by Flynn, Avery
He scowls at me while taking off his suit jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. Then he continues to do so as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt like he’s doing a striptease but only of his forearms. By the time he’s done, I have no clue if he’s still glaring because I’m staring at his perfect sinewy forearms.
“Give me a dollar,” he says and holds out a hand, palm up.
Sure, a tip is reasonable—and wait, what? “Why?”
“Because then you will have paid our firm the going rate for neighbors who pet my plants—speaking of green things, you’ll have to mow your lawn, too. Do that and consider your retainer paid.”
I don’t believe him but walk over to the couch and grab my purse off the cushion anyway. “My lawn mower is trapped behind a zillion old magazines stacked almost all the way up to the garage ceiling, remember?”
“So you can use mine.” He crosses the room and stands next to me. “Do we have a deal?”
I get it. The grass is long enough that a toddler could get lost in it. The time has come. Ugh. I hate that Mr. Green Grass Police is right.
I scrounge around in my handbag until I hit pay dirt—a single crumpled-up dollar bill.
“Deal.” I give him the cash. “I’ll get to it this week.”
“So does Thursday work for you to meet with the attorney to discuss next steps and give background on that numbnut?” he asks.
“Sure. I hope they have a free afternoon. There’s a lot of background.”
“Don’t worry.” He places his hand on the small of my back. He doesn’t try to guide me away from the couch; it’s just the weight of his palm against me, like a transfer of power. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Like that’s possible.” The idea of it is so ridiculous, I start pacing from one wood-paneled wall to the other. “I’m barely able to afford the dumpster the HOA better approve, I owe a ton of back property taxes, I have to come up with more than $120,000 for the inheritance tax, and even if I shake the couch cushions in hopes of finding enough to cover home repairs, I still haven’t been able to find a job.” I wrap my arms around my middle and keep marching one way and then the other. “And why is that? Because I’ve spent my entire adult working life dedicated to making sure Karl’s practice became a success. I worked seventy-hour weeks for minimum wage because he said the practice needed the money more to continue to grow—but I have my doubts now.” I take a deep breath and look Nick square in the eyes. “Really, does it make sense to you that the firm would own our condo? It doesn’t, does it?” It’s like a series of lightbulbs is going off in my head, illuminating just how screwed I am. “Oh my God, what was I thinking?”
By the time I’m done, I’m out of breath, my hands are shaky, and I have a million more thoughts going a gazillion different directions. Nick? Not so much. There isn’t even a flicker of emotion or panic or freaking the fuck outness on his too-handsome-for-real-life face.
“So you need a job?” he asks. That’s what he wants to focus on? Not the fact that I’ve been such a child with my finances?
“Yeah, that would be a good start.”
He nods. “And you have experience as a law firm office manager?”
“Eleven years’ worth.” Working at not even close to my value. The frustration of it all has me pacing again, right back to the couch and next to Mr. Lotsa Plants.
“Give me until Thursday,” he says. “I think I have a lead on the job situation.”
Something unfamiliar and bubbly fills my chest. It’s been about a million years since I felt it, but the old-old Mallory, the teenage one who spent way too many nights staring at her canopy and dreaming of her future, recognizes it right away.
Hope.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, wariness seeping in.
He pivots, the move bringing us face-to-face. Okay, more like my face to his top button—did I mention it’s undone?
“I like to help,” he says.
“Says who?” I scoff, trying to distract myself from the shadow of chest hair I can almost see. “Your mom?”
He hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my face upward. “Are you trying to imply that my mother would lie?”
“Maybe.” Not really. I don’t know. Wow, are his eyes gorgeous and intense and pulling me right in.
“At this moment, my mom is somewhere laughing her head off and she doesn’t know why.” He pauses, his gaze searching my face as if he’s trying to figure out why he can’t look away. “She’s gonna love you.”
“What, you want to introduce me to your mom? Does she have a grass obsession, too?” Oh yeah, immature jokes in the face of uncomfortable feelings. Classic Mallory.
God, inner me is such a bitch sometimes.
His thumb traces the line of my jaw. “You do love to give me a lot of crap for following the rules, don’t you?”
“I’ve committed the rest of my life to a no-bullshit-rules mantra.” I try to make it come out all cocky and confident, but even to my own ears, it’s all soft and breathy and take-me-now. “I’m the new Aunt Maggie.”
“Funny,” he says, taking a step forward and eliminating any space between us. “You don’t look a thing like her.”
“That’s a lie; we have the same eyes and the same Martin family mouth.” One that I, all of a sudden, have no idea how to keep quiet.
“I can assure you that you do not, because I never wanted to…” His words fade away as he dips his head lower.
My breath catches.
My brain checks out.
My hormones give a loud cheer.
And then—he pulls away, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a quick step back. He rubs his palm across his neck and works his jaw back and forth. “Anyway, I gotta go.”
He leaves without another word, and what in the hell am I supposed to say after that? I have nothing besides yearning. My phone vibrates on the dining room table—a text from Mikey asking me if we’re still on for dinner. I can’t type yes fast enough. This is exactly what I need.
