by Hoff, Stacy
Table of Contents
LAWFULLY YOURS
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
EPILOGUE
LAWFULLY YOURS
STACY HOFF
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
LAWFULLY YOURS
Copyright©2015
STACY HOFF
Cover Design by Leah Suttle.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-61935-728-0
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To my cherished husband, Eyal,
my treasured sons, Aaron and Ryan,
and my devoted parents, Marilyn & Michael.
Thank you for your endless encouragement.
You are the rocks I hold on to
when life gives me quicksand.
And in memory of my beloved grandparents,
Al and Rhea.
Thank you for helping raise me,
and sending me to law school.
I miss both of you every day.
Acknowledgements
A few heartfelt comments to some truly special people:
Deborah Gilbert—Founder and Senior Editor of Soul Mate Publishing—thank you for gambling on me a second time.
Dan Spiegel—my brother-in-law and website developer—thank you for building both me, and my website, up.
Judy Roth—my personal line editor—thank you for making this manuscript one worth reading.
Amina Connelly—my best friend—thank you for being my Leila.
CHAPTER 1
What on Earth was I thinking when I quit my job? That working in a place with nice lawyers is even possible?
At least I’m a nice lawyer—ethical, caring, dedicated. And I hope people think I’m a good person, too. I always write checks to the local animal shelter despite being allergic to dogs. I volunteer at the poverty law clinic every week. I help out my co-workers. Just call me super-helpful Susan: that’s me. Financially suffering from an insane quest for pleasant employment.
Surely there are other attorneys like me out there. Will I ever be lucky enough to get a job with them? For that matter, will I ever be lucky enough to land another job? Who quits her job in the first place? Of all the pie-in-the-sky, unrealistic things to do.
But it’s not the time to self-flagellate, nor is it time to procrastinate. It’s time to concentrate, because finding the perfect book on how to interview will take time and effort. Hopefully, the poise and skills I’ll learn will make me appear confident. And I really do need to at least look the part during tomorrow’s interview because after quitting my last job I don’t feel confident at all.
Pushing myself through the revolving door of Barnes & Noble, I immediately head over to the “Career Advice” section. Having professionally shot myself in the foot, I’ve made my road to success a much harder journey.
The bookstore has a single restroom, lucky me, because I’ve just realized the zipper on my pants is down and I don’t want to yank it up in public. As I’m about to open the door, an elderly woman reaches for it, too.
“You take it,” I say, gesturing toward the door. My other hand covers my crotch.
“Thanks, honey. I won’t be long,” she says, smiling.
“No problem. Take your time.” It’s great to do something nice for someone. True to her word, the woman comes out shortly and I hurry in. After fixing my pants I ball up the tissue I had earlier sobbed in and aim for the trash can. It lands on the floor. Good thing I’m not seeking employment with the NBA.
I will do great tomorrow—I will land this job. My old office was terrible—catty office cliques, low pay, and lower morale. My new office will have professional, courteous people, decent pay, and high morale. I cringe at the sudden image of myself wearing a curly red wig, belting out “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow.” My hair is brown, not red. But my mood is blue.
Time to wash up. Is something wrong with this mirror, or has something gone very, very wrong with the chignon I’d hoped was chic?
“I’ve taken on a life of my own,” my bun screams at me. “Look, I’m a snake hanging from a tree branch!”
Hey, Sue, PETA called. They said you’ve offended snakes with that metaphor. They’re going to serve you with a “cease and desist” order in the morning.
The bathroom door rattles from the outside. “Hey!” sounds a deep voice.
Can a voice that deep really belong to someone needing a ladies room?
The voice continues, louder now. “I said, is someone still in there? If you’re not dead, then get the fu—”
“I’m doing the best I can, okay?” Calm down. Maybe she just really has to go. Bracing my shoulders, I push open the door.
“Finally! What the hell?” a pig-tailed teenage girl bellows as she whizzes by, slamming the door behind her as hard as she can.
Heads turn to stare at me. My face goes hot. Breathe, Sue, you’re only having a bad moment in a bookstore. You’ll soon forget all about it.
Deciding to delay Interviewing 101 long enough to calm down, I head over to the in-store Starbucks. Instead of the latte I want, a chai-tea purchase saves me a dollar. But I’m still out $3.50 for my indulgence. Well, $3.50 is cheaper than paying for a stress-induced trip to the hospital. Especially since I just lost my health insurance.
