name, because I was temporarily focused on a split cuticle. Never mind that I suck with names anyway.

Anyway, Doctor 90210 is a former Beverly Hills celebrity surgeon who's an expert in many areas of medicine and plastic surgery. We get what I think was supposed to be, but isn't, a brief lecture of what it means to be board certified, leading up to his opinion on this case. But when Mr. Watson cross-examines him, we learn his testimony comes with a little controversy.

Turns out he's been treating the plaintiff, which is not against the rules but frowned upon, and Mr. Barnes represented the doctor in his high-profile divorce case with a celebrity a few years ago. I'm just dying to Google that. It's also disclosed that he's never performed the procedure that's brought us all here today. He's never even used the device.

But what's in question is not only how the procedure was administered, but the aftercare as well. Dr. 90210 had quite a bit to say. Dr. River's shoulda done this, coulda done that, and if she was my patient, I woulda never done the procedure to begin with. At one point, he got so frustrated, he piped off to Mr. Watson, which gained him a stern reminder from the judge to watch himself. It was kind of sad, really, because there were moments when it seemed like they were really trying to make him look like an idiot. And I can't figure out why, but the plaintiffs made a point of letting us know he was doing this pro bono. Why that matters, I don't know, but I'm sure we'll eventually find out.

Owen didn't join us for lunch today, saying he had some business calls to make. If it were any other man, I would've thought those business calls were bullshit and he was actually tending to his hidden life, maybe even his hidden wife. But not Owen; he wears his heart on his sleeve for me. We have something, and I won't let jealousy tear it apart.

"So, how was your event this weekend?" I ask Lani.

"It was good. I told my boss it would be. You know, sometimes I think she likes having meltdowns. Not to put myself on a pedestal, but she needs me. Business speaking, I'm the yin to her yang."

"I can see that. You have that calm way about you. I think it's why we clicked that first day."

"Yeah, I think so, too."

I finish my lunch and head up to the restroom while Lani finishes. I exit the stall and go to the sink, and it's when I'm rinsing my hands that I hear the only voice that, in the last week, truly makes my skin crawl.

"I know you have your eyes on Owen." Vivian walks up to the sink beside me.

"Excuse me?" I whip my head around to her.

"You heard me. But you don't have a chance."

Okay, bitch! I'm not usually aggressive, but let me teach you how to play this game.

"And why is that? I'm dying to know." I lean into the counter and fold my hands over my chest.

"You're not his type." She looks me up and down. "No matter how witty and intelligent you may seem, he deserves a woman he can show off. Someone he can spoil and who will appreciate it." I return the look, noting her stilettos, skin tight jeans, and cleavage baring blouse. Actually, it's not a blouse. I don't know what to call it.

"So, you're saying he deserves a gold-digging whore? Well, then you're right, I'm not that girl. But you are, so go for it."

I wish I had a camera to capture the look on her face as I walk past her and out the door. If bitch slapped had a look, she just wore it. And though a part of me screams it was super mean and I've sunk to a new low, another part of me just licked a finger and placed it on my sizzling ass.

The afternoon consists of the plaintiff's last witness, who works for Dr. Rivers. I'm puzzled as to how her testimony actually fits into their plan. The questions seem to lack basis, and at this point it's another one placed in the useless file as far as I'm concerned. Then we're reminded to report at ten-thirty tomorrow, read the hush hush speech, and released.

Walking to our cars, Owen seems perplexed.

"What's up?" I try to hide the worry that maybe it has something to do with me. Especially after the run-in with Vivian.

"I have to meet with my managers tonight."

"Is there trouble?"

"Yes and no. Work is fine. It's just a meeting that would usually take place during work hours, but with me being here—you know."

"So, what's the trouble?" I'm confused.

"I'd rather be spending the evening with you." He's literally turning my heart to liquid.

"All I had planned was a quiet night and a glass of wine - or three - while I take care of some work I brought home. We've already spent more time together this week than most married couples. One evening won't break us."

"I'll call you when I'm done?"

"Okay." He leans in, and that feeling I've longed for all day is finally fulfilled when his lips touch mine.

I watch him walk away before climbing into my car. On the way home, an imaginary conversation plays in my head, an extension of my encounter with Vivian earlier in the day. Then, unconsciously it moves from my head to my mouth so I'm talking to myself like a loony.

"Really? Not his type, huh? Then why am I the one getting the panty wetting kisses, bitch?"

I bring my hand to my mouth, not believing that just happened, then burst out laughing. Whoa, calm down, Scrappy Doo. There's no way Vivian the villain is going to take your man.

Of course, ten-thirty was more of a suggestion than a solid plan, as we finally file into the courtroom just shy of eleven. We take our seats, no kisses on them today, and settle in for the shit show the day has in store for us. Today, we'll get to hear from the defense's expert witness, but because he's flying in from out of state, he's not here yet. The defense calls the plaintiff, Mrs. Tate, back to the stand, wanting to clarify a few points of her earlier testimony, or better described as trying to trip her up. It doesn't do anything for me—my opinion hasn't changed.

Not for the first time in this trial, the jury is asked to leave the room while the attorneys talk with the judge about stuff they don't want us to hear. It's a short break but gives us just enough time to take a bathroom break and chit-chat in the hall. Then we're let back in just long enough to be set free for lunch. It's not the first time I've thought about how much time gets wasted in this process.

One could almost understand why the court only pays forty bucks a day. Setting aside the loss of wages and overall annoyance of your routine being blown to smithereens, most of these cases are purely for the sake of someone who didn't get their way or just wouldn't do the right thing. A good amount of your time is spent sitting and waiting for other people to get their shit together instead of actually jurying. It sometimes seems like we're taking jury breaks from our bathroom duty, instead of the other way around.

"I'm pretty over this," I say, careful not to divulge any details of the this I'm referring to.

"In any case, I think if they had to give a percentage of the settlement to the jury, they'd think twice about lengthy trials."

"Me, too. Just think, take a figure like a hundred grand to make it easy, at five percent, divided by nine jurors, we'd each take over five hundred. For a week-long trial, it's probably still less than some of us usually make, but a lot less offensive than forty bucks a day."

"Amen, girl," Lani agrees.

"Still on that forty a day thing, huh?" Owen comes up behind me and takes the seat next to me.

