The Six Night Truce

The Six Night Truce West Oaks Heroes Hannah Shield Copyright © 2023 by Hannah Shield The Six Night Truce (West Oaks Heroes series) 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. Cover Photography: Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf Cover Model: Mitchell Wick Cover Design: Okay Creations Published by Diana Road Books Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Epilogue The Five Minute Mistake Also by Hannah Shield About the Author 1 I stare through my windshield at the courthouse, a monolith of glass and concrete against a steel-blue sky. Wind lashes the fronds of the palm trees on the horizon. My fingers are pink as they squeeze the steering wheel, my knuckles white. “I am fierce. I am fearless. I am a warrior.” I am sitting alone in my car and muttering to myself. Yep, it’s one of those kinds of mornings. For the hearing I’m about to walk into, I need to be Jane the Panther. The top defense attorney in West Oaks. One of the “Forty Under Forty to Watch” in the last issue of the Southern California Legal Bulletin. That’s who my client needs me to be. I am her, most days. But today, I feel more like Janie the Kitty Cat. I want to curl up against something warm and comforting and lick my wounds. “I am a damned warrior.” I meet my red-rimmed eyes in the rearview mirror and try for a growl, but it comes out more like a dejected meow. Raindrops begin to splatter on the glass, blurring out my view of the West Oaks County Courthouse. It’s just the rain. I am not wiping my eyes right now. Please don’t call bullshit. I sigh and grab my travel mug of coffee. I’m just making myself feel more pathetic with this half-assed pep talk. There are at least a dozen people in that courthouse who want my head, who’ll sneer the moment they see me. They probably assume I’m to blame for today’s hearing. Perhaps for the dreary weather too. And I can’t wait, because that’s exactly what I need. A battle to wage. That’s when I’m at my best. David, my client, is in serious trouble. I’m not the cause, but I’m probably the only person with a chance of fixing it. That’s why I returned to West Oaks instead of staying back home in Tucson with Gran. Cherishing our last few days together before… “Okay,” I breathe. “I can do this.” A sip of hot black coffee, a fresh swipe of red lipstick, and ready or not, here I come. I push open the driver’s side door. Moisture dots my legs as I step out. The strap of my leather case drapes over my shoulder, and I move my coffee to my left hand so I can open my umbrella with my right. This weather is a small blessing, though, because it’s keeping the media at bay. I hide my face under the cover of my umbrella and try to blend in with the other people trudging into the courthouse. But one of the vultures spots me. “Jane Simon?” a reporter asks as I pass, microphone aiming in my direction. “Did you advise your client to change his plea? Have you been in secret talks with the former governor?” I dash up the slick steps. Which is a really dumb idea, because my pencil skirt is so tailored I can’t maneuver well, and my sky-high stilettos have zero traction. Did I mention that I’m off my game today? I have a split second to curse my lack of foresight as my foot shoots forward and my shoulders tip back. A hundred bucks says this ends up on the ten o’clock news. The prosecutors will turn it into a GIF and send it around their team chat. An endless loop of Jane Simon pratfalls. But at the last moment before my seams rip and I’m showing the world my heart-print panties, a thick arm wraps around my waist. I land against a solid, warm wall of muscle. My umbrella goes flying, but nary a drop of coffee escapes the travel lid. “Careful,” a gruff voice says. Hot breath caresses my cheek. I turn my head and look up into deep brown eyes. Eyes that narrow with a gleam that says, You’re lucky I didn’t let you fall. And honestly? I’m a little surprised he didn’t. “Morning, detective,” I say. “Morning, counselor.” The tightness of his voice keeps me at arm’s length, even though his actual arm still cradles me, my back to his chest. My ass is pressed against his thigh. And what a firm, thick thigh it is. Sean Holt pushes me upright, then bends to grab my umbrella from where it’s skittered down a few steps. The reporter has lost interest and is touching up her face powder. The wind has changed, and the marble facade of the building shelters us from the storm. “Thanks for the help,” I say. Sean collapses my umbrella, spattering us both with tiny droplets. And then he just glares. A smile traces across my lips. I can feel my claws extending, my sorrow retreating, and damn it’s a relief. “I said thank you. You could say you’re welcome.” “I could.” “Then why don’t you?” He hasn’t responded. He’s