Dear Jane

by Marissa Clarke

  “You’re a fine one to talk. You work as late as I do.”

  She shook her head. “Not on Fridays or weekends.”

  “I have to. I’m up for junior partner.”

  “So am I.”

  He scowled at the TV like a petulant child, and he was so cute she wanted to ruffle his tidy, well-combed hair. How had she not gotten to know Eric before this? She’d seen him around and walked by his open office door multiple times a day. It had just never crossed her mind to pop in and say hi. Maybe that’s what was wrong with her. Being social just didn’t come naturally.

  She took a deep breath and wished she were more like James Bond, who seemed equally comfortable engaged in hand-to-hand combat or in a prolonged make-out session like the one filling her TV screen right now.

  Jane had no trouble dealing with people in a business capacity in the courtroom or at the deposition table. She found it hard to relate to people in a personal way—always getting tongue tied or causing a huge disaster. She didn’t have trouble talking to Eric, though. Maybe that was because he was a lawyer and therefore out of the dating pool. Not that it really mattered. He’d said he was out of the dating game anyway, which was logical if he was gunning to move up fast in the firm.

  She peeked over at him again and found him staring. The edges of his mouth turned up in a smile, and she smiled back. If only it had been this easy with Alastair tonight. Instead of feeling at ease, like she was now, she’d pulled her usual awkward routine and punted the candle with an out of control hand gesture.

  Gandy jumped back up on the sofa and head-butted her shoulder, purring. “Oh yeah. Be a jerk and then act all sweet. Typical male.”

  Eric snorted.

  When she looked over again, he seemed entranced with the ending of the movie. Maybe her statement was unfair. She’d become jaded. Her brothers were obnoxious and for some reason, she was a dating disaster. Surely there was a guy out there who would be easy to talk to and fun to be around.

  “So, wanna come over again for a movie and popcorn next Friday?” she said as the end credits on the film rolled.

  “Yeah. Sounds good.”

  “Great we’ll meet up after my date. Got another hot friend like Alastair?”

  For some reason, he stiffened. Not much, but she was an expert at reading people from all her time with clients. Maybe he didn’t really like Alastair. Or maybe he couldn’t think of another friend to set her up with.

  He stood and placed the popcorn bowl on the coffee table. “I’ve got someone in mind.”

  Or maybe she’d misread him. “You’re the best.”

  “You said that before.”

  “And I’ll probably say it again.”

  “I hope so.” He reached out, and her heart kicked into high speed. For a moment, she thought he was going to touch her, but instead he stroked the cat who was perched on the back of the sofa behind her shoulder…and Gandy, who hated everyone, allowed it. Which begged the question, if Eric had touched her, would she have allowed it? Nope. Not going there. All lawyers were off limits. Every single one.

  Chapter Eight

  Eric’s office door was closed on Monday and again on Tuesday and Wednesday. It shouldn’t have bothered Jane. Wait. No. It didn’t bother her. Nope. Not at all.

  He finally texted Thursday, telling her to expect a call from some guy named Brody, a friend from his CrossFit gym. Well, that explained why Eric looked so good in a T-shirt. She’d thought about doing CrossFit herself after reading an article about it, but when she peeked in the open door of a gym near her apartment, it had been full of sweaty men and women who seemed way too serious about their workouts for her taste. She preferred the elliptical in the air-conditioned workout room in her apartment basement, where it was peaceful and very rarely was anyone there to see her butt jiggle.

  She’d texted Eric back with a thank you and how are you, but he hadn’t responded yet. It had only been twenty minutes, according to her office clock. He was probably in the middle of something and hadn’t checked his phone since she’d sent it.

  Absently, she flipped the Zimmerman divorce file open on her desk. Kim Zimmerman was due in her office in less than thirty minutes and she hadn’t read the latest demands from the husband’s lawyer, a prominent, very hostile attorney in Brooklyn. God, she was sick of grumpy people and their hostile lawyers. She flipped another page, not even seeing the words.

  Her dad had been grumpy at their Sunday night family dinner, grouching about the IRS and the Anderson deal. Maybe that’s why Eric had been invisible this week; he was trying to make that deal work before his annual review at the end of the month.