"Well, without breaking the bonds of admonishment, I personally think this is all kind of ridiculous. I've taken my duty seriously and professionally, but I'm over it."

"I don't think you'll find any of us who disagree. Just take it as the experience it's meant to be, that's all any of us can do. It's almost over." Owen says in that way that has me wanting to say, "Yes, sir, may I have another?"

"Changing the subject, I heard you had a run-in with Vivian in the bathroom yesterday," Lani says, and I instantly feel my cheeks turn red. "What was that about?"

"Who did you hear that from?"

"Hazel asked me if I knew what happened, because she knows we're buds. I guess Sara was in one of the stalls and heard you two going back and forth but couldn't make out what was said. Then this morning, Hazel caught Vivian giving you major stink eye and knew something was up."

Jury duty, the adult version of seventh grade.

"Well, to set it straight, it was nothing." Nothing I care to discuss in front of Owen. "She said something snide, and I kicked her leg out from underneath her. It's nothing to gossip about."

They can both tell I'm cutting the story short as they return their eyes to their food and let the subject go. I feel like I'm somehow betraying both by not telling the whole truth, but given the nature of it, I'll keep it to myself for now.

Standing in line, waiting to go back in, Owen leans in to me and whispers, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, why?"

"I feel like you cut the conversation short at lunch."

"Owen, there's nothing to tell. She just ran her mouth to the wrong person, end of story." I smile mischievously.

"You're quite the firecracker, aren't you? I hope you know that's a major turn-on." I look around to see if anyone else heard him, but everyone else is lost in their own conversations.

"Good to know." I wink just as Marshal's voice calls our attention.

"Is everyone here?" The yesses trickle through. "Then let's go!"

We pick up our notebooks and take our seats, ready for another fun-filled afternoon. The defense calls their expert witness, Dr. Piora, or something like that. He's sworn in, and the questioning starts.

Much like they did with the previous expert, they establish his credentials, experience, and knowledge of the device and procedure in question. He, unlike Dr. 90210, has used the device Dr. Rivers used on Mrs. Tate, which immediately makes his testimony hold more clout.

He explains the training he received, examines the settings used, the way the procedure was administered, and Dr. River's follow ups. The only point of disagreement was the follow up. Where Dr. Piora states he personally would have been the one to see his patient in the days and weeks following the procedure. Dr. Rivers couldn't be clear exactly when he saw Mrs. Tate but testified he had. Unfortunately, the documentation skills of both him and his staff couldn't prove anything.

Then Dr. Piora dropped what I felt was a pretty significant bomb. After his training subjects, he never used the device again. Turns out that even under the eye of trainers, one of his patients had an issue, one he decided was unacceptable. After that, he never performed the procedure again. It doesn't have a huge impact on Dr. Rivers directly, but it tells me someone more than Dr. Rivers should be on the chopping block.

Once Mr. Watson rests, Mr. Barnes comes out guns blazing, and it's not long until my question regarding the significance of Dr. 90210's pro bono work is answered.

Turns out Dr. Piora's expertise costs a pretty penny—actually, more like one million five hundred pennies. That's right, fifteen thousand dollars. Whoa! He goes on to explain that he's on the clock from the moment he leaves his house and that because they got him on the stand later than planned, he'll miss his scheduled flight and won't walk back through his door until close to ten tonight. Time is money, money is time, and time out of his office must be compensated. Kinda sucks for Mrs. Tate, because if she wins, that's her bill.

Both sides content with the witness, he's excused, and soon thereafter so are we. Where will I file Dr. Piora's testimony? To be honest, right now I'm undecided.

We ascend the final flight of stairs in the garage, and I walk toward my car, well aware that Owen is following me.

"So, what are your plans tonight?" I ask, twirling around to face him.

"Whatever you want them to be, as long as they're with you." He stops and leans against my car.

"Well, I have tickets to something, and it's probably not your thing, but if you'd like to join me—"

"I'd love to."

"You didn't even let me tell you what it is." He's far too trusting.

"If you're there, I want to be there. I don't care what it is."

"Okay, just consider yourself warned. I'll pick you up at six."

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I knock on his door and instantly hear a dog's bark getting closer as the seconds tick by. Then I hear a voice, but it's not Owens. The door opens, and before me stands what I believe Owen probably looked like twenty years ago.

"Dad!" he turns and yells. "You must be Hannah. My dad's only been talking—"

"Max!" Owen exclaims, coming up behind the young man. "This is my son Max, and he has a knack for talking too much."

"I do not! All I've heard is Hannah, Hannah, Hannah for days." Owen shrugs his shoulders as if he has no idea what Max is talking about. "It's nice to finally meet you. He was right though, you are pretty."

"Alrighty, then! Are you ready to go, Hannah?"

"Sure." I can't hide my smile from watching him squirm. "Bye, Max. It was nice to meet you, too." I wink as I back away.

Once in the car, he tries to explain. "I really don't talk about you that much." I nod, keeping my eyes on the road.

"Uh huh."

"Fine! I'm crazy about you and talk about you all the time."

"Okay." I'm trying not to let on just how much this amuses me.

"Are you really doing this right now?"

"Doing what, exactly? Driving?" I stifle a laugh.

"Watching me squirm?"

"I guess I am." I can hold it no longer and start laughing.

"You are an evil woman. Is it bad that I find that hot?"

"It's not bad at all." I wink, and he noticeably reaches down to adjust himself, but I pretend not to see.

"We're here," I announce as I pull into the parking lot and cut the engine.

"Where's here?" he looks around for a sign.

"Painting class." I give him an all-teeth smile.

"Painting class?" I nod. "You did warn me."

"Melissa and I were supposed to go, but she had to cover at work, so you became my paint date. Trust me. It's fun." I give him a quick kiss and open my door.

"I'm far from an artist," he admits as we walk in.

"That's why we drink wine while we do it. It helps you loosen up, lets your inner artist be free."

"Then I'm going to start with two glasses, and we'll see what happens."

"I'll tell you what, we'll get a bottle; that way, the creativity will be flowing like lava."

"Flowing, maybe, but I don't know about the lava part."

"Whatever! It'll be fun. Trust me."

We check in and choose our seats. I help him with his apron, and we hit up the wine bar. With a bottle between us and our blank canvases in front of us, we wait for the class to begin.