Being near my h-o-t contractor is perfect, because unlike with my uptight neighbor (and much to Angela’s disappointment, no doubt), I do not want anything more from him than a new porch.
There. Man situation sorted. Now, if I can just figure out the job situation, the house situation, and the tax situation, everything in my life will be perfect. And I almost believe it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A boycott on makeup seems like a not-so-great idea, I decide a few days later as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror—especially after another nearly sleepless night.
I didn’t get it. Early-morning wakeups notwithstanding, I’d been sleeping like a baby since I got here—despite the towering amount of crap I have to sort through, the repairs I have to get done, and the no-money situation. Something about being in this house just felt freeing and made me conk out as peacefully now as I did as a kid.
Until the last two nights, when I tossed and turned for hours.
Yeah, sexual frustration will do that to a girl.
“I was not sexually frustrated,” I say aloud and then slick a soft rose lip gloss on my lips. I mean, yeah, Nick and I almost kissed last night, but we didn’t. And when he pulled away, I didn’t care at all. Would I have done that if I were sexually frustrated?
Well, yes, if you are sexually frustrated and a chicken. What a catch.
Oh my God. I close my eyes and barely resist banging my head against the mirror. Inner voices are not supposed to have this much snark. There should be a rule.
I finish putting on my makeup, then dress in real clothes for the first time since my lunch date with Mikey. And unlike with Mikey, this time I bust out the real shoes—a pair of black heels that, when I combine them with my favorite black dress pants, make my legs look really long.
It isn’t that I’m trying to impre
ss anyone. Law offices have a certain dress code. I can’t just show up at Nick’s place of work looking like a total slob, especially when he’s offered his firm up to do this whole thing pro bono for me—no, the squashed-up dollar and lawn I eventually have to mow anyway don’t count. I need to project the right attitude.
Half an hour later, I’m standing in the middle of the reception area at Holloway and Murphy, wondering why I even bothered. Nothing here is projecting professionalism, save the heavy desks and giant floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered with law books.
The only person I’ve seen so far is the receptionist, who has green-and-purple hair, an addiction to her AirPods, and absolutely no knowledge of how to deal with clients.
“Oh, right.” She gives me an enthusiastic nod that sets the fifty or so bells she has tied into various locks of her hair jangling. “You’re Nick’s eleven o’clock. I’ll take you right back.”
“He’s not with a client?” I ask, surprised. It’s only ten forty-five, and the whole reason I came early today is because Nick texted that he could squeeze me in around his other clients for the day at eleven; then I’d meet with his partner, Gina, who’d actually represent me. I didn’t want to keep him waiting when he was obviously doing me a favor.
Maybe his last appointment ended early. It’s possible. AirPod Girl escorts me down a long, lawyerly looking hallway with warm wood paneling, gorgeous landscape paintings of calm meadows, and bookshelves lined with more law books—and an abundance of plants, very similar to Nick’s house.
It’s not what I expect out of a law firm, but I like it. It has a warmer, more serious feel than Karl’s slick, flashy offices, and I can’t help feeling at home here. My shoulders, and the rest of me, relax amid the deliberately soothing decor.
We wind our way past a pretty impressive-looking conference room, as well as an office with what looks like a couple of paralegals in it. I grow more confident in Nick and his firm’s representation. Except for the less-than-with-it receptionist, everything else looks spot-on.
“Hey, Nick!” The receptionist throws his office door open with abandon. “Your eleven o’clock is here.”
Nick whips his head up from the document he was studying on his desk. A man in a crumpled suit across from him—obviously a client—shrinks back into his chair, his eyes wide and looking from one possible exit to the other.
“I’m so sorry.” I grab the doorknob and start to pull it closed.
The last thing I hear before I shut the door is the client complaining about a deadline being missed and the need for a restraining order. He looked completely worried and pissed off. The last thing Nick needs is for the two of us barging in on the obviously already tense meeting.
I turn to AirPod Girl with raised brows, but she is already bebopping her way down the hall.
“Is there a place to put together a cup of coffee here?” I ask her retreating form.
She shrugs and says over her shoulder without breaking her stride, “There’s an employee break room down the other hall.”
“Show me.”
Something in the iron tenor of my voice must get through, because she backpedals and walks me to the break room. In less than five minutes, I have a tray put together with a pot of coffee, some cream and sugar, and a small plate of what looks to be homemade peanut butter cookies. I do all this completely on my own, as AirPod Girl grows bored the second I reach for a coffee mug.
There are ten minutes left before my appointment when I knock on Nick’s door again.
“Come in,” comes his slightly aggrieved response.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say as I carry the tray in and place it on the top of Nick’s neat credenza. “I just wanted to offer you a cup of coffee. Light and sweet?” I ask the client.
“Just sweet,” he says, sounding a lot happier than a few minutes ago.
I fix him his coffee, set a couple of the cookies on a plate, and hand them both to him. “I’m so sorry for the interruption earlier. Usually the office runs like a well-oiled machine, but it’s been a busy morning.”
