DELANEY

Delaney Ross rushed along the narrow side streets of Center City Philadelphia toward the Criminal Justice Center, where a judge was about to render a decision in the most important case of her career. The judge was known for berating tardy attorneys, so she had to get there before he emerged from his chambers and ripped her a new one.

The race was on.

She was two blocks away when she suddenly found herself airborne. Her briefcase took off on a flight of its own, slamming into the head of an unsuspecting passerby.

“What the hell!” the man screamed.

Delaney touched down on all fours at the corner of Twelfth and Spruce, while one of her stilettos, stuck between two cobblestones, mocked her from nearly half a block away.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered. She’d walked out of her own shoe. Flown, more like it.

She tried to stand, but the narrow hem of her pencil skirt showed no mercy. Her only hope was to crawl to the nearest sturdy object—in this case, a bus shelter—to hoist herself up. She knew better than to request assistance from any of the day-dwelling city zombies stepping over her as they went about their business. She could have set herself on fire and no one would have flinched.

Except for the obscenity-spewing briefcase victim marching toward her.

“Oh. You,” he sneered, looking down at her. “I should have known.”

Delaney ignored him as she crawled to the shelter like a newborn giraffe trying to stand.

He continued. “You can beg and crawl all you want, Ross, but I’m not dropping charges, especially after that vicious attack.”

Delaney glanced up at the amused expression of her opposing counsel, Assistant District Attorney Wells Abernathy III. Who, mercifully, held out his hand and helped her up.

She hobbled—one leg four inches higher than the other—back to the offending shoe, tugging and freeing it from its mortared grasp. The heel was still affixed but wobbly at best. Great. She’d have to hopscotch to court on one foot. Could this day get better?

Wells handed her the felonious briefcase and chuckled. “I should keep this weapon as evidence of your wanton disregard for human life.”

“Funny, you calling yourself human,” Delaney said, wincing at the pain in her left knee.

“I wasn’t the one crawling on all fours.”

Delaney smoothed her espresso-hued French twist, glared at him, and brushed by without a word.

He fell into step beside her. She hobbled faster. Wells kept pace.

“Is this a race? Don’t bother, Ross. You don’t have a leg to stand on. Or shall I say shoe?”

“Buzz off, Wells. Aren’t there any other women you could be accosting right now?”

“How about your friend Cleo?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“She wouldn’t be caught dead with someone like you.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Her frontal cortex is fully intact.”

Delaney usually enjoyed their competitive and strictly professional (now, anyway) relationship. She respected him as an attorney and a prosecutor, but not when he’d been instrumental in jamming up her innocent client with a bogus murder rap.

“It’s not too late to withdraw your motion,” he said.

“Withdraw this.” She flipped him the bird.

“No wonder I broke up with you. Way too competitive.”

“Have you suffered a recent blow to the head?” She chuckled at her own joke. “Oh, yeah. You did. And it was the other way around.”

“Rewrite history if you must. I have to say, though, your hope for a positive outcome on this case is amusing. No way the judge is ruling in your favor.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Delaney picked up speed and the two hobble-raced the rest of the way. They reached the large glass doors of the courthouse in a decided tie and shuffled in with the horde of justice-involved humanity. She was just grateful her heel didn’t snap off, or she may have had to hitch a piggyback ride from him.

The courtroom was abuzz with spectators and participants. Delaney juked a byline-hungry reporter who tried to tackle her into an interview, until she finally made it to the court’s end zone beyond the rail separating lawyers from the rest of the world. She found her two interns waiting at counsel table.

Marley handed her a notepad while Sam poured water into a glass from a stainless-steel pitcher.

“Please tell me that’s prosecco,” she joked as she took the glass.

“Well, if anyone can turn water into wine, it’s Sam,” Marley said.

“How about water into a Band-Aid?” Sam pointed to her knee. “Your leg’s bleeding!”

“I’m fine.” Delaney waved him off and grabbed a tissue from the box on the table to blot it. “I just bumped into something.”

“The side of a bus?” Sam chuckled. “It hurts me just to look at it.”

“The judge should be out in a few. Is there anything you need us to do?” Marley asked.

