“I’ve got some stuff I need to deal with today but I can stay if you need—”

“I’m fine. I’m going to get online and see what else I can do for Liam. Go do what you need to do,” she answers without looking at me.

“Bluebird . . .” This fucking sucks. Liam can’t be over here because I’m here. I don’t want to leave her alone in case Carl shows up here or next door. But I do need to get my kit ready and take it to the rehearsal space soon and return my boss’s truck before he puts out an APB on it and me. And I need to call Ashley about payment arrangements, which is damn sure not something I want to do in front of Dixie. I meant what I said, though, and since being with her in Austin, I haven’t looked twice at another woman, nor do I ever intend to.

“Go, Gav. I’m good. Promise.”

She is and I know she is, but I hate not being able to be there for her when she’s upset—even when she does look ready to take on Carl Andrews herself. Leaning down, I kiss her lightly on the temple. Her eyes open and flash quickly to mine and I see so many conflicted urges in them, but mostly I see a girl who needs more sleep.

“I’ll stop back by later if you want me to.”

“ ’Kay,” she mumbles while pulling her computer into her lap.

I slip out the door quietly, making triple sure my girl is locked in safe before I go.

25 | Dixie

WHEN GAVIN LEFT this morning after the social worker visited with Liam before returning him to Mrs. Lawson, there was so much I wanted to say. All I actually said was thanks for staying and then I took a very necessary nap.

But as I start getting ready for rehearsal, I realize a few things. Some of what I have to say isn’t actually for him.

So I decide to find the person I actually want to say it to.

Once I’m dressed in jeans and a tank top donning the words JOHNNY AND JUNE, I give my hair the usual college try and slip on my boots. Palming my keys, I add my cheap gas station aviator sunglasses to the top of my head and call it good.

My cell phone screen lights up as I lift it off the counter. Dallas is texting reminding me not to be late.

I swear, you oversleep one time at Austin MusicFest and your brother will never let you live it down.

I ignore his message and pull up my Web browser in search of an address. Once I find it, I type it into my navigation app.

Okay, so I might be late.

But only just a little.

Downtown Amarillo isn’t huge but it can be confusing when driving. There are several one-ways going in the opposite direction and the navigation lady on my phone reroutes me more than once. Somehow I finally find the building I’m looking for and park at a meter across the street.

As I ride the elevator up to the ninth floor, where the sign in the lobby said her office was, my nerves start to play tricks on me. I can’t tell if I’m angry or nervous or both but I’m something.

A potent cocktail of adrenaline and estrogen floods my system and I’m a few floors away from a full-blown anxiety attack.

The lobby on her floor is all white from floor to ceiling, with a few colorful works of art on the walls. It looks, feels, and smells too expensive to touch. Feels kind of like I might dirty up the pristine furnishings just by looking at them.

A blonde with her hair in a bun sits at the large desk with the name of the firm on the front. “Can I help you?”

I feel like Julia Roberts’s friend visiting her at the penthouse in Pretty Woman but I suck up my feeling of inadequacy and state the name of the person I’m looking for.

“Is she expecting you?” Blonde Bun asks.

I arch an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

The woman glares at me and picks up the phone on her desk. I hear her telling someone that Dixie Lark is there to see her and asking if she should let me go on back.

“Miss Weisman is currently with a client but said she can see you in a few minutes,” the receptionist tells me, her tone cold enough to give me frostbite.

“Thank you,” I say evenly, refusing to let her get to me. I step over to the seating area and lower myself onto a firm white couch cushion. The magazines on the glass table all look lame so I scroll through my phone for a few minutes while I wait.

“Miss Lark,” a voice calls out from behind me.

I stand and turn to see a brunette who doesn’t look older than me holding a door open.

“Miss Weisman will see you now.”

“Great.” I follow her down the hall, listening to the beat of her heels on the shiny hardwood floor. We stop at a door on the right and she pushes it open.

Sitting in a chair across from Ashley Weisman is the last person I expected to see here.

Gavin.

My heart stutters, faltering in my chest at the unexpected sight of them together.

Ashley Weisman is stupid pretty. It’s irritating as hell that she’s so polished and perfect all the time. Does the woman never get frazzled? Smudge her eyeliner? Have a bad hair day? Apparently that’s just too much to ask.

I wait patiently until clear green eyes meet mine. “What can I do for you this afternoon, Miss Lark?”

Gavin whirls around quickly in his chair. “Dixie? What are you doing here?”

Filling my lungs with air while attempting to smile isn’t easy but I give it my best shot. “I came to discuss a few things with Miss Weisman.”

She contemplates this glancing back at Gavin and then makes a face as if she doesn’t see the harm in it. “Okay. As long as you don’t ask me for any privileged information, I think that’s fine.”

“Oh, I’m not here to ask you for privileged information, Miss Weisman. I’m here to impart some.”

Her eyes widen and I know my boldness might come off wrong so I ease up a little. “There are things you may or may not know about Gavin. I’m guessing you don’t so I’m going to tell you because I think it is important to his case.”

Gavin starts to stand when I sit. “Dixie. Don’t—”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.” She lifts a pen and slides a notebook under it.

I lick my lips, place my hands on Gavin’s arm, and begin. “First of all, Gavin didn’t just attack Carl Andrews. He witnessed him hitting his kid. This is a trigger for him because he grew up in an unstable environment with a drug-addicted mother who did not provide him with a safe living situation.”

Surprise widens her gaze and I know he hasn’t told her about his childhood. I tell myself this is for his own good so he’ll forgive me . . . eventually. His expression indicates otherwise.

“Secondly, Carl had been into Gavin’s place of work with his mother before and had provoked Gavin previously.”

“I’m aware of that incident,” she says, but I notice she jots it down anyway. “Anything else you want to share?”

“Two more things,” I say before clearing my throat. “One is that a social worker came and got some info and pictures for a report on Liam and that should be in the system soon. We can use that as evidence to support Gavin’s motivation for doing what he did.”

Ashley asks the social worker’s name and I give it to her. “And the second thing?”

I pull an envelope with a check in it out of my small black leather bag. “This,” I say, setting the envelope on her desk. “It’s a check for Gavin’s retainer and representation fee.” I stand and watch her open the envelope. “From now on, this is the only type of payment you’ll be receiving from him.”

She arches a brow as if in challenge, but I’m prepared for that.

“And PS, if I even so much as suspect you’re being anything less than completely professional with him I guess I’ll just see what the bar association and the partners at this firm think about your policy on accepting alternate forms of payment.” Her face pales and I smile. “Was that clear, counselor? Or do I need to put it in legal terms for you?”

“Abundantly clear, Miss Lark,” she says through nearly clenched teeth. “But Gavin here just handled that moments before your arrival.”