Overruled by Love, page 1
part #1 of Boys of Bridgewater Series
overruled by love
BOYS OF BRIDGEWATER PREQUEL
BELLA MICHAELS
OVERRULED BY LOVE
Copyright 2021 © Altiora Press, LLC
Edited by Angela Polidoro
Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
contents
Bella’s Books
1. Cole
2. Zara
3. Cole
4. Zara
5. Cole
6. Zara
7. Cole
8. Zara
9. Cole
10. Zara
11. Cole
12. Zara
13. Cole
14. Zara
15. Cole
16. Zara
17. Cole
18. Zara
19. Cole
20. Zara
Epilogue
Last Call Sneak Peek
Become an Insider
About the Author
Also by Bella Michaels
bella’s books
Grado Valley Vineyards
Pop and Pour
Lay It Down
Sip and Savor
Horizontal Tasting
Boys of Bridgewater
Overruled by Love
Last Call
Billion Dollar Date
My Foolish Heart
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ONE
cole
Bridgewater, Pennsylvania
“Aww, sweetie. You look like you’re having a rough morning.”
She has no idea. It’s obvious she also doesn’t know me. Granted, it’s been twenty-five years since she taught me and nearly fifteen years since I lived here, but still. Isn’t there some law about third-grade teachers having to remember all of their students?
I shrug out of my suit coat and lay it on top of the briefcase beside me, pulling a stool up to the counter. Wheelhouse Bakery and Deli is quiet at this time of the morning, just after the breakfast rush and too soon for the lunch crowd, so I’m in no hurry. Especially since the only on-duty employee is apparently my former teacher.
“Mrs. Snider,” I start, giving her a minute to recognize me. “It’s good to see you again.”
Pulling down her bifocals, she studies me until her eyes widen.
“Cole Donovan,” she says proudly.
Why does her jogged memory give me the most pleasure I’ve had all morning?
“How could I not have recognized that handsome face? Especially since it’s been splashed across the local newspaper for weeks.”
Good ol’ Bridgewater. My parents told me this trial is the talk of the town. Which isn’t surprising since nothing—literally nothing—ever happens here.
“Retirement job?” I ask.
“You got it, kiddo. Tried staying home for a year and hated it. Shouldn’t you be at the courthouse, young man?”
“Unfortunately, the insurance company’s lead counsel just lost his mother, and the trial was postponed for a day.”
“Ah, so that’s why you look like the sheriff shot your dog. Sorry to hear it.”
The sheriff here used to be a playground bully, and I try not to conjure an image of him coming anywhere near Casey, my parents’ dog.
“Oh dear, I’ve made it worse.” Mrs. Snider turns her back to me and pulls a bottle from the shelf. “How about a little somethin’-somethin’ in your coffee to take the edge off? You want a cup of coffee I presume?”
Is that a bottle of . . . ?
“Whiskey?”
“I’ll make you an Irish coffee, my boy.”
Before I can respond to that, she adds, “Clearly you need it.”
Without waiting for an answer, my former third-grade teacher, who just asked if I wanted a little somethin’-somethin’ in my coffee, proceeds to push a spiked drink on me, like it or not. Yep, not in Philly anymore. And God, it feels good to be home.
The Wheelhouse has always been one of Bridgewater’s bright spots, both during the day, when it’s a restaurant, and at night, when the other half becomes one of the town’s few bars. The drinks are good, the food is better, and I know the view behind me without turning to look at it: an old waterwheel with the river running beneath it. I know because I used to spend nearly every Sunday in this place.
Mrs. Snider slides the Irish coffee across the counter to me, and I take a sip, watching her expectant face. I have to admit it’s not bad.
“Thank you,” I offer, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she continues to watch me as if she wants to ask a question but isn’t sure how.
“Go ahead,” I prompt her, having a strong suspicion as to what she wants to ask.
When she leans forward across the counter, despite the fact that there’s no one else immediately around us, I brace myself.
“Is he guilty?”
Yep, just as I suspected.
“I can’t discuss details of a case,” I tell her, a fact Mrs. Snider likely already knows.
I came here to work, not to drink spiked coffee, however pleasant, but it’s obvious I’ll get very little done at the counter. With both of my educator parents at their house, off for the summer, plus my grandfather lurking around, working at home is out. I could find an empty room at the courthouse, but I’d rather not.
In a town with few options, that leaves the Wheelhouse.
“Could I get two eggs over easy and some whole grain toast? If it’s okay with you, I’m going to move to a table so I can get some work done.” I stand from the stool. “And thank you for the coffee. It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Snider.”
“You too, Cole. I guess I’ll be seeing more of you in the coming weeks?”