“Pray for a miracle,” Delaney said, handing Marley her phone and briefcase. “And, listen, however this turns out, I appreciate all the work you both put into this case.”

“Our pleasure, boss. We’ll be back here if you need us,” Sam said as their client was led to the table by a deputy sheriff.

The interns found seats in the gallery. Delaney began jotting notes in preparation for the decision when Marley returned a few seconds later.

“It’s Dalton,” she said, handing Delaney her phone.

“I’ll call him later.”

“He says it’s urgent.”

Delaney sighed. She knew better than to take a call in a courtroom, but Dalton, unaware she was back in court, would probably keep calling until she answered.

“Sup?” Cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder, she flipped a page of her notepad.

Dalton’s serenading voice flooded her ear as he began singing “Chapel of Love.” Delaney smiled through mounting annoyance.

“Dalton—”

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve been calm, cool, and collected, but we need to make a final decision about the menu. Are we going with the charcuterie table or a cheesesteak bar?”

Dalton had been neither calm, cool, nor collected. In fact, he’d embraced his wedding duties with such freewheeling enthusiasm, he’d transitioned from a mild-mannered, non-opinionated groom into a rip-roaring, unbridled Groomzilla. Almost overnight.

She’d had no choice but to get Dalton involved in last-minute details. She’d been working on a major post-conviction relief case through the Innocence Project. Newly discovered evidence suggested her client, who’d been convicted of murder, wasn’t the perpetrator. She and her team had presented a motion to the court that morning requesting a new hearing based on the evidence, which, if successful, could ultimately result in the dismissal of charges. With her client’s life hanging in the balance, Delaney couldn’t focus on anything else, including the wedding. Enter Dalton, whose only task was simply to tie up a few loose ends. Instead, he unraveled and retied them into big, fancy bows.

First, it was the guest list. What began as an intimate affair became a grandiose gala after he added ten coworkers, twelve frat brothers, and his entire college football offensive line. He also dissed the DJ they’d decided upon, hiring his friend’s band instead with a drunkenly scribbled (yet legally enforceable) contract on a cocktail napkin. Then, it was the tuxes. Dalton tried on twenty before he found “the one.” Who knew tux selection could single-handedly make or break the entire event? (Spoiler: Groomzillas know.)

Now here he was, trying to trump her charcuterie board with cheesesteaks. Enough was enough.

Dalton began singing again about going to the chapel and getting married, when the thick wooden door to the judge’s chambers burst open and a looming, black-gowned figure emerged. Dispensing with formalities, Delaney shoved the phone in her lap and ended the call. Or so she thought.

“All rise!”

Delaney leaped from her seat, forgetting her phone was a projectile waiting to happen. And boy, did it happen. She watched, horrified, as it flung from her lap and skidded across the marble floor. She shot a look at the judge to see if he noticed. He didn’t, or so it seemed.

Bullet = dodged.

“Be seated,” the bailiff instructed.

The rustling of sitting bodies subsided, and the room fell silent. The judge cleared his throat and—

From the phone on the floor of Courtroom 1A, the serenading voice of Delaney’s betrothed filled the eerily silent room.

Delaney gasped. She hadn’t ended the call.

She’d put it on speaker.

Staring straight ahead, she pretended not to hear Dalton’s pitch-perfect refrain, or the fact that, for this rendition, he’d added the word “cheesesteaks” to the lyrics. She surreptitiously slid her stilettoed foot forward, hoping to pull the phone closer, but only managed to kick it farther away, and closer to the judge. Dalton continued crooning.

The judge peeled off his glasses and glared into the gallery. “Whoever’s going to the chapel for cheesesteaks better silence that phone immediately,” he barked.

Ad now, a moral dilemma: fetch the phone and fess up, or freeze and feign ignorance in re: ownership of said phone? Retrieving it would be an absolute admission of guilt and a potential death knell for her case. As an attorney, she was expected to be a zealous advocate for her client, and fessing would fling her client, and their case, under the judicial bus.