"Welcome, everyone! Thank you for joining us tonight! If you've never done a class with us, welcome. If you have, welcome back. My name is Jaime, and I'll be your instructor. Walking around the room is Ashley. If you need anything throughout the class, paint, napkins, or help, she's your girl. Just raise your hand. Is everybody ready?" The room answers in unison.

"Are you ready?" I lean over and ask Owen.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"You'll do fine." I lend a quick kiss for support.

Over the next hour and a half, Jaime gives us step-by-step instructions. Color by color, brush number five to brush number one, a sip of wine here and a brush stroke there. The whole class sings along to the mix track playing as our paintings come together and I find Owen was holding out on me. His painting is almost better than the instructor's.

An empty bottle of wine later, we stand back to admire our work. Painted, to make our canvas look like wooden planks with the words Vegas Strong painted across them, the completed piece summons the emotion we all remember of that fateful night. Melissa chose this class because she lost a friend that night.

"So, were you holding out on me, or did you not know you're an artist?" I tease.

"I didn't know. I've never done anything like this."

"You did a good job. We may have to do this again sometime. They have date nights where you'd do half on your canvas and I'd do half on mine, so when you put them together, you get the whole picture."

"If you'll enjoy it, I'll enjoy it."

"We'll enjoy it." I scrunch and wiggle my nose at him, which gets me a kiss.

We collect our paintings, get our photo taken for the studio, and I have them take one with my phone, then we leave.

"So, tomorrow could be our last day." It's something that's been weighing on my mind the last day or so.

"Yup. Why do you sound sad about that?" he asks.

"I don't know. I'm not sad. It'll just be weird not seeing you every day." Can you say needy, Hannah, because that's how you sound?

"Who says you won't? Just because the trial ends, doesn't mean this ends." He reaches over and grabs my hand. "This isn't just a jury duty romance. Wow, who'd have ever thought those words would appear in the same sentence?" I laugh because he's right, it is an odd combination. "Point is, jury duty may be the reason our paths crossed, but I have no intention of us ending when it does. I hope you don't either."

"I don't. It's just, it's been so long since I thought romance and a relationship would happen for me again. We came together so effortlessly that I just wonder if, or when, the other shoe will fall. It's stupid, and I sound like a desperate high school girl. I'm sorry."

"It's not stupid, and you sound like a woman who had her heart broke and worries it might happen again. Well, I'm not the guy who's going to break it. I'm the guy who will make sure it's whole and loved for as long as you'll let me."

"Whoa," I whisper.

"It's a little deep for a car ride, but you brought it up," he teases.

"Answer me this. Is there anything wrong with you? No man is as perfect as you seem to be."

"I can give you my ex's number. I'm sure she has a small list." He holds his hands out about a foot apart.

"I don't want her list; it's tainted."

"Then you'll have to make your own, which means no more of this what happens when jury duty's over shit. What happens is, we keep doing just what we have been, and we'll see what happens. Deal?"

"Deal."

I pull up in front of his house, and he gets out and comes around the car to get his painting out of the back before coming to my window.

"Thanks for tonight. I had fun." He says, leaning in and stealing a kiss.

"Me, too."

"And just so you know it was no accident, I'm taking your painting with me."

"Why, because mine is better?" I give him a smug smile.

"Please, we both know mine is better." I stick out my bottom lip, mocking a pout. "But I want yours hanging on my wall. Proof that you're real and chose me."

"When you put it that way, how could I be mad?" He leans into the window and pulls me to him, kissing me hard and within a second of bursting into flames. This guy, just wow. My strength is waning, and it's not long before I'll beg him to ravish me.

He pulls away, breathless. "We just gave the neighbors more than they bargained for."

"Yeah." But I still want more.

"Can I ask you one more question, in an effort to stall this goodbye?"

"Sure." I love knowing he doesn't want this night to end any more than I do.

"What happened with Vivian? I know it was more than nothing."

"She told me you were out of my league."

He nods, anger evident in his eyes. "And?"

"I may have told her she was a whore." We both burst into laughter, extinguishing the anger in his beautiful eyes.

"You're more than a firecracker, you're a full blown fourth of July extravaganza!" He chuckles.

"Only when you flip my bitch switch," I raise my chin and say matter of factly.

"I'll be sure to steer clear of that one. But she's wrong. You know that, right?"

"I do." He kisses me again, sending reassurance from my thick skull all the way to my toes.

"Goodnight, beautiful. I'll see you in the morning." He flashes one of those panty-melting smiles.

"Goodnight." One more kiss before he's up the path and opening the door. Then he blows me a kiss just before disappearing.

As I pull away, I just know that if I sleep at all tonight, my dreams will consist of all the naughty things I want that man to do to me. Maybe one day I'll ask him to make those dreams come true.

"Good morning, jury buddies!" Hazel's voice rings as she approaches us at our usual spot outside of Courtroom 3B.

"Good morning," I reply. "So, do you think it'll be over today? Put this case to sleep and get back to real life?"

"Well, Judge Marley said it had to be done by Friday because he had something to do." Hazel answers, and I giggle as I remember being testy and throwing his can't someone else go for you speech from the selection process back at him. He snickered, but I could tell he didn't find it funny; it was more in a touché' kind of way. A small part of me hoped my snarkiness would get me excused, but I think it worked the opposite because I got to pass go, without my two hundred dollars, right into a juror seat.

"Are we still on for lunch?" Lani asks as she sits down next to me on the bench.

"Yes, ma'am. We can check out one of the places across the street."

"Owen, how about you?" Thank you, Lani, you read my mind.

"Sure." He winks at me, letting me know he would've joined us even without an invitation.

I look back at Lani, noticing something different about her. "Where's your flower?"

"What do you mean, where's my..." She reaches up to find the spot behind her ear naked. "Oh no! That was my favorite one, too!"

"Are you sure you put it on today?" It's probably the dumbest question ever, but I have to ask.

"Yeah. I know I had it when I came through security, because one of the guards commented on it. This sucks."

"Maybe we can run down, retrace your steps?"

"Do you think we have time?"

"Has this thing started on time once since we've been here?"

"Good point."

Lani and I take off downstairs to check security and lost and found. Unfortunately, her flower, her identifier, remains MIA. We hurry back upstairs, sure that today was the one day things are running on time and the two of us are the slackies.