Stupid!
I carry the tea toward one of the tables. Almost there, my foot slips, and I sprawl before catching my balance on a chair arm. Scanning the floor, I spot the culprit of my near collapse—a perfume insert from a magazine. Bending down to pick it up, I notice a doll’s pink shoe next to it, a tiny little high heel. I glance down at my loafers, which are now soaked with chai-tea. So much for living my life with my best foot forward. Too embarrassed to sit down, I leave the shoe on a table for its owner to find. I hope I’ve made some sad little girl’s day brighter. I weave through the crowd with my tea.
I scrutinize my aisle’s books until I hear a commotion in the corridor. Like everyone else, I prairie-dog to watch. A girl in the next aisle, about five years old, is cradled in her father’s arms.
“Barbie lost her shoe!” she wails, holding her doll’s bare foot out for inspection. Barbie’s other foot dangles a pink pump. The man brushes the girl’s wet cheek with his hand and kisses the top of her head. “Sorry, Marty,” he murmurs affectionately. “Maybe Mattel has a Barbie shoe store. One that sells sneakers. I think Barbie was sick of wearing evening shoes all the time anyway.” The girl’s lips upturn slightly. The smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Wait a minute, that’s the owner of the shoe I found! Me, her fairy shoe-mother. Without hesitation, I trot over to them, large smile on my face. “Marty? Is that your name?” The little girl stares at me before slowly nodding, tears still trickling. “I know where your doll’s shoe is.” I glance at the man to enjoy the moment with him and freeze. Oh my God, it’s Daniel Craig! I stare harder. No, of course not. Not James Bond. Duh.
Close enough though. Like his thespian doppelganger, this man is tall with light brown hair, a nice nose, and a strong jawline. Bright—almost sparking—blue eyes. He looks like he is in his late thirties or early forties. The guy’s well dressed in a casual but expensive style. His tan slacks are straight out of Brooks Brothers. His crimson sweater, which must be cashmere, shows off his muscular frame.
The girl tugs at my jacket, bringing my attention back to her. She’s looking at me with wide-open eyes and mouth, as if my fairy wings are showing. “Can you take me there?” she asks, words gushing out in excitement.
“I’ll do even better. Wait a sec and I’ll bring it to you.” I leave to retrieve the shoe I’d put on the Starbucks table.
“Here you go,” I say a minute later.
Marty hops up and down with delight. She stops hopping only long enough to grab my leg and give it a grateful squeeze. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” her words tumble out.
“You have my thanks as well,” Great Looking Guy says. He extends his hand for me to shake. Kind of an old-fashioned gesture, although sweet. I do the same, bump my other elbow against the bookcase, and spill the rest of my tea down the front of his pants. He jumps back, knocking Marty onto the floor. Whump!
I shriek, “Oh my—”
“Shit!” he exclaims.
It looks like he’s peed on himself. A lot.
“Owwww.” Marty starts to cry again. The man reaches down to help her up off the floor.
“Are you all right?” I ask her, apprehensively.
“Yes.” She sniffles. “I’m okay.”
“That’s good.” I exhale in a rush.
“I may not be suffering from something as serious as a butt bruise,” the man says to me, his voice cool, “but do you think instead of standing there, you could get me some napkins? The tea’s hot.” He grimaces in pain.
“I’ll get it,” Marty exclaims.
“I meant the woman, not you, Marty.” He sounds brusque.
“Sure I will,” I say, already running back to Starbucks. Grabbing enough napkins from the partially stuck dispenser takes forever. I return, running at full speed. “Sorry I took so long.”
“No problem. I was hoping you’d take your time. My stain, and the second-degree burns, will now set in nicely. Excellent.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. He takes no notice of my pallor while he dabs himself as best as he can. “This is no use,” he declares, voice tinged with disgust. “These pants were new, too.”