Then again (light bulb!) she could swivel dramatically in her chair and cast a Stern Look toward the gallery in an Oscar-worthy performance as Innocent and Mildly Disgusted Attorney. She’d been cast as the lead in her high school musical and felt confident in her acting chops, a necessary skill for any litigator. Surely she could cast convincing blame on another.

But as an attorney, she was considered an officer of the court with an ethical duty to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—so help her the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania Disciplinary Board.

She opened her mouth and prepared to hurl herself on the mercy of the court.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” came a voice from behind her.

Delaney swiveled in her chair as Marley breezed through the swinging half door and rushed forward, auburn curls bouncing with determination.

“This is my phone,” she proclaimed.

Marley swooped down to retrieve the phone and froze when the judge scowled at her. She stared back, emerald eyes wide, as if she were Bambi in the middle of a NASCAR track and had just realized the risk she’d taken.

Nonetheless, she held her composure, along with her bowels, and with the confidence of a person thrice her age, said, “With all due respect, Your Honor, I beg the court’s forgiveness.”

Then she half curtsied like a court jester and hightailed it out of the courtroom—juggling her files, the phone, and the huge set of cojones she’d just earned.

Gratitude coursed through Delaney’s veins. Marley Maguire was the best intern an attorney could hope for, and Delaney vowed to pay her back, big time, for throwing herself on the sword of judicial disdain. With a brand spankin’ new Beamer. Or something. Maybe just lunch.

The judge spoke. “In the matter of Commonwealth versus Rupert James, after consideration of the motion filed by the defendant, the Commonwealth’s response and legal arguments of counsel, I hereby find the defendant is entitled to an evidentiary hearing.”

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed.

Internally, Delaney shared Sam’s enthusiasm but made a mental note to remind him he was on a legal team, not a cheer squad.

“Thank you, Ms. Ross,” Rupert said, voice cracking as his eyes filled with tears. Her client shook her hand with vigor. “You’ve given me hope.”

The judge continued. “Due to the serious nature of the charges and the public scrutiny of this case, I’m scheduling this hearing for my nearest available date, which is…”

The judge flipped through his calendar. “Monday, June twenty-sixth.”

Delaney tried to register the date. June what? It was already June, so it was happening soon. Why did that date seem familiar?

“I’m assuming both parties will be ready to go?” the judge asked.

Without missing a beat, the assistant district attorney leaped to his feet and announced with magnanimous aplomb, “Yes, sir. The Commonwealth will be ready.”

Wells tried to nail the role of Prosecutor Who Just Won His Case but failed. While his performance may have fooled most, it didn’t Delaney, who caught the flicker of defeat flash across his face. The ruling was a setback for the hotshot prosecutor with aspirations to someday become Philly’s top law enforcer.

But why did it also look like he was gloating?

“June twenty-sixth it is.” The judge banged his gavel and barked, “Court is hereby dismissed.”

“My God,” Delaney said, as she looked down at her planner and confirmed her fears. It was smack dab in the middle of her two-week honeymoon.

The judge rose. “Is there something defense counsel wishes to say?” She shot a look at Wells, hoping he’d throw her a bone and reconsider his readiness. They were friends, despite being courtroom adversaries (not to mention the Briefcase v. Wells incident earlier). He knew she was getting married this month—yes, to the man she broke up with him for, but the statute of limitations for pettiness had run out. Time for bygones.

Delaney widened her eyes at Wells, willing him to say something. Wells, friend-turned-courtroom-foe, merely shrugged.

“Um…” Delaney tapped her pen on the table. Should she request a new date, or suck it up and shorten their honeymoon?

“What is it, Ms. Ross?” Rupert asked.

Delaney looked into the tired eyes of her client. She was a steward of his freedom, and he’d spent over a decade in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. It would be immoral to prolong his misery just so she could float around the Caribbean for an additional week.

Dalton would understand. He respected her work ethic and wouldn’t want her to risk her reputation—more importantly, someone’s freedom—by delaying a case in favor of an indulgent two-week honeymoon. They’d still have a week to bask in tropical paradise.

“Yes, your honor. The defense will be ready.”

“Good.” The judge nodded, then turned to the bailiff as he pointed to her leg. “Someone get her a Band-Aid.”

