# Chapter 15: The Town That Knew Him Before He Became Roarke
Hello everyone, it’s me again! How are you all doing? Today I’m walking beside you through Chapter 15 of *Seduced By My Ex’s Divorce Attorney audiobook free*. Buckle up, because this chapter is a delicious cocktail of forced proximity, small-town secrets, wounded pride, and chemistry so thick it practically fogs up the windows of Roarke’s Range Rover.
We open exactly where the tension left us: in a shared room, with two beds, far too little distance, and a heroine whose willpower is hanging by a very thin thread. Roarke has taken the bed closest to the door—a quiet, protective move he never explains. And honestly? That silent chivalry irritates her more than it should. She can’t decide whether she wants to kiss him, strangle him, or thank him for proving he pays attention to her fear without forcing her to admit it.
She tries to sleep. She really does. But Roarke is right there in her line of sight: bare-chested, muscled, one arm tucked under his head, one leg slipping free from the sheet. He looks like a male Adonis carved specifically to ruin her peace of mind. She rolls toward the wall and begs the weekend to pass quickly, because every second near him chips away at her self-control.
Morning arrives too soon. Light pours across her eyelids, and she wakes sprawled in an X across the entire bed, sleeping more deeply than she has in ages. No Lucy pawing at her. No cramped corner. Just pure, unconscious comfort—until a tall figure blocks the light. Roarke is back from a run, sweat dripping down his chest, and he informs her with absolute seriousness that she snores.
She is mortified. Then he admits he’s joking. Relief and embarrassment collide. He strips off his shirt, and suddenly she is trapped in exquisite torture: sweat slipping from one abdominal muscle to the next, his usual polished courtroom armor replaced by raw, casual masculinity. He tells her he has a proposition for her, but she can barely think straight. She begs him to put his shirt back on. He teases her, asking if she likes what she sees. She lies and says no, then hides behind the excuse of “common courtesy” because she is sharing space with a lady.
Their banter crackles. He calls her old-fashioned. She fires back. He stares at her with that unnerving intensity, and she knows if she were anyone else, she would already have pounced on him and worried about consequences later. Instead, he stands, tells her to get ready, and disappears into the bathroom. The pipes rattle. Her pulse does too.
An hour later, she is back in the passenger seat of his Range Rover, trying not to admire him. It’s impossible. He’s traded his suit for light blue linen shorts and a V-neck T-shirt that highlights his broad shoulders. His hair is ungelled, soft and curly in a messy weekend look. Business Roarke and casual Roarke are both devastating. How is she supposed to stand a chance?
He compliments her legs. She ignores it and asks about the town population sign instead—Woods Parlor, Population 1034. The four looks new. Did someone have a baby? He shrugs. He doesn’t keep up with town gossip. The trees close in around them, beautiful but isolating. She grew up in the Chicago suburbs, where even forest preserves are crowded. Here, the silence feels different. She wonders why he really brought her. Punishment? Curiosity? A rich society woman out of her element for his amusement?
She finally calls him out on his bad manners. He calls her response the “lamest” thing he’s ever heard. She teases him for being a lawyer using the word “lamest.” The banter is familiar, almost tender—until it isn’t. He snaps. She snaps back, telling him to stop deflecting his bitterness onto her. The truck jerks to the side of the road. He slams the brakes.
Then the truth spills out.
He doesn’t know why he brought her either. But she’s here now. She’s going to see where he came from. How messed up his childhood was. No father. A mother who raised him while waitressing at a bar where she slept with most of the clientele at one point or another. A sister, Allie, who is the product of one of those one-night stands. Life here was not squeaky clean or picture perfect. They made do.
He expects her to judge him. He calls her Chicago royalty. But for the first time, Roarke is not the mean shark from the courtroom who helped steal half her things. He is not the man who struts through Chicago like he owns it. He is just a boy from Woods Parlor, still haunted by a past he tried to bury.
She tells him she doesn’t judge people based on how they were raised. She knows she was lucky. She started her own foundation with her own money. If she looked down on people, she wouldn’t have done that. Then she delivers the blow that lands hardest: if he doesn’t want her making assumptions about him, he shouldn’t make assumptions about her.
Silence presses in. Then his hand covers hers. He apologizes. He admits there’s ugliness in this town he should have remembered. A past that still haunts him. He says she’s right—he can’t want her to see the real him while assuming she’s like every other rich society woman he’s met. He knows her foundation. He knows her work. If he truly thought she was like that, he never would have invited her. Let’s start the day over.
She smiles. Fine.
He squeezes her hand and pulls back onto the road. She thanks him for the compliment about her legs. His grin spreads wide. He tells her she wouldn’t be thanking him if she knew what he was really thinking. One day, he promises, he will tell her exactly what that was—in great detail—ungentlemanly or not. She crosses her legs and tries to stifle the hum of desire between them. Two more nights with this man? She has no idea how she will survive.
They stop at a cute diner. Roarke says he has an errand and will be back before she finishes breakfast. She sits in the booth, studies the menu behind the fake jukebox, and leans back as he stands with both coffee cups. Then a woman walks up to their table. Black waist apron stained with grease. Blonde hair in a ponytail. Makeup smeared. Attractive. She says his name: “Roarke?”
He looks up, surprised. “Liv?”
The woman awkwardly rocks forward on worn-out sneakers, unsure whether to hug him. That hesitation says everything. They knew each other well at some point. And just like that, the chapter ends on a cliffhanger that promises old flames, small-town ghosts, and a jealous ache our heroine is definitely not ready to name.
**Reader’s Impressions & Star Rating:**
This chapter is exactly why I love forced-proximity romance. The shared room, the shirtless torment, the banter—it all sizzles. But what truly elevated it for me was the roadside confession. Roarke stopped being just the arrogant divorce attorney and became a man with wounds, shame, and a desperate hope that the woman he’s falling for might see him clearly and still stay. The vulnerability balanced perfectly with the heat. The diner cliffhanger with Liv? Deliciously messy. I was hooked from the first line about him catching her peeking over her Kindle.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars
**Next Chapter Prediction:**
Liv is clearly someone from Roarke’s past—possibly an old girlfriend, a childhood friend, or someone tied to his sister Allie. I predict our heroine will feel a sharp stab of jealousy, especially after Roarke’s “great detail” promise. Liv may reveal something Roarke never planned to tell, forcing him to confront the very past he brought our heroine here to understand. There may be a tense meal, a few passive-aggressive stares, and a moment where Roarke chooses to make it clear who he came to Woods Parlor with. The mystery errand might also connect to Liv or his mother. Either way, the emotional walls are about to crack even more.
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