by G. K. Brady
She took a prim bite of her omelet and casually said, “Whipped cream’s in the fridge.” Then she turned toward him, her eyes smoldering as they locked on his. “I went to Costco.”
He flipped his fork on his plate, landing it with a clatter. “I’m done. Time for dessert.”
Chapter 27
A Bad Day for Turkeys
April stuck her head into Michaela’s office as Michaela was closing up the last file on her desk.
“Why are you still here?” she asked her assistant good-naturedly.
“Uh, because you’re still here?”
“But I told you to go home hours ago, when everybody else left. It’s Thanksgiving Eve, for heaven’s sake, and we deserve some time off. Are we the last two manning the fort?”
“You’re the one who’s been burning the midnight oil, boss, not me. And yes, I think we’re the only ones stupid enough to still be here.”
Michaela stood to adjust her blinds; night was closing in already. “It’s not stupidity that’s kept us busy, girl.” No, it had been the need to tie up loose ends that seemed to become untied on their own and spread endless mayhem. Why it was always her, she had no idea. She’d barely been home in the last two weeks, and she was giddy at the prospect of having a few days away from Steadman, Hart & Fast.
“I’ll walk out with you,” April offered.
“No, you get going. I still have a few things to tidy up. Besides, you need to get cracking on that yummy marshmallow salad you’re bringing tomorrow.” Michaela darted April a look, expecting the eye-roll she was rewarded with.
“I keep telling you, I’m bringing a traditional Korean—” April’s head whipped to the side. “Oh, hi, Brad. Didn’t realize you were still here.” She parked a hand on her hip and gave him a dismissive once-over. Although he’d finally stopped asking Michaela out, he still seemed to work late whenever she did, and he came around more frequently than the rest of her colleagues put together.
Completely dismissing April, he filled the doorway and smirked at Michaela. “Still here, just like me, huh? I swear you’re competing with me for longest hours.”
Tiny hackles rose along Michaela’s neck. “I’m not competing against you for anything, Brad. I just have a lot of things on my plate to deal with.”
“Yeah, fixing errors can be so time-consuming,” he tsked.
A spritz of relief cooled her frustration; she wasn’t the only one dealing with gremlins after all! “Oh. So you’re having to put out fires too?”
“Oh, not at all. I’m just handling a heavier workload. From Mr. Steadman himself. I guess the guy trusts me more than any other associates here.” He shrugged, but nothing was self-deprecating about the move, and Michaela stifled the urge to gag.
“I heard through the grapevine that your workload’s been cut, though,” he drawled, pursing his lips with fake sympathy. “Must be tough spending time fixing all those mistakes without being able to bill time. Doesn’t seem fair, but Steadman, Fast & Hart isn’t fond of carelessness.” He wagged his chinless head side to side. “Maybe if you iced that hockey player, you wouldn’t be so distracted. The quality of your work might improve.”
Omigod, what a jerk! Those tiny hackles sprouted into thick ones, and she readied to bare her teeth, opening her mouth to take off Brad’s head. April seemed to be gearing up to do the same.
Brad swiftly moved out of the doorway, his head swiveling in a different direction. “Well, good afternoon, Mr. Steadman. I was just telling Michaela that only the most dedicated among us are still here, sir.” He stood slightly behind April and swept his gaze over her with a sneer, as if to say, “Except her, of course.”
Michaela was half out of her seat to throttle the toady prick, but Steadman’s frame replaced Brad’s in the doorway, and she stood fully before freezing. The older man bestowed polite smiles on Brad and April. “I just wanted a few words with Ms. Wagner before the holiday. Enjoy your Thanksgiving, Ms. Joon, Mr. Hewitt.”
April shot Michaela an apologetic look before saying good-bye. She’d been dismissed by the grand master, and she scurried away.
Brad, on the other hand, gave Steadman a bow of his head, wishing Steadman and his family Happy Thanksgiving. As he withdrew, Michaela could have sworn he quirked a smug smile at her only she could see.
Steadman stepped into Michaela’s office and shut the door. “Sit, Ms. Wagner. Please.” The smile was gone.
