Updated: June 18, 2023

Aubrey

“Clayton Hoover, Ooof.”

I watched his entire trial, it was live streamed every day for weeks and the lead prosecutor caught my attention from his opening statement. His voice, his command of the court, his confidence were swoon worthy.  The sexy, Lowcountry drawl in his speech, how he used his glasses like a conductors wand. I had been transfixed watching his direct and cross examination of witnesses. He was so goddamned smart it was sexy.

I was in South Carolina for a week, trying to settle property inherited from my grandfather. Well, left to me by my now dead father. It was a run-down rancher on a great deal of land on St. Helena Island. I headed into Beaufort for the weekend to rest before leaving. My assistant and I decided to stop into the lobby bar of the Gracie Hotel where we were staying. I never realized how close to the courthouse it was.

“Jesus Christ it’s him,” I whispered to Jenna, after I scanned the room quickly.

“Him who?” she asked.

“Him, the prosecutor, from the trial.” I tried to be nonchalant, but my heart began to race. I read everything I could dig up on him in the previous weeks.  It seemed we stumbled onto the winning  team celebrating the verdict and sentencing.

He was more handsome in person, above average height, short gray hair, and goatee. His eyes were navy blue and he had wide shoulders, left over from his days as a winning Clemson quarterback. I knew he was divorced over a year and had a grown son.

There was something about him, something that had me fiercely intrigued watching him work for weeks viewing the court streaming. No matter what I was occupied with, the trial was playing on my laptop, living room television or the phone in my car. The sound and cadence of his voice, how organized and succinct he was with his questions.

He was gentle with his witnesses and ruthless with his cross examinations. Something was wild about him, something he kept reigned in and tight. Something I wanted to unbridle in my bed.

He caught my eye and waved Jenna and I over to sit with him and his team. I could hardly talk.  I could hear the voices of my female ancestors trying to convince me to be lady-like. I squashed their whispers like June bugs. I wanted this man, I wanted him in my bed, and I couldn’t figure out how to manage that from just a happy hour conversation.