As we approach the group, Marshal makes the last call for the bathroom, and together we sigh in relief. A couple of our jury buddies, including Lani, make a run for it, but I stay in my seat, and Owen sits down next to me. Just like that, with no romantic ambiance and no alcohol, his closeness still makes my heart flutter.

"I hung your painting."

"You did not!" I whisper.

"I did—in my room. I fell asleep looking at it, thinking of the woman who painted it for me."

"Yours is propped in a chair, on top of a pile of laundry." He brings his hand to his chest, feigning offense. "I wasn't nailing anything last night." He burst into laughter, and I realize what I just said. Suddenly, it's very hot in here. "I—" He leans in so only I can hear.

"Unfortunately, I didn't nail anything last night either."

And I come undone. Am I the first woman ever to get cream her undies in a courthouse? All this talk about nailing and such.

"Good to know." Don't worry, in my dreams you did.

"Hi, Owen." Owen and I both look up to see Vivian. 'Hate' is a strong word, so I'll settle for saying I don't like this woman, not at all.

"Uh, hi," he replies, trying not to be rude but not really giving her his full attention.

"Okay, everybody, let's go," Marshal calls, saving both of us from enduring a conversation with that bitch. Just being around her makes me sick.

We file in and take our seats. I turn around, stealing one last glance at my rich bitch nemesis to find her staring dead at me. She may not know Owen and I are together, but her thinking she deserves any of his time digs me the wrong way.

The judge calls the court to order and allows the defense to call their last witness, the doctor himself. He's reminded that he's still under oath from his previous testimony on the plaintiff's behalf. Mr. Watson goes back through documents and photos we've already seen, verifies statements from previous testimony, and I feel the doctor answers every question with honesty and integrity.

Mr. Barnes takes his opportunity to cross-examine, and true to the last five days, he takes the scenic route. He asks questions that have already been asked, again. He shows documents that have already been seen, again. And to be honest, he's lost me. Days of nipping at the same bit, trying to prove the doctor is at fault, while never once mentioning his client was as much, if not more so responsible for her situation.

But this isn't about Mrs. Tate; it's about the doctor. He's the defense's witness, so Mr. Watson tries to paint him as the angel, whereas the plaintiff wants him to be received as the devil reincarnated. I want to throw my arms up and tell all of them to grow up and take responsibility, but if that was the way, none of us would be here.

Then finally, as though my prayers have been answered, I hear the words the defense rests, Your Honor. I'm a Bull junkie, so I know what that means; it's almost decision time.

"Let's break for lunch and meet back here at one-thirty," Judge Marley says, and I check my watch because we haven't been in sync all week. Then I reach under my seat to get my purse.

"All rise for the jury." I might just miss this, being one of the most important people in a room.

I lead the way, and once we clear the door, I slow down so Lani can catch up and Owen is only a step behind us. We walk across the street, Lani and I both commenting on the weather and how it's going to be a hot summer.

"Well, that just means you have to come hang out poolside with me and a pitcher of margaritas," I offer. Margaritas are my answer to a lot of things. Had a bad day at work? Margaritas. Too hot outside? Margaritas. A week in jury duty? Marga-fuckin-Rita's!

We walk into one of the restaurants. It's an Asian/Mexican food fusion place, and I look over the wall menu. They have everything from ramen to tacos, and it all looks delicious. We place our orders and sit down at a table near the window to wait.

For some reason, this feels weird, sitting here with the two of them but Lani being in the dark about us. Should I even be calling it us? What if it turns out to be nothing more than some jury duty romance, a comfort thing because neither of you can talk about what it is you hear and see all day? A convenience of no questions you can't answer anyway. No, that's not it; there's more depth to what we've had in the last week than being bound by a gag order.

Owen's order is called first, but he waits for mine and Lani's to bring them all over at once. The gesture pushes every stupid thought I just had out of my mind. He's the real deal, and what we have is real. I will never curse jury duty again. In fact, maybe I should collaborate on an I met the man of my dreams at jury duty piece. It might help female attendance.

"Be careful, yours is hot." He places my bowl of ramen in front of me.

"Thank you." I blush at the gesture. He's so amazing.

"Here you go, Lani." He places her bowl in front of her before unloading his on the table and stowing the tray.

"Thank you, sir. This looks delicious. I went in to work this morning, so I skipped breakfast. I'm starving!" Lani declares.

"What did you get?" I ask, eyeing her bowl.

"Katsu chicken and rice."

"Yum." Something about that sound that made Owen look at me, hungry lust in his eyes. I totally blush and crumble under his glare.

"This may be our last lunch together," I say before taking a bite.

"It won't be. We'll get together for drinks or something. You already offered up margaritas and your pool. That's not an offer I'm likely to forget or refuse," Lani says.

"I know, but I showed up a week ago thinking jury duty was just out to disrupt my life. It did, but at the same time it didn't," I admit.

"I second that. Contrary to what I thought, jury duty hasn't been the worst thing that ever happened to me," Owen says, eyeing me just when I had my blush under control.

"Well, no matter what happens, it has been an honor and a pleasure to serve with both of you. Not so much Vivian," Owen's head pops at that, and Lani's nods in agreement, "but everyone else has been really great."

"Ditto," Owen agrees. "Well, ladies, I'm going outside to make a couple of calls. I'll see you both back inside."

"Have fun," I sing as he walks away, which gets Lani's attention.

"I knew it, spill." I try not to look like a deer in headlights, but I've never been good at getting busted.

"Spill what?" I shove another bite of my spicy shrimp ramen in my mouth.

"You and Owen. There's no use denying it. Your face is perfectly pink, which confirms my suspicion."

"My face is pink because I'm eating spicy ramen." I take a drink of my soda, pretending it's hotter than it really is.

"Hannah, you're not a good liar, so cut the shit. You two stealing glances, the way he winks at you when you laugh, how you and he always seem to be parked on the same level of the parking garage. Only a fool wouldn't see what's happening, and I'm no fool."

"Do you think anyone else suspects? Please tell me the rest of them are fools."