  For the third time that day, she wandered down the hall to visit with the receptionist and check for any mail. She’d stopped telling herself it was an errand and admitted what it was: she wanted to see Eric. Something about him made her smile. Maybe it was the way he tilted his head slightly when she talked. Maybe it was the way his mouth hitched up on the ends before he broke out in a smile. Or the way he smelled. Or the way he filled out a T-shirt…

  Oh shit. She stopped in the hallway, teetering in her high heels, and clutched her stomach. She had a crush on Eric Blackwell. Shaking her head, she resumed her course down the hallway toward the reception area. No doubt about it. She had a full-blown, heart fluttering, face heating, mind wandering, completely infatuated, school-girl quality crush on her firm-mate.

  “Hi, Ms. Dixon,” the receptionist said. “Nothing has come for you.” She looked around at the empty lobby. “But, um, your dad’s been up here several times also. Are you waiting for Mr. Blackwell’s clients to come out of the meeting, too?”

  Well, that would explain why he hadn’t replied to her text.

  “Because they’re super-hot and so worth a look. I can buzz you when they come out. That’s what I’m doing for Mr. Dixon.”

  Hot? “No. Thanks, Marcie. I’m about to meet a client anyway. Thanks for the news.”

  She highly doubted her dad was stalking Eric’s clients because they were eye candy. It must be the executives from Anderson Enterprises. She turned into her hallway again.

  When she was ten feet away from Eric’s office, his door opened. “Thanks for taking the time to go over everything with us in person,” a man’s voice said.

  Jane knew she should just keep on walking, but she was way too curious about the deal that had Eric so consumed and her dad so uptight. She stood still, holding her breath and listening.

  “I’m sure Cahill Investment Group will grant us the requested concessions in light of the tax ramifications,” the man continued. “They want to sell worse than we want to buy.”

  “Speak for yourself, Chance,” another male voice said. “I want to buy pretty damn bad. I want that company. You’ll make it work, right, Eric?”

  “I’ll do my best. I should know by our racquetball game tomorrow.”

  “I’ve always wanted to say ‘See you in court!’” the last speaker said, “but I guess all I get is ‘see you on the court!’”

  Then, two men exited Eric’s office. Whoa had Marcie been right. They were totally worth a look. More than one look, actually, and Jane fought the urge to gawk. They were a few inches taller than Eric, both easily over six feet. Both wore suits but looked very different. One was clean-cut like Eric, and the other had longer hair and a wild edge to him. She recognized the conservative-looking one right away from pictures in the paper and tabloids. Michael Anderson, CEO of Anderson Enterprises. Good. It sounded like the deal wasn’t dead. Maybe Eric would get his promotion to junior partner after all.

  Eric followed them out, and as hot as the Anderson brothers were, she found her gaze being pulled back to the shyly confident and just as sexy man standing beside them. All three turned toward her. Oh God, she must look like the worst kind of eavesdropper, lurking in the hall outside his office.

  If it bothered Eric, he didn’t let on. A smile that made her want to melt flashed across his face like he was genuinely glad to see
her. “Ms. Jane Dixon. I’d like to introduce you to Michael and Chance Anderson.”

  Handshakes and pleasantries were exchanged before the three men headed toward the receptionist desk where, no doubt, her father waited in ambush to see how it went.

  Before she reached her office door, her phone rang.

  “Hi. Is this Jane Dixon?”

  “It is.”

  “This is Brody Lyons. I’m a friend of Eric Blackwell…”

  Chapter Nine

  “Oh My God! What happened to your eye?” Jane asked.

  Eric had planned on begging off tonight, but changed his mind when Jane’s text came through: “Prepare for an evening of sophistication. In honor of my most recent date from Hell, the evening activities will include Playdoh and juice boxes.”

  With that kind of buildup, who could say no—even sporting a spectacular shiner?

  She ushered him to the sofa and leaned down to study his face. “Eric Blackwell, did you get in a fight?”

  He almost laughed at the censure in her tone. “Yep.”

  An expression crossed her face that reminded him of his mom when he’d done something naughty as a little kid.

  He held both hands up in surrender. “But it wasn’t my fault.”

  Arms crossed over her ribs, she loomed above where he sat on the sofa.

  “The racquetball started it… Or maybe Michael did when he smacked the ball into my face.”

  Then she laughed. It was a wonderful sound. Hell, he’d take a rubber ball to the eye any day to hear her laugh like that.

  “With three brothers, I don’t take kindly to fighting. Sorry I went all mother hen on you.”

  “You’re cute when you’re all puffed up with self-righteous indignation.” She was cute all the time, actually, but he’d leave it at that.