Back at her office, Delaney found her phone on her desk with a Post-it note from Marley to call Dalton, the word “urgent” underlined three times. She ignored it. Everything was urgent with Groomzilla these days.

Delaney pulled the clip from her French twist and a river of dark-chocolate hair cascaded down her back. She texted Dalton and suggested they meet for a late dinner, then summoned the interns for a meeting.

She broke the news about the hearing date to Marley, who arrived first.

“Wow,” Marley exclaimed. “What are you going to do?”

“I have no choice, I have to come back. And Wells just emailed, requesting a meeting tomorrow. Can you and Sam can handle it?”

“Of course. No need to worry about anything, we got it. You just enjoy your wedding and what’s left of your honeymoon.”

“Speaking of the wedding, who are you bringing?” Delaney asked as she forwarded his email.

“My boyfriend, Rick?”

It sounded more like a question than an answer. She’d forgotten about Marley’s boyfriend. “Sorry, bride brain! Who is Sam bringing?”

“I have no idea. Nor does Sam.”

Delaney was disappointed Marley and Sam weren’t coming together. She wondered if they’d ever considered dating. They’d make a cute couple—she had a little Emma Stone thing going on, and he looked as if he’d just waded in from the pages of Surfer magazine.

“Where does Rick live, again?”

“Ohio. He works for an IT start-up in Columbus.”

“That’s right. Long distance relationships are fun, aren’t they?” Delaney asked, smirking. “How’s it working?”

“We try to visit on weekends at least once a month. And we do a week at the shore every year, which is where I’ll be next week. Speaking of which, are you sure it’s okay I take off, with the hearing so soon?”

“Of course, you deserve it. I know how important it is to have that time together. Dalton and I did the long-distance thing when we first got together. Thank God he was able to transfer to his firm’s Philly office after we got engaged.”

“I don’t mind the distance, especially having a year of law school left. It’s easier to focus with him not here.”

“What happens after you graduate?”

“We’re trying to figure that out.”

A slight grimace flashed across Marley’s face, so subtle most people wouldn’t notice. But Delaney had honed the skill of reading people, and something told her all wasn’t quiet on the Midwestern front.

Sam entered the room then, flashing a dimpled smile as he settled into a chair and man-crossed his legs. “Congrats, boss, I knew you’d do it.”

“We did it. We’re a team. It’s your victory too.”

“But the true winner was Dalton and his courtroom serenade,” Sam said. “Someone alert American Idol.”

“Holy crap,” Delaney exhaled, cupping her forehead. “I saw my whole career flash before my eyes.”

“Marley’s too,” Sam said. “I was like, girl—are you trying not to practice law in the future?”

“I owe you big time, Marley. You really saved my butt.”

After replaying the daring court caper and waging bets on Marley’s questionable future as an attorney in good standing, they got down to business. Marley pulled her shoulder-length curls into a loose bun and scribbled away on her legal pad as Delaney outlined tasks for the interns to accomplish in her absence.

The meeting concluded just as Jim Howe, one of the firm’s founding partners, tapped on the door.

“There’s my favorite associate,” he said. “Congrats on the win. Just wanted to stop by and tell you to enjoy this time off.”

A wave of panic swept through her. It must have shown on her face.

“I mean it. You have a whole team here to help,” Jim said. “What’s the countdown?”

“Nine days,” Delaney said. Why did she feel so panicked? Everything was set. Except a minor change in honeymoon plans. And the Great Charcuterie Debate.

“Let’s just hope this thing doesn’t become a hurricane,” Jim said as he headed toward the door.

“Wait, what thing?” Delaney shot up from her chair.

Jim turned back slowly. Delaney waited for him to laugh and say he was pulling her leg, but the look on his face told her he wasn’t joking.

“Please tell me there’s no hurricane,” Delaney said.

“I hate to say it, but—”

“There’s no hurricane,” Marley interrupted Sam and waved the men off as if they were silly toddlers rambling on about monsters under the bed.

“But Mar, the Weather Channel—” Delaney caught the comment-cutting glare Marley shot Sam.