Is it my imagination, or does he then sneak a glance at what I’m wearing and smirk? Is it because of my splattered shoes? Or because this morning I slipped into my 1970’s-era red velour pants and jacket ensemble? I like to dress casually and comfortably when I’m not at work. Since I have no job, that’s pretty much all the time now. The outfit seemed like a good choice when I got up. Who knew my day would be busy ruining the life of a good-looking, well-groomed, impeccably dressed man? If I had known this, maybe I would have dressed up for the occasion. At least one of us could have looked good at the end of our disastrous meeting. “I’m so sorry—”
“It’s okay,” he responds slowly. “I’ll be fine. I apologize for being so brusque. I know you were trying to help. Anyway, thanks for finding the shoe. It was . . . interesting . . . meeting you, miss.” Without another word he walks away, tugging futilely at his pants with one hand and towing Marty with the other.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cringe at the guy’s jerky steps toward the bathroom. “Okay, pumpkin,” I hear him say in a voice that’s surprisingly calm considering he’s been scalded in a very delicate area. “You got Barbie’s shoe back. I’ll take you home to your mother as soon as I’m done with the bathroom’s hand dryer. She’ll be waiting for you.”
“Um, bye. Nice meeting you,” I call out feebly. If he hears me, he doesn’t answer.
CHAPTER 2
Morning. My bleary eyes squint at the nightstand’s clock. 6:30 a.m. I peel off my sweaty sheets. The ratty, tatty, floral flannels I wore to bed were actually a worse choice than yesterday’s velour ensemble. Not just because of appearance either. The flannel, or my nervousness about today, made it too hot to sleep. Climbing out of bed, I open the window to breathe in the frigid January air. I wonder if today’s interview will give me a cold reception, too.
The shower’s hot steam doesn’t relax my pre-job jitters. My shoulder muscles stay at attention like a soldier’s while the water pounds down on me. I will not be washed up at twenty-six!
I feel pretty washed up, though. The sleepless night didn’t help. So much for going into the interview with an up and at ‘em attitude. Chemical assistance is needed. Aspirin. Black coffee. Mega-powered mouthwash. Getting out of the shower, I wipe the steam off the mirror. Do I look as tense as I feel? Yep.
Putting on my best suit, I notice a dark brown stain on the beige collar. Putting on my second best suit, I detect a yellow-brown stain on the white collar. What I’m putting on now is a full-fledged migraine. Damned coffee. Note to self—stop drinking that crap when wearing my good suits.
The tally of garments falling into the “hotshot firm acceptable” category is nil. I don’t have any experience in dressing “corporate.” Plus, law school loans have prevented me from improving my wardrobe anyway. The six stain-free suits I have left were all bought at Goodwill. Fortunately my olive green ensemble doesn’t look too worn. I hope.
Thinking I might have to do a lot of walking around this large firm, I opt for the flat brown loafers I wore to Barnes & Noble. I dig up a scarf to spruce up the drabness and put it on. The tan and orange scarf is satiny and has short white fringe hanging from it. The fringe doesn’t seem to fit the rest of the outfit’s overall look, but I figure something noticeable around my neck is probably better than leaving the suit plain. After several attempts to tie the scarf, I fold it like a bandana. The mirror shows the finished result—a cross between Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Daisy Mae Yokum. Should I be going for this look on an interview? Probably not.
I catch a glimpse of the clock. Late! Stress level kicking into high gear, my hands are shaky and sweaty. Ditching the scarf and swapping the loafers for low heels, I head out the door.
My twelve-year-old Volvo is hopefully going to get me to the firm, because if it doesn’t, I don’t have any way to get here. I mentally block out the pop music gurgling from the car’s radio to focus on my situation. I should suck up to my interviewer. Why would anyone possibly hire me? My only job out of law school was with a small, obscure firm.
Should I explain why I barely lasted a year at Frosty Firm? Or gloss over it instead? Would a human resource department really appreciate an honest response to their standard job application question: “Why did you leave your last job?” I picture my large, loopy handwriting filling in the blank space on a printed form: “Because working with mean-spirited people sucks.”
I realize I have inadvertently slowed down my vehicle while contemplating all this. Speeding up, I make up time on the highway, but almost miss the turn for the office building in my haste. Instantly braking to enter the parking garage, car horns blare behind me. But I get to the building before 9:00 a.m.
The address is one of Hartford’s best. Standing in the lobby with my mouth agape, I must look like a backwater tourist on her first day in the big city. I get myself mentally together enough to start walking again, my heels clicking against the white marble tiles. Smelling fresh flowers, I spot two black marble urns bearing tiger lilies framing the information desk.