"I don't know, but why should you care? At least one of us is getting something more out of this experience than forty bucks a day - which after the fifteen bucks we just spent on lunch, we're down to a whopping twenty-five dollars. Promise me you won't spend it all in one place, okay?" She giggles, and it makes me giggle. All of a sudden, I want to tell her everything. I don't really do the girlfriend thing, but I've been dying to tell someone.

"The first night, we met and hung out at this bar with video games. He was so sweet, and I had such a good time."

"Have you kissed yet? I bet he's an amazing kisser." She rolls her eyes up all dreamy like, and I can feel the heat in my cheeks.

"We have, and he is. Every night but one since this jury thing started, we've been together. Last night, he even did paint night with me. Look." I pull out my phone to show her the photo of us posing with our paintings. I can't believe he actually hung it, or so he tells me.

"You are so freaking cute together."

I look at the photo, and we do look pretty great together. I never thought I'd look great with anyone ever again. I even started to think I never looked great with my ex.

"You know what's funny? After my ex-husband, I didn't want a relationship. I focused on Melissa and school, and finally starting my business. Then once Melissa turned eighteen and my business was taking off, I feel like I forgot how to relationship. Men my age are either bachelors for life or have been burnt so bad, they won't give a decent woman a fighting chance."

"Amen, girl. I've walked that road right there with you. These young girls complain that it's so hard to find Mr. Right, it definitely gets harder after forty."

"But with Owen, it's different. He gives me hope. I'm not planning a wedding or booking tickets to Hawaii for a honeymoon yet. Just saying that I think I may have finally found a man who's not damaged, who's worth holding on to." It's a little dreamy, but true.

"Oh my God, girl. You just gave me chills."

"I just gave myself chills."

Returning from lunch announced the beginning of the end. Judge Marley, and Me, reads us the jury instructions, which are the rules we're to follow in coming to a verdict - and boy, did I underestimate them. Thirty, that's how many instructions we we're given. That's twenty-five more than there are posted at the public swimming pool.

The attorneys then take their turns with their closing arguments. Mr. Barnes nearly went through every instruction, citing how finding in his clients' favor would be the result if we followed it. I did a lot of eye rolling and holding my breath through this part. I have no clue what he ate or drank, but if I called it dragon breath, I'd be putting it nicely.

Then he threw the biggest whammy of all. We heard over and over again during jury questioning that all they could ask for was money and if we found for his client, we would then have to decide what amount in damages she would receive. We all agreed we could do that. Well, they're asking for just short of seven hundred thousand dollars! Fuck. Me.

My mind goes into accounting mode. Seven hundred thousand, less the seventeen thousand for the one expert witness, then less the twenty-five to thirty-three percent the plaintiff will owe her lawyers. She stands to walk away with around 450K. She may have lost her sugar daddy, but she'll pay for her cushy life with her face.

Mr. Watson's closing statement was a lot like his opening. The good doctor did nothing wrong. He cited a few of the instructions that worked in his favor and concluded, just as painlessly as the rest of his contribution to this trial has been. And just like that, the trail phase was over.

A woman enters the room through a door to the right, a door we've never used before, and stands at the end of the juror box. I'm sure all of us are wondering what her role is to be, but she says nothing, and the judge barely acknowledges her.

"Recorder, can you please read the name of our alternate juror."

"The alternate juror is Hannah Smith." And just like that, I'm discarded.

I feel the heat rise in the room and know it's my anger wanting to erupt like a crazy foul-mouthed volcano. The judge goes on to say what will follow, but I can't hear him through the ringing in my ears. Just like that, I'm done. No consolation prize, no thanks for playing, just a week of my life stolen and a job seemingly unfinished. What's funny is that I had the slightest feeling this would happen, given that I was technically juror number nine, but I found that to be predictable. If every juror number nine knew they'd end up being the alternate, it would be a moot point. I want to think this can't be happening, but it is. It just did.

Marshal stands at the door the woman came through just moments ago, and the recorder requests all to rise for the jury. We start filing out, and having missed the last instructions, I follow them into a room, the deliberation room. At least I get to see what it looks like. It's really quite boring, and small, claustrophobic almost. I hear my name being called as the woman comes into view and waves me to follow her.

"Good luck, guys," I say as I follow her out, turning one last time to look at Owen, who can tell I'm crushed and offers a weak smile.

The woman walks me out with haste, as if I'll taint the rest of them if given ten more seconds. Even Survivor contestants get a minute when they're voted off. Once we get through the double doors, she gives me the rejection speech. I'm still not released from my duty, though I'm no longer needed. This means I still can't talk about the case, become a PI on anyone involved, or interact with their counsel. She verifies my phone number and tells me if they need me, they'll call. Well, that means someone who's on the official jury would have to flake out on decision day, or die, for that to happen, and I doubt that's going to happen. Not that I sincerely wish anyone dead. It's just, to get this far and not be able to finish is killing me.

'Alternate', the word itself means 'second best', and the reality is that, random or not, I wasn't even eighth best. I've been rejected by the court that forced me to serve. Now, ain't this just freaking dandy?

I wait at the bottom of the escalator for Lani to come down. I'd thought we'd have one more day, but I thought wrong. She's been a bright side to this whole experience, her smiles and positivity a blessing in the midst of chaos. Knowing in the absence of an emergency we'd see each other every day, we'd never so much as exchanged numbers.

Finally, I can see the group as they descend to the lower level, where I wait. Surely, I look as pathetic as I feel, but at the sight of them, my frustration returns. I'm not mad at them; they had nothing to do with it. I'm just mad.

"I swear, I'm either ignoring every summons I get for the rest of my life, or I'm going on a rant about this moment to get myself kicked out in a hurry next time. I'm so pissed. I feel like Baby from Dirty Dancing, it was all for nothing!" Okay, that may have been a little dramatic.

"It sucks. I really thought we'd finish this together." Her smile makes it hard to stay mad.

"It had to be one of us, right? Might as well be me." Owen steps up next to us.

"So, you're off the hook?" he asks, trying to lighten the mood, but I know he knows how I'm feeling right now.

"Yeah, something like that. I hate that I'm not going to be there. I hate that I'm literally not allowed to finish what I started. That's just not who I am. I'm a finisher. This sucks Barnes's fat dick." This is really bumming me out.

"I'm sorry. I know it wasn't personal, but I wish it wasn't you. We're jury buddies until the end." Lani's bubbly personality is truly infectious, and my frustration wanes for the moment.