“Then again,” Sam said, shrugging, “it’s rare for hurricanes to come this far north in June.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said.

“He’s right,” Jim said, clearing his throat. “No need to worry.”

And then Delaney proceeded to worry, because that’s what happens when someone says not to. A hurricane was the last thing she needed.

The final head count was in, and Mother Nature wasn’t on the guest list.

MARLEY

Marley had just returned to her office after the meeting with Delaney and Sam when her boyfriend, Rick, called.

“Hey, hon,” he mumbled.

“What’s up?” she asked. “You sound stressed.”

“I am.” He sighed. “Our deadline just got pushed up two weeks.”

For the last few months, Rick’s team had been working overtime to complete a complicated project.

“That sucks,” Marley said.

“I’m so sorry, but I can’t take off next week.”

Her heart sank. Between his job and her case, their visits had become sparse. Now this. But Marley knew this project was important to Rick and could tell by his tone he didn’t want to let her down.

“It’s okay,” Marley said, trying to mask her disappointment. She didn’t want to make him feel bad about something he had no control over. “We can make it up another time.”

“That’s why I love you. You’re so understanding. I was looking forward to having time with you so we can discuss, you know—”

Marley knew without him saying it.

Their future.

She promised they’d talk soon, relieved for the extra time.

Delaney popped her head back in as Marley was hanging up.

“I just sent a list of topics to discuss at your meeting tomorrow.”

“Okay. I won’t be taking off next week, after all. Rick can’t make it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Delaney said, pouting as sympathy flooded her steel-blue eyes. “But hey, in that case—my bachelorette party’s this weekend. Why don’t you join us?”

Why not? Marley was honored to be asked and told her she’d be there.

After Delaney left, Marley headed to Sam’s office to tell him about the meeting.

“Knock, knock!” she announced.

“Wait till I get my panties on!” he cried in falsetto as he tapped away on his keyboard.

Marley plopped into a chair, crossed her legs, and waited until he was done typing. She needed his undivided attention.

“Sup, weirdo? Is it quittin’ time?” he asked.

“Not yet. We have a new assignment.”

He swiveled in his chair to face her, raked a hand through his hair, and laced his fingers behind his head. The rolled-up sleeves of his white Oxford provided a striking contrast to his tan forearms. It was only June, but Sam already looked as if he’d spent the entire summer at the shore.

Marley resented that someone as fair-haired as he could bronze so easily from head to toe. The sun adored Sam, swooning like a long-lost love as he paddled through the waves on his surfboard, warming his glistening skin to golden brown, and sprinkling his sea-soaked hair with kisses of honey. Meanwhile, the rest of the world (read: Marley) remained a pasty winter white no matter how many sun salutations she did. As a fellow weekend shore warrior, she spent an equal amount of time on the beach as Sam, but all the sun did for her was toss a smattering of freckles at her opaque Irish skin like a passive-aggressive afterthought.

Thanks, sun. Thanks, Celtic DNA.

Marley glanced away, abiding the unwritten code of male/female besties, which, briefly stated, prohibited one from staring, ogling, or otherwise noting the attractive features of one’s platonic pal. She was well-versed in ignoring Sam’s perfectly sculpted…um, everything, but occasionally he’d do something to soften her resolve.

Like dragging her into men’s clothing boutiques to try on tailored Armani suits during their lunch breaks. She’d pretend not to notice how the slim cut of the trousers revealed the contours of his thighs and bum. Or when he’d bribe her with dinner at Maggiano’s if she’d accompany him to the King of Prussia mall to find Tommy Bahama swim trunks. Which, inevitably, fit as if he were Tommy Bahama himself (assuming Tommy was six feet tall and built like an Adonis).

Sam stretched his arms to the side, causing his tailored shirt to pull across his chest.

“Mar, do me a solid—rub my shoulders?” He batted his baby blues. “I’m super sore from last night’s workout.”

She cocked her head.

“Please? I’ll pay you.”

“You can’t afford me,” Marley teased.

Forgetting the friend code for a moment, her eyes were riveted to his toned upper body, noticeable even through his Brooks Brothers button-down.

