“You wanna take my coaster—a little reminder of my wood—to court in your purse?” I ask with a teasing smile even though I’m dead serious. “Nobody will even know.”

Zoey looks at the circle of wood and marble that’s sitting on her nightstand where I dropped it with my phone. Her cheeks blush slightly, but her lips tilt up the slightest bit. “Can I?”

“It’s yours, Zo.”

She bends forward, planting a kiss on my lips that I feel to my toes and everywhere in between.

“What was that for?”

“For being you and for not making me feel like I’m weird.”

“You’re not weird. You’re perfect. Gross body exploration aside.” I stick my tongue out in disgust, and she laughs, breaking the somber mood.

“Did you know . . . stomach acid can dissolve razor blades?”

I chuckle, enjoying the pleasurable way she bounces on my hips. “I actually did know that. Stomach acid has a pH of 1.5-3.5, plenty acidic to dissolve steel.”

“Ugh, why is it so sexy that you know that?” Zoey groans, but she’s looking at me with fire and desire in her eyes again.

I grin, reaching around to cup her ass and giving it a squeeze. We’ve got time for one more quickie before I have to go.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

Chapter 21

Zoey

“This is freaking me out,” I tell Jeff the next morning.

The courtroom is only two floors up from my basement office, but it feels like a world away even though it’s not fancy. Stackable chairs lined out in three rows, linoleum floors from the 70s, and a trio of wood desks up front for the attorneys and judge shouldn’t be intimidating.

But I have never had to testify and certainly haven’t had to do it in a professional capacity in my short career. I don’t even know if Grandpa ever testified. I wish I could ask him.

But there’s a first time for everything, and like too many firsts, I’ll do it alone.

“It’s no big deal,” Jeff says while sipping his coffee. He’s the picture of morning chill, seemingly not caring at all that he’s in court instead of working at his desk downstairs.

“How many times have you done this? Testify,” I clarify.

“Dozens, I guess. Usually drunks who wanna proclaim their sobriety. These made that happen a lot less frequently, though,” he says, tapping the body cam on his vest with an evil smirk.

“Why are you geared up?” I tug at the blouse I found at the back of my closet and wiggle in my chair, slicking my damp palms down my black pants-covered thighs.

I’m second-guessing my attire.