"Jury buddies until the end." We fist bump each other. "I stuck around so I could get your number. Our time here may be over, but I'd really like to keep in touch. Maybe we can get drinks sometime. We can get together and rant about our college students."

"Oh my God, yes! Here," she hands me her phone, "put your number in and send yourself a text. My contacts are dry, and my eyes are starting to go wacky." I take the phone and enter my number, then send myself a text, Hey girl! It's Loco Lani, and hand the phone back to her, giggling.

She strains to see what I typed and giggles, too. "I'm going to miss you, Hannah."

"I'm going to miss you."

I pass through security for the last time, and the moment is bittersweet. For something I never really wanted to do, it turned into something I'd never undo. The three of us walk to the garage together, Lani giving me a big hug before leaving us on the second floor, while Owen and I continue to the third floor. We walk to my car, and I can see that his truck is only three spots down.

"It won't be the same without you tomorrow." He pulls me to him, and I rest my head on his chest.

"Yeah, but you'll get bagels and coffee and lunch, not to mention one more day of Vivian's bitching. I won't miss that at all. But I wouldn't mind if you pocketed a bagel for me."

"Come over tonight. My son's at his mom's for the week. I'll cook you dinner, and we can watch a movie."

"Are you asking me over to Netflix and chill?" I can't hide the laughter from my voice.

"Is that teen speak for dinner and a movie?" He's serious as a heart attack.

"Something like that," I lie, not wanting to explain, even if the slang definition is perfectly acceptable to me. He's been a perfect gentleman for a week now, and a part of me wants to see the tough and sexy side of him. "Should I stop and get a movie? Any hard nos in the movie genre department?"

"Nope, whatever you want."

"I'll probably stop at home first. Let Melissa know I'm still alive. I've barely seen her all week."

"No problem. Any hard nos on food? I'll stop at the store."

"No liver." He shakes his head and makes a face in agreement. "And I eat meat. I'm not one of those grass-fed women."

"No liver and no grass, got it."

I laugh, and he closes in to hush me with one of his amazing kisses. They just keep getting better, day by day, kiss by kiss. No kiss has ever made me feel like his does.

I walk in my house and call out for Melissa, but I get nothing in return. So, I decide to take a shower and change into something a little more comfortable. If what I'm thinking might happen tonight does, a quick shave, some sexy perfume, and a pair of jeans that show off my ass-sets are a must.

I pull up in front of his house and take a couple of deep breaths before collecting my purse, the DVD I picked up from the Redbox, and a bottle of wine. Before I raise my hand to knock, I hear his dog, Prince if I remember right, on the other side. He's a walking, breathing doorbell. Owen yells for Prince to shush and get back just before opening the door, and as he comes into view, I can see that he, too, got comfortable. He exchanged his button up shirt for a T-shirt that fits tight and outlines every muscle in his upper region. He looks super sexy. Maybe he does know what Netflix and chill means.

"There you are. I was worried you might stand me up." His smile betrays him. He knew I'd be here.

"Are you kidding? I'm starving, and you offered to cook." I step into the house brandishing the wine and DVD. "Besides, watching movies and drinking wine all alone would be a sad but typical night for a lonely woman. You offered an appealing alternative."

"I hope I don't disappoint you." He leans in to kiss me, and every dirty thought I had while shaving in the shower comes flooding back.

"That's not likely. Having a child, you'd think I'd be some version of Betty freakin' Crocker, but my daughter would tell you that's not so. I bake, I don't cook. Why do you think I had bologna sandwiches all week?"

Beeping comes from the kitchen, and he hurries to tend to it. I follow him through the front room and into the spacious great-room area. I set the wine on the counter and step up beside Owen to see what he's prepared.

"Whatcha cookin', good lookin'?" I ask, causing him to chuckle.

"Shrimp curry. Here." He dips the spoon in the pan and brings it to his mouth, blowing it to cool it before bringing it to my mouth.

"My stars! Did you make this from scratch? It's delicious."

"Just one of my many talents. I love cooking. I worked for a chef back in high school and learned a lot."

"So, why construction? Why didn't you pursue cooking as a career?"

"As much as I loved the kitchen, I hated being cooped up inside all the time. I needed to be outside, working with my hands, building things. Cooking became my relaxation thing, something I do to wind down."

"So, what you're saying is that you're pretty relaxed right now?" The words come out more seductively than I planned.

"Yeah, I'm pretty relaxed. You?"

"Yeah."

He turns off the stove and turns to me. His hands come to my face, and then his lips meet mine. My hands circle him as his slide down my sides, coming to rest on my ass. Then in one smooth move, he lifts me up, setting me on the empty island counter. His lips are so soft but claiming. His hands are strong and hot to the touch. I'm thinking, Fuck the Netflix and bring on the chill.

But he stops. He leaves my lips and rests his forehead against mine, breathing heavy while his hands play on my hips. My chest heaves, but all I want is for him to kiss me again.

"Owen, is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. Better than fine. I've thought of this moment since I heard you call me nice ass, that very first morning." I'm dying. I knew those words would come back to haunt me. "And I secretly hoped if I was chosen, you would be, too, so I could get to know you. It's been days, but it may as well have been months that I've waited for this."

"So, it's your fault I was chosen? You wished it?" I'm just messing with him of course, but only because the whole damn thing is just too sweet.

"Maybe, but I won't take it back. Not," he kisses my neck, "one," now my collarbone, "word," and then the top of my breast, just over my heart. Boom! I'm burning woman, ignited in flames.

"If you won't take it back, then you better take me. It's been a long damn week." He takes my mouth again, and this time he means business.

He lifts me off the counter, and I spare a split second to acknowledge how much easier this was in my younger days. Over to the couch, he sits down so I'm straddling his lap, leaving me in charge. He's one of those guys...well, guess what? I'm one of those girls. I wrangle out of the shirt that covers my tank top and throw it to the floor, then reach between us for the bottom of his shirt so I can see what I've fantasized about too many times in so few days.

It's like opening a Christmas present when you know what it is but haven't actually seen the color. He raises his arms, and I peel it up over his head, throwing it in the same direction as I did mine. Without any thought at all, my hands touch his skin, his beautifully tanned skin, and my body reacts in a way it hasn't in years. I lean in and kiss him while my hands roam over his body. God, it's been so long since I've felt like this.

