Monday morning comes too quickly.

I didn't mean to pull an all-nighter on a caffeine-fueled research-spree. I had promised myself that going through Cassie's case files was for ammunition only, for coming up with an infallible reason why I could refuse to be on this case... but I'd spend the entire weekend fighting sleep so I could dig deep into the minutiae.

Crestline was trying to circumvent the National Environmental Policy Act by splitting their proposal into smaller, seemingly independent projects. Yes, they'd conscripted consultants for their "impact studies," but they'd modeled the smaller projects independently, therefore avoiding a full-scale environmental review. It wasn't illegal, per se, but it was shady as fuck.

And from Cassie's notes, they weren't planning on stopping at something as scummy as segmenting the project. There were two drafts for challenging the protected land near the Teton Wilderness. They hadn't found an expert willing to argue that gray wolves, protected under the Endangered Species Act, hadn't been spotted in the area in over a decade... but they were trying hard to find one.

It had pushed me on a deep dive into the biodiversity of the Teton Wilderness, the reintroduction of wolves to Yellowstone, the lifecycle of the western glacier stonefly... in a way, I felt like I was back in law school. I'd turned my phone off, the lofi up, brewed a pot of strong coffee and buried myself in collecting and organizing information. But after a couple hours of sleep and a cold shower, it was time to return to reality.

I am not a law student, not a lawyer. I'm a drop-out paralegal with a mountain of debt to shovel through. And I'm apparently too old to be pulling all-nighters because I feel like a half-formed ghost as I make my way to work.

The fluorescent lights of Hutchinson and Hughes bear down on me as I shed my coat. Like most of the bigger corporate offices in Jackson, the office is a newer construction in a glam-industrial style that looks slightly out of place against the mountainous backdrop, but perfectly fits with the ultra-lux aura the city likes to cultivate.

Jackson might be one of the bigger cities in the area, but it doesn't change the truth of the matter. It's largely a collection of former residential properties converted to business zones with ever rising real estate prices. Ten years ago, I could have bought a house and a half. Now? I'm paying most of my pay check for a cut-and-paste, modern-veneer apartment on the outskirts of the city.

My heels click harder than usual on the concrete floor, but I can't decide if I'm trying to announce my arrival or broadcast my irritation.

Hughes is already hovering outside my office when I get there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His expression seems to be a mixture of impatience and smug satisfaction. It's hard to say with all the Botox, but I hedge that he's impatient.

"Dawson," he begins with a forcedly casual tone. "How was the town hall?"

He's not usually one for small talk, so I figure he's looking for a favor i.e. keeping me on Crestline. Too bad sweet talk doesn't work with me. Neither does the "friendly" lean of his hip onto my desk. I set my purse and coffee down slowly and take a bit of time arranging myself behind my desk before I answer. "Enlightening."

I can feel his smirk from across the room. "Good. I'll need your notes first thing. Crestline wants a draft response to the community's concerns by the end of the week."

"No." The word is out before I can stop it. I had rehearsed something a little more nuanced, but the sharp, single word seems to get the effect I wanted.

Hughes blinks like I've slapped him. "Excuse me?"

"Take me off Crestline." I glare up at him from my desk. "It's Cassie's assignment, and I want nothing to do with it."

For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then his mouth twists into something resembling a smile. "Rhea, I don't think you understand—"

"I understand perfectly, Tom," I cut in. "I'm not Crestline's PR department. I'm not even the paralegal assigned to this client. And frankly, I'm not comfortable being a part of a case that's dismissing legitimate concerns about land rights and environmental impact."

"Since when do you care about environmental law?" He scoffs.

If he had actually read my CV when he'd hired me, he would have been able to answer his own question. Tom Hughes, however, was more the type to notice the button-strain on blouse before he'd read the line items on a resume.

"I don't," I lie smoothly. "But I care about not wasting my time on cases that are doomed to blow up in our faces."

"Cassie told me—"

I'm tired. I don't feel like hand-holding an adult through a realization he should have been able to reach on his own. The man is a lawyer for Christ's sake.

