She places the papers down and retreats, closing the door softly behind her.
The quiet settles back in. Just me and the cases. The Wilsons' custody battle. The Moore guardianship petition. The Diaz siblings' placement review. Other people's families, other people's problems. Problems I can solve without getting tangled in my own mess.
I flip through the Jensen adoption file. A same-sex couple desperately wanting to make a five-year-old boy legally theirs forever. My chest tightens as I sign the paperwork.
This is why I do this, for these moments. Creating families for people who deserve them. Protecting children who need someone to fight for them.
I glance at the photo half-hidden behind my legal volumes. Blake and me at twenty-five, arms slung around each other's shoulders at some forgotten beach. Before everything got complicated.
Before Janie.
My phone vibrates. A text from Pope Carrigan.
Confirming our lunch at noon. I'm on a tight schedule, flying back to Charleston at four.
Good. Work. Structure. Purpose.
The owner of CHG is probably in town for only a few hours. He has his own family. Pope doesn’t wastewords or time, and I've always appreciated that about him.
Heading out now. Business or pleasure?
His reply comes fast.
Both. One hour. Don’t be late.
Typical Pope. Dry as sandpaper.
I slip on my suit jacket, straighten my tie, and grab my keys. The Jensen file goes into my outbox as I walk out.
"I'm heading out," I call to Kaley as I pass her desk. "Back by two for the Ramirez consultation."
Outside, the Florida sun hits my face with familiar intensity. I purposefully picked a place within walking distance since I could use the exercise.
I check my watch again and quicken my pace toward the restaurant.
Flagler Steakhouse hums with the quiet conversations of Palm Beach's elite. White tablecloths, mahogany panels, waitstaff moving with practiced precision.
Pope Carrigan already occupies our corner table when I arrive, checking his watch as I approach.
“Carter.” Pope rises slightly, firm handshake, no smile. Just acknowledgment.
“Carrigan.” I match his brevity and take the chair across from him.
He doesn’t bother with the menu, just lifts a hand when the server appears. “Grilled salmon, steamed broccoli for me, please. And a club soda.” His gaze flicks to me. “Sorry, didn't mean to jump ahead. I already looked at the menu.”
I arch a brow. “Not a steak? Best steaks in Palm Beach.”
Pope’s mouth tightens, more smirk than smile. “Too much red meat will kill you. Somebody has to live long enough to keep this place running.”
“Guess I’ll take my chances,” I say, ordering a ribeye, medium rare.
As the server walks away, I lean back.
“So what’s the occasion? Don’t usually get graced with a Carrigan lunch invite.”
“I’m in town for the day, working through some things at the hospital. Wanted to talk to you about the board. Appreciate you making the time.”
“Believe me, I needed the excuse. My assistant says I’m starting to look like a vampire holed up in that office.”