"Owen," I whisper.

"Hmm?"

"It's been a long, long time."

"I'll be gentle."

"If you're feeling like I am, there's no way either of us will be gentle."

"Glad you agree." He pulls at my tank top, lifting it over my head and using it to cover another piece of the floor.

Before I can take a breath, his hands are behind my back and proving just how small of an obstacle my bra is, pulling it off and flinging it without regard. My nipples instantly tighten as they become the focus for his next move.

He hungrily takes one into his mouth, and I arch at his touch. A jolt goes straight to my sex, leaving an ache in its wake. He moves to the other, and as soon as his tongue makes contact, I feel a quake inside me and know an orgasm is in my near future. He may not have to do much more than this, but if the feel of his manhood beneath me is any indication, he intends to.

I lightly grind into him, giving myself little relief from the need that now wets my panties. I've never been a fuck me girl, but in this moment, with this man, there's just no sweet way to put it. I want him to tease me, ravish me, fuck me until I scream his name, then do it all over again.

"Owen?"

"Yes." He doesn't look at me; just keeps to what he's doing.

"I suck at sex talk, so I'm just going to say it." His teeth graze my nipple, and I jerk. "If you don't fuck me soon, I may die."

"That makes two of us." He raises me up to stand between his legs, then rises, scooping me up and carrying me into his room.

I see my painting on the wall. It reassures me that the man I'm about to give myself to feels the same as I do, and if it's possible, I want him more.

He sets me down, and I waste no time taking the waist of his jeans in my hands and aiding in their undoing. He stands still, letting me take the lead, letting me be in charge, but watching my every move. I follow his jeans to the floor, then take in the body that's about to bring me so much pleasure. Not that I've seen a lot in the last ten to fifteen years, but he's, um, wow—and my body's hungrier for his than ever.

I step out of my pants and stand there before him, exerting confidence to hide my nerves. But he quickly puts all those feelings to rest as he rushes to me, takes my face between his hands, and crushes his lips to mine.

Every point of contact burns, every hair stands on end, and every inch of my skin begs to be touched by his. His hands slide down my arms, the curve of my hips, then he lifts me up and carry me to the bed. We fall back together.

"You're so fucking beautiful. Oh, the things I want to do to you." His words cause the vixen in me to sing.

"We have time for all of them. I've got nowhere to be."

He sits up and reaches into his nightstand drawer, and I reach out for him, taking his length in my hand. I don't think I've ever held one so magnificent, and my core yearns for it to fill me.

He pauses to enjoy my touch until he can't take it anymore. Once again nestled between my legs, he teases my entrance, then pushes himself inside me, finally giving me everything I knew he would. I moan in pleasure, cry out in ecstasy, heave for air, and take Owen with me as I willingly fall over the edge as my first orgasm rocks me.

I never knew sex could be like this. I thought my prime time was over; boy, was I ever wrong. I've never had my world rocked like this and luckily, I won't have to wait long to have it rocked like that again.

I sit in front of my computer, sifting through emails and phone messages, trying to organize the mess my absence has left and getting more pissed that I'm not in that damn room. I look at the clock and see it's only eight-thirty. This is going to be a long damn day.

The way I see it, if they find for the defense, deliberations won't take long and I should be getting a call early in the day. If they find for the plaintiff, they'll open up another can of nuts, and that could take all day.

I run through it all in my head, even though nothing in my head matters now. During the closing arguments, I made so many notes in my little notepad I had to leave behind. Those, along with the lyrics to "Jack and Diane," "Mambo Number 5," and a couple of other eighties hits, would've made for some interesting arguments in the defense's favor. After sitting through four days of testimony, the only witness I thought had any merit was the doctor's, not the experts or plaintiff herself.

The good doctor was honest, even in answering a couple of questions that could, in another case, incriminate him. Bottom line was that this woman had so many things going on in her life, she never expressed her concerns to her doctor. And although his records were lacking in the specifics of whether or not he actually saw her, it was clear someone did. I didn't find it to be terribly abnormal for a doctor to trust his staff to conduct follow ups. It may seem odd because she was a supposed friend, but I even question that a little.

But I have nothing to do with that now. My opinion is mine and mine alone, never to be expressed in a manner that will affect the outcome. Why me? Why not the baby of the group, who literally asked me and Lani the day the jury was officially chosen if being chosen was a good thing? Or maybe rich bitch Vivian, who bitched every second possible because she wasn't soaking up rays on a beach in Mexico—every second she wasn't flirting with Owen anyway. I feel shafted, a feeling that my stubborn ass isn't likely to forget soon.

Then I think of last night, and that does the trick. Just the memory of Owen's body against mine, his lips on mine, how his voice and the beat of his heart lulled me to sleep while I lay on his perfect chest. And the smell of him on my body when I left this morning. I may have been rejected from finishing my jury duty, but he made up for that last night. I'd trade one for the other any day.

Finally, I get a text from Lani to tell me they're going in. From my point of view, it should go pretty quick, but again, my point of view isn't in that room. An innocent verdict for the doctor would shut the door on the case and have everyone out before lunch, which would make me happy since I don't get any. But a guilty verdict opens up a whole new chapter in deciding damages. That could take a while.

Hours tick by, and I eat my bologna sandwich, jealous that I'm not eating pizza or Jimmy Johns. Finally, I get a text from Hazel, telling me they came to a verdict but it hasn't been read yet. It's almost four. I know for certain which way this went. My only question now is, how much did they give her?

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Owen lifts his glass to make a toast. "To the end of jury duty." I lift my glass to meet his, and they clink as they touch. We both take a sip.

"At least you got to stay until the end. I'm still pretty salty about being the alternate. I just feel like if I'd been able to be in the room, maybe it would have ended differently. Lani called me as soon as you guys got out and told me everything. I still don't think the doctor did anything wrong. You can't fix what you don't know exists." I'm still pretty passionate about my stance on the case.

"It's possible. But we did what we had to do, and it's over. I must admit though, if Sara and Hazel had you there batting for their team, the three of you would have been quite a force to reckon with. I think we all missed you in there today."

"Strong women don't always think alike, but when we do, you'd better watch out."