“We’re having a few hiccups,” Nick jumps in. “Our office manager went into labor last Friday—a few weeks early—and since Viola is indispensable around here, we’re all trying to play catch-up. But I can assure you, everything is under control, and we’ll have the final forms for you to sign next week.”
“We’ll courier them to your home or office, so you don’t need to come back,” I add as I walk toward the door. “Just let us know where you’d like them sent.”
Twenty minutes later, Nick walks his much happier client to the reception area. The man even grins at me on his way out the door.
Nick, on the other hand, looks positively frazzled now that his client is gone. “I’m sorry that took so long,” he says as he ushers me back to his office.
“Don’t worry about it. I was early,” I say, while most definitely not noticing how good he looks in his suit.
It’s charcoal gray, and he’s wearing it with a black shirt that really sets off his dark eyes. Plus, he smells fantastic—not that I’m sniffing him or anything, but still. He smells really, really good—like bergamot and everything crisp and sexy and male.
I ignore the thought, and his scent, and push both to the back of my head—which is easier said than done. “I’m sorry we interrupted when we did.”
“Not a problem.” He waves my concerns away with a grin. “Vic is just an old curmudgeon who likes to be pampered a little bit. Viola always got him coffee, too, and he seemed a little disconcerted that no one was around to do that for him today. I should have offered, but I didn’t think about it until you brought in the tray. Thank you for stepping up like that.”
“Of course. Anything I can do to help.” I wait until we’re back in his office with the door closed before I continue. “Speaking of which, no offense to your super-helpful receptionist, but you look like you could use some temporary help around here. Lucky for you, I know a very competent office manager looking for work.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Well, about that,” Nick starts as he pulls his desk chair out and sits down, motioning for me to take the seat across from him.
I don’t give him time to say no. “I am overqualified for the position, considering I’ve been doing it for pretty much my entire life,” I say, keeping my tone breezy even as my heart starts to beat faster with excitement and fear.
This could be the answer to my prayers, at least for a little while.
“Besides, I owe you one, don’t I?” I lean forward, giving him the full weight of my detail-oriented attention. “Considering you offered to represent me for a dollar and a mowed lawn?”
His face gets that pinched look that takes it from worried to truly concerned. “So you’re volunteering to work here for free?”
Part of me thinks I should—legal representation adds up to the thousands or even tens of thousands very quickly—but I don’t have that luxury right now. I have a massive property tax bill along with a scary renovation looming over my head. Plus, the sad fact that a person can’t live on wine alone.
“I was thinking more along the lines of we meet in the middle.”
“The middle?” he repeats, brows raised.
“How much do you normally pay Viola for this position?” I brace myself for a number even less than what Karl paid me. Even though I knew I wasn’t paid my full wage, his law firm was a lot bigger than Nick’s, with larger clients than a simple family law firm would have.
“Eighty-four thousand dollars.”
I nearly choke on my own tongue.
“Eighty-four thousand? I can’t work for that!”
I collapse back against the chair, all my airy coolness gone. I couldn’t have heard him right. Karl paid me thirty thousand a year. In Manhattan!
Nick grimaces, toying with one of the royal-blue founta
in pens on his desk. “Fine. You drive a hard bargain. I can’t pay you more than Viola; that just wouldn’t be right. But I can pay you the same salary. I can even throw in helping sort through Maggie’s belongings a few hours a week to sweeten the deal.”
My eyes widen. “I wasn’t asking for more money, Nick.” This is going to be embarrassing to admit, but he’ll find out anyway when we start discussing the details of my case. I take a deep breath and woman up, laying it all out there. “Look, Karl never paid me more than fifteen dollars an hour. Granted, I managed the office of his successful law firm with fifteen associates for ten years, so I know I’m a valuable asset, but jumping up to forty dollars an hour just doesn’t seem fair to you. I’m obviously willing to work for less, and we both know it.”
Nick’s jaw clenches as he stares over my shoulder for a minute. Then nods. “You’re right. You’re worth more than Viola; you have more experience. I’m sorry—I just really don’t think I can afford someone as qualified as you.”
Wait, what just happened? “But I explained, I’m willing to work for less.” Shit. I really need this job.
But Nick shakes his head. “I can’t in good conscience pay you less than you deserve, Mallory. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with my firm’s integrity if I did.”
I roll my eyes at him. “If you’re going to insist on paying me what I’m worth, you should help clean every day. Plus at least four hours on the weekends. And lift all the heavy stuff. Oh, and definitely find what died in the kitchen and take it out.” I’m on a roll. “Honestly, that means a lot of shared meals, too, so you should probably provide dinner at least every other night as well.” I raise one brow at him in defiance. “Or you could negotiate like a civilized person and we could—”
Nick interrupts. “Deal.” Then he leans forward and holds out his hand.
I place my hand in his, more out of habit than anything else. Hell, I’m still grappling with what just happened. I mean, I know what happened, I was a part of it, but seriously. What just happened?
As I take in his widening grin, it finally sinks in. I was outsmarted. Did he plan this all along?