Noticeable, or summoning her like a beacon?

She got a good gander at Sam on the beach every weekend, so it’s not like she didn’t know exactly what he was packing. She just couldn’t help it. The pecs, the washboard abs, the—

“Take a picture—it lasts longer.” Sam’s joke broke the spell before her mind went any lower.

“Shut up.” Marley laughed to edge the tone of guilt from her “You’re an ass.”

“I’m not the one staring.” Sam ducked to avoid the paper clip she tossed at him. “Hey, you almost took out my eye.”

Marley cleared her throat, trying to remember what she had to tell him.

“Oh. I have something for you.” She scrolled through emails on her phone, blowing away a copper-brown curl that sprang free from her loose bun.

“Please don’t let it be about work,” Sam pleaded, his eyes gleaming with the promise of impending imbibement. “Isn’t it five o’clock somewhere?”

“It’s actually six here.”

“Then we have some drinking to catch up on,” Sam said.

“Don’t end your sentence with a preposition.”

“Such a flirt. Do you talk to all the guys this way?”

“You know me, luring them in with grammatical corrections.”

Sam smiled. “Is that why you’re here, to lure me in?”

“Right,” she said dismissively, hoping he couldn’t see her cheeks flush.

Sam was a perpetual flirt. If he was talking, he was flirting. Marley had learned long ago, the hard way, it meant nothing.

“I’m sending this to your printer,” she said.

“A cease and desist order?”

“Something like that.”

As the printer churned out the page, Sam wound up, spun in his chair three times, and grabbed the paper on his final revolution.

“Prosecution’s requested a meeting,” she said. “That’s the list of topics to discuss.”

Sam waved the paper around in a grand gesture. Marley looked at him dead-on, unamused, waiting for the theatrics to cease.

“Is Delaney going to meet with him?” he asked after skimming the email.

“No, we are. She’s leaving for her wedding tomorrow, remember?”

“Delaney’s getting married?” Sam yelled, slamming the paper into his chest. “Why wasn’t I told about this?”

Marley gave him a measured look. They’d received their invitations weeks ago. Despite constant inquiries, she still didn’t know who he was taking as his plus-one. Sam, who avoided relationship entanglements like the DMV on a Saturday, wouldn’t give her a straight answer.

First, he was going alone. Then he was taking their octogenarian receptionist. When he finally announced he’d asked Catherine Parr, Marley was thrilled, if not a little confused—she didn’t know this Catherine. He was elusive when pressed for details, only sharing she was “a little older.” Marley consulted the next best source: Google.

Sam’s “date,” it turned out, was the sixth wife of King Henry VIII.

Being as close as they had been for the past six years, Marley and Sam were intimately aware of the details of each other’s lives, with this one exception. She wasn’t sure why Sam was being so squirrelly. It wasn’t like the man couldn’t find a date with the snap of his fingers. Perhaps his plan was to fake a day-of illness, a major faux pas if he wanted to work for this firm. They both hoped for postgraduation job offers, and she didn’t want Sam to blow his chances, or hers, by dishonoring his RSVP and pissing off their future boss.

Sam folded the email into an airplane and aimed for the trash can. It careened into Marley’s head.

“We need that.” Marley bent over to retrieve the paper intended for the meeting and smoothed the creases. “Stop ruining the planet.”

"Know what I was thinking about the other day?” he asked.

“You should drop out of law school and twirl close-out signs on Delaware Ave?”

“Hey, someone has to alert the world when inventory is being drastically reduced, and that someone is me.” Sam pointed at his chest with both thumbs. “No, smart-ass, I was thinking about how much you hated me when we first met.”

“I didn’t hate you.” She did. “You were just someone I wouldn’t have befriended.”

“But you’re happy you did. Admit it.”

“Except I didn’t. You befriended me.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Marley tilted her head. “How’d it go, then?”

“You feigned a gross misunderstanding of the course material in a daring attempt to gain my assistance. Relentlessly, and without shame.”

It had gone nothing like that. Quite the opposite.

“Or maybe that was me,” he admitted.