The prospect is surprisingly pleasant. Some of my fondest childhood memories are from the Wheelhouse—from Bridgewater in general. Too bad I couldn’t plunk this town down in the middle of Old City, where my law firm is located. Actually, I’d take most of it, but leave the gossipmongers behind. That’s one thing I like about Philly, being able to disappear without prying eyes watching your every move.
I like my job too, of course. The main reason I’m there, and not here.
“You bet.” I look around to scope out the quietest spot. The far corner table would be perfect, but there’s someone sitting at it. A woman with her back to me. I didn’t realize there was anyone else in here.
“Zara,” Mrs. Snider says, interrupting my thoughts. “She pretty much works here, at least in the mornings. Sometimes until after lunch.”
Hmm, so maybe the booth next to it.
“I’ll bring over your eggs, dear. You get to work. From what I hear, you’ve got a big case to win. Poor Doctor Dean.”
Just a twenty-two-million-dollar medical malpractice suit against one of my oldest friends. Big is an understatement. It’s the biggest trial this town had ever seen.
And I intend to win.
TWO
zara
I noticed him the minute he walked in. Which is odd because I sit with my back to the door for a reason—if I let myself get distracted in the Wheelhouse, it completely defeats the purpose of working here rather than in my big, empty house. But at least I can take breaks to chat with Mrs. Snider or walk to the counter for a drink.
So I’m not sure why I turned when the bell above the door dinged. I usually don’t. Maybe it was his heavy stride, or the forcefulness of the ding, but I found myself swiveling in my seat. Two things immediately struck me. One, the pictures in the paper didn’t do him justice, this high-powered Philly lawyer who came home to save his doctor friend. In black and white, he was handsome. In real life, the guy is a freaking god. Brown hair, perfectly styled, and a jawline that would make Henry Cavill jealous. His thick eyebrows and scruffy face are at odds with the impeccable suit, like a New York banker who just vacationed in Vermont for a week and was reluctant to go back to work.
The second thing was how pissed he looked. You’d think someone with his reputation would be a little more calm and collected. Instead, he strode purposefully toward the counter, as if it had done him wrong, and pulled up a stool, tearing off his jacket to reveal, of all things, suspenders.
I’m a sucker for suspenders. But I’m not a sucker for the kind of man who would defend a douchebag doctor who can’t admit his mistake, forcing a family to court after their infant son suffered permanent neurological damage in his care. I get that everyone has a right to a defense, but I don’t have to like the kind of person who would defend such a case.
A devil in an angel’s disguise.
A few minutes later, he comes walking toward me, a fact I steadfastly ignore. A bit of shuffling at my back tells me he’s settled into the booth behind me. Fabulous. As if this blinking cursor and blank page weren’t already a reminder of my lack of words today.
No problem. I can ignore the faint scent of sexy attorney that wafted by when he sat. I can ignore the shuffle of papers. And definitely, one hundred percent, I can ignore the image of him in my mind, walking through the door like he owned the place.
“How you doin’ over here?” Another set of footsteps, this one more familiar, approaches me.
I look up and smile at her.
<
No matter how many times she tells me to call her Nancy, I just can’t do it.
She turns away to deliver the plate of food on her tray to the lawyer, which is when my gaze lands on my tea. My cold tea. Spinning in my seat to ask for more, I catch the lawyer’s eyes—and it’s like I’m stuck. Mrs. Snider walks away before I can get out a single word.
I’m still staring at the lawyer, transfixed, but at least he’s staring back. His gaze is appreciative, which normally would be a good thing.
But not today. Not when I’m having one of those days. Or weeks actually. This is my first assignment for NatGeo and not a great time for writer’s block. I need this article to be extra good, but inspiration hasn’t struck.
I spin around, finally, and grab my mug.
Pretending I know how to properly stand up from a booth without falling flat on my face, I manage to make it to the counter without any incidents.
“Actually . . .” I don’t dare turn around. “I could use some fresh tea, please.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Snider grabs the mug as the bell chimes.
Oh, thank the Lord, a friendly face.
“Hey, look who it is! The elusive writer girl.”
Lisa Davies is one the sweetest people on the planet. Since coming back to Bridgewater, I’ve struggled to make friends, which is odd since I think I’m a pretty friendly person. But I was dating a guy at the beginning, which didn’t help me make connections. It’s not like I haven’t met people, or reacquainted with old friends. But when you leave a place at thirteen, it’s not exactly like you’re the same at twenty-eight.
I didn’t know Lisa well back then, but she’s gone out of her way to make me feel welcome since we met a few weeks ago at Bridgewater’s one and only gym.
“That’s me,” I agree.
She greets Mrs. Snider, who slides my now piping hot mug back to me, and orders an egg sandwich to go.
“I was sorry you didn’t make the yoga class,” Lisa says as Mrs. Snider walks off to place her order. “It was a lot of fun.”