"She told you exactly what you wanted to hear." I try to keep the frustration out of my voice. "Look, Crestline isn't breaking any rules, yet, but they're setting themselves up to be fined at best, and most likely sanctioned. I get that they've got money to burn and clearly mean to drag this out until the locals can't fight it, but it's sloppy work."

Hughes blinks a couple more times, as if he's processing the information. I wait. He knows I'm right. With a grunt, he pushes off my desk. "Fine. I'll get Harper on to supervise."

"Thank you, Mr. Hughes," I answer sweetly. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

He doesn't answer as he marches himself out.

It should feel like a victory, but I just feel hollow. Andy Harper is more aggressive than Cassie; he's hungry for recognition. He'll likely push Crestline to vicious tactics. Maybe I should have stayed on the project, if only to guarantee they weren't cutting corners. Those people deserved that, at least.

No. I'm not going to stay involved with this disaster. I'm going to help build another luxury ski resort for billionaires in already developed land that does not shelter threatened species or endangered flowers. I am going to enjoy my latte, and not think about Crestline or men with stormy eyes.

I lean back in my chair and let out a quiet sigh, pressing my palms against my temples. I need to focus on the clients I still have. I have a draft to finish and a handful of phone calls to make and a box of discovery to sift through. Since Hutchinson and Hughes are on the other side of their golden years, they've given more and more tasks to us, their paralegals. Aside from signing appeals and appearing in court, I'm practically doing what I'd be doing as an attorney.

It bothers me, a little, that I'm doing most of their job for them, and getting paid a fraction of their bottom line, but it's also the way the world works. Nothing was stopping me from going back to law school, not really. Sure, I didn't want to take out another loan, but I could, if I really wanted to. I was half-way through my second year when I dropped out to take care of my mom. The thought of returning to the library, surviving off ramen noodles and energy drinks, dealing with classmates six years younger than me... and the loss of my paycheck is enough to push me back to my tasks at hand.

I turn to my computer to get to writing, but I can't stop my mind from drifting back to the research I did over the weekend. The segmented proposals, the endangered wolves, the water table studies Crestline had conveniently ignored in their models. It isn't my fight, but the injustice of it is like a splinter I can't stop picking at.

The old Rhea Dawson is threatening to claw herself from tomb I buried her in, and I just don't have the heart to let it happen. Because what good would come of it? If I quit my job and pick up work with a local firm willing to fight Crestline? It doesn't matter how how kind and deserving those people are, they aren't going to be able to afford fancy lawyer. Most of them likely need pro bono work. And I can't afford to be selfless.

So the bleeding-heart, heroine-complex Rhea Dawson has to stay locked away, because I just can't go through any more disappointments. It is safer to expect the worst, embrace it even. That way I'll never be let down.

My phone flashes with an incoming internal call. Reception.

I pick up and try to muster some professionalism despite my exhaustion.

"This is Rhea Dawson."

"Hi, Miss Dawson," the receptionist says, sounding vaguely apologetic. "I have a 'Marcus Forrester' here to schedule an consultation regarding the Crestline case."

My heart drops, and for a split second, I think Hughes has already sicced a Crestline rep on me to refuse my refusal. "Andy Harper's taking over. I'm not on that case anymore," I start, my tone firm.

There's a pause on the other end. "He says he'd like to speak to you personally."

For a second, I imagine that it's the man from the town hall. The one with the stormy eyes and the audacity to confront me in the parking lot... to almost kiss me. My heart races in my chest. My first instinct is to send him away with pithy comment, but curiosity wriggles through my pride.

"Fine." I sigh. "Send him up."

Five minutes later, I'm staring at the grizzled man from the town hall. The one who'd doubted Crestline's integrity when it came to hiring their consultants. Marcus Forrester looks out of place in Hutchinson and Hughes. Decked out in flannel and dirty denim and worn-in boots, he—and his gray mustache—look better suited to a cowboy soap opera than they do a law office.

