Page 41 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

"It's exactly that easy." Richard stopped walking, turning to face me. "You want to stay. Maya wants you to stay, even if she hasn't said it out loud. The island could use a good lawyer who actually cares about protecting people instead of corporations. The only thing stopping you is fear."

"Fear of what?"

"Of being happy. Of putting down roots. Of admitting that coming back to Lopez Island wasn't a professional assignment—it was coming home." Richard's voice softened. "I've watched you this past week, Ethan. The way you look at this place, the way you interact with people. You belong here. You always did. You just spent twenty years convincing yourself you didn't."

I wanted to argue, to point out all the logical reasons staying was impossible. But the words died in my throat because Richard was right.

I did want to stay. I wanted morning coffee runs and croissant lessons and watching Maya command her kitchen effortlessly. I wanted to build something here—not a corporate career, but a life that mattered.

"What if I let her down? What if I'm not—"

"Stop." Richard's voice was firm. "You're going to make mistakes. You're going to have bad days. You're going to struggle with building a new career, new life, new identity. That's called being human. But Maya Romano isn't looking for perfect. She's looking for real. And you, Ethan Caldwell, are finally becoming real."

Inside the courthouse, we found Maya in a small conference room, surrounded by documents. She looked up when we entered, her honey-brown eyes searching my face.

"Everything okay?"

"Yes." I set down my briefcase, pulling out my tablet. "Richard and I were just discussing strategy."

"Strategy." Her tone suggested she didn't quite believe me, but she didn't push. "The bailiff said the judge is running late. We have time to review our argument one more time."

We spent the next twenty minutes going through the evidence, organizing our presentation, preparing for the opposing counsel's attacks. It was familiar territory—preparation, strategy, legal combat. This was what I'd been trained to do, what I'd spent two decades perfecting.

But this time felt different. Because I wasn't fighting for a client or a paycheck or partnership advancement. I was fighting for Maya. For her legacy, her choice, her right to build the future she'd sacrificed so much to create.

At 2:05 PM, the bailiff called us into the courtroom.

Judge Patricia Morrison presided—a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and a sharp gaze that suggested she didn't tolerate nonsense. She'd reviewed our motion and the counter-motion, and she wanted answers.

"Mr. Caldwell," she began, after we'd all taken our seats. "Your motion makes serious allegations of fraud against both the surveyor and Mr. Hutchins. You're claiming the baseline measurements were deliberately falsified. That's a criminal accusation."

"Yes, Your Honor. And we have documentation to support it." I stood, approaching the bench with my tablet. "The surveyor's own notes indicate the baseline was 'adjusted per client specification.' When compared to the original property surveys from 1985 and 2005, the adjustment becomes clear—the line was moved three feet south to create the appearance of encroachment."

I pulled up the side-by-side comparison on the courtroom's display screen. The falsification was obvious when you knew what to look for—the baseline shift, the resulting property line dispute, the manufactured legal complication.

Judge Morrison studied the documents carefully. "And you're alleging Mr. Hutchins paid for this falsification?"

"We have bank records showing three payments from a consulting firm owned by the investment group to Mr. Hutchins. The timing corresponds exactly with key events in the property dispute." I pulled up the payment records. "One week before the falsified survey. One week before filing the easement dispute. One week before issuing the accelerated sale deadline."

"Your Honor, this is speculation and conspiracy theory." The opposing counsel—a sharp-dressed man from Seattle named Davidson—stood quickly. "My client received legitimate consulting fees for advisory services regarding property development. The timing is coincidental, and Mr. Caldwell is trying to manufacture a fraud case where none exists."

"Coincidental?" I kept my voice level, professional. "Three payments, perfectly timed, to a man who then filed a property dispute using falsified evidence? That's not coincidence. That's coordination."

"Can you prove coordination?" Judge Morrison asked. "Do you have communications between Mr. Hutchins and the investment group discussing the falsification?"

I hesitated. We had the payments, the surveyor's notation, the timeline. But we didn't have the smoking gun—direct communication proving Hutchins knew the survey was falsified.

"Not yet, Your Honor. But—"

"Then you have circumstantial evidence, Mr. Caldwell. Compelling circumstantial evidence, I'll grant you. But without direct proof of intent, I'm hesitant to dismiss the underlying property dispute entirely." Judge Morrison looked at Maya. "Ms. Romano, you understand what's at stake here?"

Maya stood, her voice steady despite the tension I knew she must be feeling. "Yes, Your Honor. If the property dispute proceeds without addressing the fraudulent survey, I lose access to my parking area and delivery routes. My business becomes functionally impossible to operate. I'm forced to sell at a fractionof fair market value, and my family's legacy—over fifty years of serving this community—ends."

"And if I find in your favor? If I rule that the survey was falsified?"

"Then the property dispute is baseless. The parking area is clearly on my property, as it has been since my grandfather purchased it. The investment group's strategy to manufacture vulnerability fails, and I keep my bakery."

Judge Morrison was quiet for a long moment, studying the documents, the evidence, both sides of the argument.