If I’m feeling lonely in Bridgewater, I have only myself to blame. I’d almost taken her up on the invitation, but I’ve never done yoga before and honestly had no idea what to wear. Nor do I own a yoga mat. So I stayed home like an idiot.
“Holy shit,” she says, and I think I know why. Lisa leans in as her gaze lingers on the corner of the dining area. “Did you see him? Isn’t that your booth in the corner? How can you possibly get any work done with him there?”
I don’t need to ask him, who?—I wouldn’t need to even if the dining room were full instead of practically empty.
“Do you know him?” I ask. That did not sound as casual as intended.
Lisa shakes her head. “Not really. He was a few years ahead of me in school. He and Tristano DeLuca were tight. I’m working with Tris on a new sign for the pizza place. He mentioned Cole was in town, as if I can’t read a newspaper. Is there anyone here who doesn’t know the big-city attorney is back?”
I’m pretty sure that’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer.
When I look up, Lisa is looking at me closely. Did I not put enough makeup on today? Damn freckles.
“Uh-oh,” she says, lowering her voice. “The new girl in town has a crush on the new guy in town. Interesting.”
“No,” I say as Mrs. Snider rings Lisa up. “Not at all. Not my type.”
She snorts.
“Tall, dark, and handsome isn’t your thing?” Lisa sneaks another look at him.
She takes the sandwich from Mrs. Snider, who is clearly listening in on our conversation now, so I don’t say any more.
“Anyway, since you didn’t make it to Yoga in the Park, I have another proposition for you. Happy hour tonight. Here, on the bar side.”
Grateful for a second chance to connect, I jump at the invitation.
“Sounds great. What time?”
“Quitting hour, around five. Do you have my number just in case?”
Lisa gave me her number when we first met, but I haven’t gotten around to using it. Yeah, if I’ve been lonely, it’s definitely on me.
“I do.” I nod toward my table. “I’ll text you mine when I get back to my seat.”
“Thanks so much,” she says to Mrs. Snider, reaching across the counter to take the sandwich from her. “And have fun ‘working,’ you,” she tells me in a conspiratorial voice, as if I will be doing anything but.
Little does Lisa know, I have an immense amount of self-control. Traveling teaches a person a few important lessons, one of which is the danger of acting impulsively. Giving gaga eyes to a hot lawyer whom I have zero interest in knowing will not further my goals.
Proud of myself, I manage to get back to the table and slink into the booth without a second look over there.
Good girl, Zara.
THREE
cole
“It’s good to have you back.”
Tris raises a glass, and I do the same. I’m back in the Wheelhouse, only now I’m on the bar side. Fewer childhood memories here, but I’ve spent plenty of time here over the years, on visits back home.
“So is tomorrow buy one, get two free?”
Tristano waves the bartender over.
“Cole wants the ‘buy one’ promo back. What do you think?”
Mike looks between us. “No way. What a mess. Drunks everywhere. Remind me not to get any more ideas from the French Quarter again.”
Mike, the bartender and owner of the Wheelhouse Bar, has had more than his share of crazy promotions throughout the years. Mostly inspired by his travels.
“Speaking of the Quarter,” I say, remembering my last visit, “didn’t we talk about taking another trip? It’s been way too long.”
“I’m too old to drink like that anymore.” Tris waves to someone across the bar. “Although that was a fun night.”
Remembering it, and the headache that ensued the following day, I remind myself to slow down. Tomorrow is a big day, jury selection. I need to keep my wits about me.
“Speak for yourself,” Mike says, moving on to other patrons as the bar begins to fill.
“So no court today?”
I take a swig of beer. “Unfortunately not.”
“How long do you think you’ll be here?”
Wish I knew. “Two weeks, if we’re lucky. Could be double that. Hard to say.”
Tris obviously wants to ask more, but he knows I can’t say much, so he doesn’t push. The fact that my client is an old friend of ours complicates things. Fact is, Dean is a hell of a doctor, one of only two ob-gyns here in Bridgewater, and the nicest guy you’d ever meet. The whole situation sucks, and I don’t blame the parents for pursuing legal action. The ambulance chaser who convinced them to sue is a real piece of shit. Guys like him give my profession a bad name.
“I’ll take it. It’s good to have you back.”
As the bar fills up with familiar faces, I can say honestly, “It’s good to be home.”
“Hey, how’s Papa Donovan?”
I love that my grandfather’s nickname has stuck. When you’re the town Santa Claus for so many years, you’re everybody’s grandfather. And Pop loves it.
“He’s OK. A lot slower these days.”
Tris can read me like a book.
“How bad is it?”
I think of the man he was just a few years ago, and the one I left at home with my parents this morning, and it kills me.
“Bad enough that he’s living with my parents. It’s just one thing after another. If it’s not crippling arthritis, it’s emphysema.”
Tris doesn’t state the obvious—Pop is eighty-eight and won’t live forever.