It was. They’d met in Criminal Law 101 during their freshman year at Temple University. She was the studious future lawyer with aspirations to attend Villanova Law School; he, the flannel-wearing sloth who couldn’t answer a simple question about Miranda rights. As he stumbled over the answer, Marley blurted it out. She couldn’t help it—they’d been covering this topic for weeks and she was anxious to move on.

“Thanks for bailing me out. I’m a little hungover,” he’d said after class. “I’m Sam Adams. And you’re?”

“Not named after a beer," Marley said as she flung her backpack over her shoulder and stormed away.

The next day he was called upon by the professor, again unable to answer.

“Someone should inform the founding father the tea party’s over,” Professor Weinstein said. “Time to focus on this class.”

Sam had tried to strike up conversations with her in the following days. The more she ignored him, the harder he tried. She wasn’t encouraging him one bit, unlike the gaggle of flirty girls who flocked around him every day after class. Not that she’d noticed.

Then, one day, he scootched his chair closer to hers, leaned his elbows on his knees, and announced he had a question. She braced herself for a fresh round of stupidity as he smiled up at her, nearly sweeping her off her seat with a look she presumed had been practiced until perfected. He was so close she could see flecks of green in his Caribbean-blue eyes. She forgot what his question was, until she realized he hadn’t asked it. Why was this guy so maddingly beautiful—objectively, of course—while at the same time so vacuous? She didn’t like extremely good-looking guys. Or blondes. She trusted neither, preferring dark-haired, dark-eyed guys. Grounded. Serious. Their looks inconsequential as long as their intellect matched hers. This player was the complete opposite.

He asked her why she hated him.

“I don’t hate you,” she’d said, her propensity toward kindness taking over. “I just don’t have time for frat boy antics. I’m trying to get into law school.”

“I’m not a frat boy. And I’m also going to law school. Villanova.”

Marley recoiled as if cockroaches spewed from his mouth. No way was this guy getting into her dream law school. She wasn’t even sure how he got into college.

“You do realize you need more than charm to get into law school?”

“I guess I should ask my dad, who’s a lawyer himself. In fact, he graduated from ’Nova. If I’m correct, that makes me…” Sam snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah! A legacy.”

Later that week, he invited her to a study group. She was about to decline but thought it might be helpful if other serious students were involved. She reluctantly agreed, hoping it wouldn’t just be a bunch of jocks trying to glean her intel.

Marley and Sam were first to arrive for the study session and chatted as they awaited others. She was surprised to learn they shared common interests, despite growing up on opposite sides of the SEPTA tracks. Both loved living in Philly, cheering for the Eagles, and drinking beer. Both hated Styrofoam, the word “moist,” and when people say “no offense” right before they offend you.

Sam was a lot smarter than he let on. And funny.

“Oh, and I can’t stand that white strip in chicken fingers. Like, what the hell is that, anyway?” Sam asked.

“No offense, but you’re crazy not to love that thing.”

They’d laughed, and Sam had asked her what her boyfriend was like.

Marley was taken aback by his sudden question. She didn’t have a boyfriend at the time but didn’t want to disclose that factoid to him. Especially since her dating status, or lack thereof, was an unrelenting theme at family gatherings. Marley felt as picked apart as the turkey on the Thanksgiving table when relatives offered their theories on her inability to snag a man. Painfully shy. Too studious. Doesn’t know how to flirt.

The Family Maguire considered it strange a woman would choose college over marriage. Before Marley, none had. Instead, they wed after high school and pumped out little Irish tater tots, like generations before them. Marley wondered if they should change the family crest, featuring a knight on a white steed, to include a woman being dragged behind him.

Sam had interjected before Marley could answer. “Let me guess. He’s a geeky four-eyed IT type. A dependable guy of substance, not spark.” She’d been stunned at the accuracy with which he described her perfect (nonexistent) boyfriend.

She was also surprised when no one else showed up for the study group. They agreed to meet the following week. Again, no one else came. This time they studied and aced the exam. Marley decided it was worth her time to make it a weekly event.

Now here they were, co-interns on a real criminal case, after surviving four years of college, two years of law school, and one humiliating misunderstanding that almost ended their friendship.