Michaela’s heart sank. She was already late getting home to meet Blake’s mother and be at his side, offering moral support before he left for the arena. His teeth had been on edge over his mom’s arrival and because Amanda, who’d been staying with him the last few days, relentlessly harped on him about seeing Owen. Owen was staying an hour away in Greeley, and something about that whole situation was contributing to Blake’s irritability. Not helping was her crazy calendar and Blake’s in-and-out-of-town game schedule, meaning that since he’d pounded on her door in the middle of the night a week ago, they’d only managed to snatch a few hours together.
Tonight she was attending Blake’s game with Amanda and his mother, DeeAnn, whose looming arrival had Michaela’s belly ratcheting into all sizes of knots—especially after she glanced at her watch. How long would this impromptu meeting with Steadman last?
The senior attorney took a seat across from her and steepled his fingers, propping his chin thoughtfully on them. Something felt off, and Michaela’s tummy doubled down on the knot-making. His eyes drifted over her bookshelf, and she pushed her glasses high on the bridge of her nose, then clasped her hands in her lap as she sat forward on the edge of her seat.
At last, he swung his gaze to her. “Ms. Wagner, I’m sure you have family to get to, as do I, so I’ll come straight to the point. You have been an exemplary employee, one of our best … that is, up until a few weeks ago.” He paused as if gauging her reaction. Thankfully, he couldn’t see the nausea rippling through her. “I’m not sure what’s happening, but your little team has been riddled with mistakes this firm cannot afford to continue covering up.” Their little team consisted of her and April.
Shocked, numb, she stared at him stupidly before making her tongue work. “But, Mr. Steadman, sir, I respectfully—”
He held up a weathered hand and lowered his lids as if he were drained. “Save it for another time, Ms. Wagner.” There was steel in his tone that she’d rarely heard from him. “You might think I’m not involved in the day-to-day, but I assure you I have been kept abreast of every misstep, every folly that has taken place in this very office. Missing files, missed appointments, clients left flapping in the wind, and now … irregularities, shall we say, in your billing hours.”
His eyes hard, icy, bored into her, while she tried to make sense of what he was saying. Billing irregularities?
“I am granting you a three-week leave of absence so we can sort your mess,” he continued, “contain any damage, and get to the bottom of what is really going on. Meanwhile, you can sort … your life. You may leave your desk as it is, but I ask that you relinquish all keys in your possession, including those to your desk, your filing cabinets, and the front door.”
What? Was she in the throes of a nightmare? Dwelling in an alternate universe?
What he wasn’t saying finally pierced the mists of disbelief. He suspected her of duplicity. But why the hell would she sabotage herself? Did they think she was that stupid? Or maybe they thought she was an inexperienced blunderer.
A flame of outrage ignited inside her and rose from her center to her scalp, making her cheeks blaze. “Why would I—” He cut her off before she could defend herself.
“Ms. Wagner, I suggest you save your energy for other things, such as examining whether Steadman, Hart & Fast is the right fit for you. We, in turn, will do the same during your absence.”
With that, he stood and held out his hand, palm up. “Your keys? I will lock up once you depart.”
I need to keep my mouth shut. I’m not rational right now, and anything
I say can and will be used against me. Her hands trembled as she gathered her keys under his flinty gaze. When she finally placed them in his open palm, he strode to the door, wheeling as he opened it. “Do not trouble yourself over Ms. Joon. She has been assigned to a different attorney beginning Monday.”
“Does she know this?” Michaela blurted.
One side of his mouth lifted in a knowing smile—or was it mocking? “She will before morning. You have precisely five minutes to gather up what you need. I will wait right here.”
Though Michaela’s mind raced in opposite directions like spokes on a wheel, it also stood frozen, unable to tell her what she needed to “gather up.” Did she take her plant? Her diplomas? Her coffee mug? She pulled in a cleansing breath and locked out the white-haired man watching from the doorway as she scanned the space and evaluated each item in turn. Anger swirled with bile, and hot tears threatened to fill her eyes. I will not cry. I will keep my big-girl panties on, get my shit, and get out of here with dignity. I’ll fall apart when I get home.