He laughs at my tough girl face. "I'll keep that in mind. So, how was it back at work? I just know when I go back tomorrow, it's going to be one hell of a day."

"Yeah, today was a little bit of damage control and getting all my ducks back in a row. There's no way I could've been away for a week during tax season. I would've had to take a number to lose my damn mind, because my clients would've been losing theirs. Besides, if I hadn't postponed, I wouldn't have met you."

"Very true. This may have been the first time ever that putting something off worked in my favor." I blush, and the room grows warm. It's only been a week, but I already know this whole experience stands to change my life, if only a part of it.

He reaches across the table, and I meet him halfway. Light tingles travel from his skin to mine, and it reminds me of our first kiss.

"How is it we were always so close and our paths never crossed?" I ask, thinking all this time he was never far away.

"I've been asking myself that same question for days now." He knows exactly what to say to send those tingles straight through me.

His phone whistles, but he doesn't take his eyes from mine. I can't help feeling like after nearly twenty years of looking and numerous failed attempts, I may have finally found the man of my dreams under the least likely of conditions.

His phone whistles again, having gone unnoticed. "You should check that. It may be your son." He nods in agreement and pulls his phone from his pocket.

"Okay?" he mutters aloud.

"Is everything all right?"

"It's from Vivian." Vivian? I feel my face flush with jealousy. What the hell does she want with my date?

"Really?" I pick up my wine and take a long swallow.

"Yeah. She wants to know if I'll meet her for drinks." His tone is confused, as if he can't believe what's happening.

"I can't say I'm surprised. I saw how she flirted with you," I look away—at my napkin, at the floor, around the room, anywhere but at him, because I'm not sure I can control my feelings. He senses the change in me, and I can feel his eyes on me. Then I hear the clicking as he starts typing a response. "What are you going to tell her?"

"The truth. Thanks for the invite, but I'm already seeing someone, someone very special."

The tears sting my eyes as a smile spreads across my face. He's so sincere, and I'm so embarrassed at my behavior. But I guess it stands to prove that more can happen in a week than most realize.

"I don't know what to say." I really don't. I'm speechless.

"You don't have to say anything. Hannah, I've fallen for you faster than I thought was possible. If that makes me crazy, so be it, because I'm guilty of nothing more than being crazy about you." He raises his glass again. "To what I thought would be the worst week of my life but ultimately brought us together."

"To jury duty." I raise my glass to meet his.

"To love and jury duty." He smiles and touches his glass to mine. "May we never have to serve again."

"I'll drink to that!"

"Owen, there are a lot of things that don't go together. Pickles and ice cream, pineapple and pizza, and though you'll disagree, frosties and French fries." Owen's eyes smile at the last one. "But there are two more that still to this day don't make sense, though they ultimately changed my life. Love and jury duty.

"From the first time I opened my mouth and inserted my foot in your presence, I knew it was a moment I'd never forget. It's a moment I wouldn't undo for all the money in the world. It was a new door opening after what felt like a lifetime of closed ones. It was a moment that's changed my life in a way I'd given up on. That moment brought me to you. I look forward to more moments of looking like a fool, spewing ridiculousness, and living this new life with you."

Owen looks into my eyes and hits me with that smile that still brings me to my knees.

"Hannah, the first thing you noticed about me was my backside," laughter fills the room, "but the first thing I noticed was your smile. We started that day thinking it couldn't get worse, but it was only the first of some of the best days of my life. Together, there's not an obstacle we can't overcome, a challenge we can't win, or a picture we can't paint. I look forward to living this new life with you."

Judge Marley, and Me, takes his que. Who else would we ask to perform our wedding?

"Do you, Hannah Ellen Smith, take Owen to be your husband? To love and cherish him, in sickness and in health, from this day forward?"

"I do."

"Do you, Owen Raymond Mitchell, take Hannah to be your wife? To love and cherish her, in sickness and in health, from this day forward?"

"I do."

"By the power vested in me, and the state of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Owen, you may kiss your bride."

A kiss seals the deal, and the verdict is in. Love can be found anywhere your heart is, as long as it's open and willing to accept it. Love is everywhere. And though we're all used to the notion of love ending in a courtroom, I found out personally that it can start there too.

Inspiration & Acknowledgments

After twenty-four years of avoiding the calling of my civil duties, my time too was up. I took it in stride, showed up bright eyed and bushy tailed, and awaited my sentence. The first thing I noticed the all the comedies going on around me. The broken machine that people still tried to use. I didn't actually pay close enough attention to know if those people ever made it on the pool. But I decided after all the times I'd gotten off, I'd embrace the experience. It wasn't until after our second bathroom break that it dawned on me that this could be the base of a good story. Or even better yet, a romantic comedy.

In truth, my experience didn't include a nice assed construction worker, nor a bitch named Vivian. My seven days in the courtroom was spent with awesome people and learning about a system that's been used for hundreds of years. I couldn't have asked for a better experience, that was until I was named alternate. Yes, that really happened and, to be honest, I'm still a little salty six months later. My advice when it comes to receiving that dreaded piece of mail. Just go with it, learn from it, and if you're lucky make something beautiful from it.

To all my real jury buddies, Wendy, Ivory, Victor, Laura, Rosalie, Jim, Crystal, Nicci, and our fearless marshal, Wes. Thank you for the experience and for the laughs. Not that I'm in a hurry to do it again, but I wouldn't mind doing it with all of you.

To my family, for your continued support while I spend so much time in my head. I know it's sometimes hard to understand how important my stories are to me, just write it off as me being bat-shit crazy, that works for me.

To Ma and Amy, for being my only two beta's this go around. Your support and insight is worth more than I can ever tell you.

To all the readers who take a chance on me, thank you so much! As I've always said, I don't care if I make you laugh, cry, mad, sad, or send my book flying across the room, as long as I can make you feel something.

## Other books by Mareta L. Miller

The Ninety-Nine Roses Series: includes,

Telling Me with Roses, Stemming from Secrets, &

Blooming with Love

### Fighting for Us

### Whiskey

### Holding the Wild Card

### Jack

### Contributed work to the charity Anthology: Vegas Strong

### Paperbacks available from Mareta L. Miller directly @

http://www.Maretalmiller.com

Follow me on Facebook, twitter, &  Good reads

### @MaretaLMiller