"Mr. Forerester," I say, flashing him my best customer service smile. There's a sliver of disappointment in my chest that I brush away and try not to read into. I gesture for him to sit at one of the tiny, ultra modern chairs. "How can I help you?"

He gives me a wry looks before settling into a seat. The sleek, minimalist furniture was clearly designed to look pretty in a magazine, not sit in. It squeaks under his weight. Despite his age, he's a tall man with the strength of someone who has worked outside, with his hands, for most of his life. And he looks ridiculous crammed into my office.

"I thought I'd take you up on your offer," he says, leaning back. His words are unhurried, leisurely, with the slightest hint of an accent that I can't place. It's got a the tiniest lilt of a drawl, but something else wedged between the vowels and consonants. Canadian?

I raise an eyebrow and fold my hands across my lap. "I don't believe I made one."

"'Individual consultations.' I want one regarding our case against Crestline."

My smile doesn't crack. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Forrester. I'm a paralegal, not an attorney. Moreover, Hutchinson and Hughes can't take a case against a currently employed client. It would be a conflict of interest." And you can't afford it, I leave unsaid. "I can refer you to someone who can actually help you."

"I think you're wrong about that, Miss Dawson. I think you're exactly the person who can help."

"And why's that?"

"Because I need someone who knows the law and isn't afraid to call horseshit when they see it. Someone who cares about doing the right thing."

"Mr. Forrester. This is a corporate law office. We don't do pro bono work, and we certainly don't 'call horeseshit,' on our own clients."

He doesn't flinch.

"You care, though," he says simply. Like saying the sky is blue. "And people who care can make a difference. Even when it scares the hell out of him."

His words linger, like he's daring me to disagree. Rationally, I know he can't hear the way my pulse picks up, can't see the tensing of all my muscles. But it feels like he can. Like he can see right through my perfectly practiced smile. Like he can see the stubborn, bleeding-heart optimist I used to be. It's in the way his blue eyes stay fixed to me. The way he seems perfectly at ease.

"That's a nice sentiment, Mr. Forrester," I say evenly. "But caring doesn't pay the bills."

He tilts his head slightly, studying me with sharp, weather eyes. "No," he agrees after a pause. His mustache twitches with the hint of a smile. "It doesn't. But I know the look on someone's face when they're biting their tongue to keep from saying what they want to say. Saw it the other night at the town hall. I'm seeing it right now."

I blink, surprised by his bluntness. Most people—especially the ones who normally march into my office demanding things they can't have—don't take this tone with me. I'm used to threats, wheedling, and overblown syrupy flattery. But not this. Not quiet conviction neatly tied into a challenge I can't disagree with without lying through my teeth.

"I appreciate you coming all the way to Jackson, Mr. Forrester," I say after a long pause. My voice is calm, cool, effortlessly polite despite the my chest tightens. "But you do have the wrong person. I'm not interested in the crusade against Crestline, and even if I were, it's not my place to get involved."

Marcus Forrester doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. He just stays seated, his frame dwarfing the tiny chair as he watches me with an infuriating patience. "With all due respect, Miss Dawson, I think you do care. I think you're already involved."

I clench my jaw to keep my smile from cracking. "Mr. Forrester, you don't know me. You don't know what I think." The feeling of deja vu feels like whiplash. "If you have an actual need for legal expertise, I'm happy to refer you to a firm that—"

"—doesn't care?" He just smiles, his mustache twitching. "No, I don't think that'll work for us."

"I can't help you," I snap, more forcefully than I intend. Softer, I add. "Even if I wanted to, I can't. My hands are tied."

He leans back, boots scraping the polished floor as his legs stretch out. For a moment, there's only silence between us. And then he slowly stands, like he's giving me one last chance to change my mind. When I don't, he glances toward the door.

"Maybe you're right," he says finally. His voice is quiet but no less steady. "But you should ask yourself why that bothers you so much."

And he walks out, leaving my office feeling smaller and more stifling than it did before he arrived.