Somehow she made it home without shedding a tear and, even more miraculously, without throwing up. She hadn’t checked her phone, and as she opened her door, her eyes dashed to Blake’s condo. He had to have left already, and that was probably for the best. If she saw him now, she was likely to dissolve into tears before he could introduce his mother. She told herself to get inside and have a good cry, get it out of her system, then pack her emotions away.
If only Fi were on the other side of this door, but she and James had basically dropped their bags and headed out to visit other friends.
A clicking latch had Michaela fumbling with her lock. Too late. Amanda, her long blond tresses swinging, stuck her head out the door, a smile lighting her face. “There you are! We were getting worried.” She stepped out into the hallway before Michaela could put on her game face. Amanda was abuzz with orders to text Blake right away, to get dressed because they were leaving for dinner in ten minutes—Really?—and a string of other instructions Michaela couldn’t fit in her brain. Not with the other baggage taking up space. Amanda jerked her head and pressed her lips together. “We’ve got to go. Soon!”
“Is she here?” a feminine voice called from behind Amanda, and the poor girl’s shoulders sagged.
Michaela straightened hers. Showtime.
A statuesque woman with shoulder-length, honey-blond hair and a tentative smile peered over Amanda’s shoulder. She stood a half-head taller, which placed her in the five-ten range. Since Michaela had never seen a picture of Blake’s mother, she hadn’t known what to expect, and she’d missed the mark. Blake’s green eyes blinked from a once-beautiful face that was lined with age and marked with fine red spiderwebs on her cheeks and nose.
“You must be Blake’s Michaela.” Her voice was like sandpaper, huskier than Michaela would have guessed.
Michaela gave herself an inner kick to get in gear. “Yes, and you must be Mrs. Barrett.”
Amanda’s mother sailed past her daughter and grasped Michaela’s free hand with her own. The sour smell of alcohol rolled off her as she drew near, and Michaela noticed her eyes were watery and rimmed in red. The woman studied Michaela’s face with something akin to wonder. “You are very lovely. I can see why Blake is so taken with you.”
He is? “I … Thank you, Mrs. Barrett.”
She shook her head. “No, no. You must call me DeeAnn. I insist.”
“Of course … DeeAnn.”
The older woman broke out in a smile that lit her entire face, erasing her years. With a warmth that wrapped around Michaela, she said, “I can’t wait to get to know the woman Blake’s going to marry.”
Michaela spluttered. Had Blake said something to his mom? No! We haven’t known each other that long. Maybe DeeAnn was sauced and the alcohol was talking. Before Michaela could marshal a denial, the woman had already retreated back into the condo, leaving Michaela with her mouth hanging open.
Early the next morning, Michaela was finishing up the stuffing when a yawning Fiona wandered into the kitchen in a cozy robe. Michaela bobbed her head toward the counter. “Coffee’s over there, Fi. The good stuff.”
“Oh, thank God!”
“Late night, huh? And here I thought I was out late.” Michaela refrained from thanking her friend for inadvertently giving Michaela and Blake an hour to themselves so Michaela could properly show him how sorry she was about standing him up. Passions had ignited quickly, and she had been spared going into details about why she hadn’t made it. The little talking they’d done had been focused on the game—a blur of speed and dazzle, with Blake putting on a show that pulled oohs and aahs from everyone in the packed arena—and his gratitude for her staying with his sister and mom. Not that it had been a chore. Other than a pouting bout over Owen’s absence, Amanda had chattered nearly the entire game, sparing Michaela the need to talk much herself. DeeAnn had been on her best behavior, and Michaela had enjoyed stories of Blake playing hockey as a kid.
Fiona parked her hands on her hips and stared at the cabinets. “Okay. Where are the mugs? This mini-mansion has so many cabinets it might take me an hour to find them.”
“In the cabinet to the right of the microwave. James still sleeping?”
Fiona selected a mug and began pouring. “Mm-hmm. We’re still jet-lagged, and while my husband refuses to stay up and reset his body clock, I will slog on as long as I have plenty of this.” She held up her mug. “This place is gorgeous, Mick. Will you miss it?”
Michaela shrugged. “Maybe. I think I’ll miss the guy next door more.”
Fiona settled herself on a stool, her eyebrows bouncing. “Why not just move next door, then?”
“We hardly know each other. Besides, it’s not that easy.”
“Mm-hmm. I can’t wait to meet Mr. Hot Body.”
A light tap on the front door had Michaela’s pulse racing. “Open the door and you can meet him right now.”
Fiona’s eyes popped wide as she stood. “An early bird, huh? Thought those guys stayed up late, like on swing-shift hours?”
Michaela laughed. “They do, but he promised to help get the turkey ready.”
Fiona padded to the front door, her voice floating when she opened it. “You must be Blake.”
“And you must be Fiona. I’m glad to finally meet M’s best bud.”
When the pair came into Michaela’s line of sight, Fiona was hanging on his arm. Hanging from his other arm were a few bags of groceries. “You didn’t tell me how tall”—she squeezed his bicep—“and muscular he is, M.” She winked and released him. “May I get you a cup of coffee, Blake?” She batted her eyes comically.
Michaela dismissed her antics because breath stuttered in her chest. Blake’s hair was mussy and wet, as though he’d just showered, and his green eyes flashed dark when they landed on her. He wore sweats that hung low on his hips, and an old, well-loved, too-tight T-shirt with the Oregon Ducks’ logo on the front. It molded itself to his carved chest, squared-off shoulders, and sculpted biceps. Her eyes were drawn to his mouthwatering forearms and those powerful hands that worked not only wicked magic with a stick but on her body as well. The man didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, and everything was beautifully defined. She pressed her lips together to keep drool from leaking from her mouth.
He dropped the groceries on the island, leaned down, and sniffed her hair, murmuring so only she could hear, “Hey, gorgeous. Your banging body’s mighty bite-worthy this morning.” He kissed her cheek and tweaked her ass.
“You’re not so bad yourself, sailor.” She hip-bumped him, and he laughed. “What’s in the bags?”
“I was in the grocery store picking up a few things for our dinner, and I, uh, found some stuff I knew you liked, so I grabbed that too.”
She peered into the bag and stifled a squeal when she saw a pack of cashew balls, yogurt-covered raisins, Korean-style beef jerky, and a pack of Milano cookies. No way was she sharing with her houseguests. Blake seemed to understand and swiped t
he bag off the counter. “Want this in your office?”
“Yes, but first …” With her tummy full of flapping butterflies, she pulled him close and wound her arms around his neck. She kissed him with a fervor that let him know how thankful she was. If the hard length pressing into her abdomen was any indication, her nonverbal message had struck the right chord.
“All right, you two. Either knock it off or get a room,” Fiona fake-grumbled before sipping her brew.
Blake pulled away with a wink and traipsed down the hall with the bag of goodies. When he returned, things seemed to have settled down in his pants, and he filled his mug and leaned back against the counter, ankles casually crossed. He shot Michaela a heated glance. “I like the idea of getting a room, M. Know where there’s one around here we could use for an hour or so?”
“Nuh-uh, Captain One-Track. We have a dinner to cook.”
Soon they were working side-by-side, trading barbs and stories with Fiona and James—when he finally drifted out to join them. It felt so natural, so comfortable, and Michaela stowed away her bleak yesterday and rode the wave of fun.
James found football on TV, and Fiona curled up beside him on the couch. Blake’s attention was torn between the game and chopping sweet potatoes for some uber-healthy dish he was concocting. When Amanda popped by, he’d succeeded in prepping exactly one potato.
He handed her a mug, which she accepted. “Thanks, bro. Hey, you look like you know your way around this kitchen. Been spending all your spare time here?”
He started on potato number two. “If you paid attention, nosy, you’d notice the units are mirror images.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean the dishes are in the same cupboards.” Her eyebrows wiggled with mischief.