  Gandalf stuck his freakishly fat head out of the carpeted tower in the corner and hissed. Eric flipped him off.

  “Not again,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

  “Rematch, remember?” he called after her, narrowing his eyes on the cat, who stared back. This time, though, the beast didn’t seem hostile. Still, Eric wasn’t one to lose, especially to a flat-faced fur ball.

  Jane sat next to him and clunked two beers onto the coffee table. “In honor of my sensational first and only date with your bodybuilder buddy, Brody, we should watch cartoons, or maybe read a picture book.”

  He didn’t know Brody that well, other than he could do an unbroken set of fifty pull-ups. He seemed like a nice guy, though. He was an accountant for the city and had been a member of Eric’s gym for over a year. And the best thing about Brody is he’d just broken up with his girlfriend again, and Eric knew they’d make up and be back together next week. Yep. He wasn’t above sabotage at this point. “What did he do?”

  “I’m not going to tell you until you are done having a stare-off with my cat. Honestly, I go from one child to another.”

  One thing Eric had known since childhood was that he loved to win. That’s why he enjoyed being a lawyer and why he put in terrible hours every day of the week; the win was a thrill. Whether it was successfully negotiating a merger or winning a stare-off with a cat, victory gave him a rush. “This may take a while.”

  With a huff, she stood and left the room. A drawer opened and closed in the kitchen, then there was a loud bang.

  Eric leaned back, never taking his eyes—well, never taking his one unbruised eye—off the cat.

  Another clunk that sounded like a dish being placed on the counter was followed by a click and hiss of a can opener and then a distinctive grind of it being turned.

  The sudden noise made Gandalf leap to the floor from his perch in the highest box with surprising agility for something so thick.

  “There, you won,” she called from the kitchen.

  “Nope. Doesn’t count. There was interference from the audience again.” He went to the kitchen to find Gandalf scarfing some nasty-looking gruel in a bright yellow dish with paw prints painted on the sides. “You’re going to be banned from future matches if you keep causing my opponent to forfeit.”

  She held up a small, empty can. “The winner of this round is Fancy Feast. Handle your defeat with dignity, Blackwell.”

  “Defeat is never dignified. I might have to throw myself on the floor in a tear-filled tantrum.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first one I’ve seen from a full-grown man tonight.”

  What the hell happened tonight… He hoped she’d go on, partly from curiosity, partly because hearing about a bombed date made him feel…relieved.

  She dug in the pantry and pulled out a bag of Cheetos. “Your friend Brody didn’t take defeat well, either, when I ended the date halfway through.”

  God, she was cute. He smiled as he thought of all the times he’d watched her walk down the hall in her business suit, looking over-the-top professional and untouchable with her hair smoothed stylishly back from her face. Never in a million years did he picture her like this, holding Cheetos and beer in warmup pants and a baggy T-shirt… Wait. Holy shit. She didn’t have on a bra.

  He closed his eyes, but the image remained. High, round breasts, not large, but perfect… with nipples straining against the soft blue fabric.

  I am so screwed.

  When he opened his eyes, Jane was at the sink washing the can opener and Gandalf was at his feet, staring up as if trying to communicate. Then he stretched up, placing his paws—claws retracted this time—on Eric’s knee as if he wanted to be picked up.

  What the hell. He already had a black eye, what were a few scratches and maybe a bite?

  Carefully, he picked the creature up by the rib cage and rested him against his chest, grateful to not be feeling the pointy parts. As soon as he was cradled comfortably, Gandalf began to purr. And it wasn’t a polite thrum, like other cats he’d handled. It was a wheezy, grating rasp that could probably be heard in the next apartment over.

  “I don’t believe it,” Jane said, drying her hands. “Just when I thought my day couldn’t get weirder, you prove me wrong.”

  Not wanting to press his luck and end up bloody, Eric walked to the carpeted tower in the TV room and gently set Gandalf, still purring, on a flat part of the structure. Jane followed him in and plopped down on the sofa with a huff and a crinkling of the Cheetos bag.

  “What happened with Brody?” he asked, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. The suspense was killing him. If that walking steroid had done something to upset her… “He said he was taking you to the museum, which seemed like something you’d like.” Of all the places that seemed public and safe and least likely to see either of them unclothed, that would be it. Eric heartily approved of the location.

  “Oh yeah. I love museums. I used to go every Thursday during undergrad. I was really excited to go today, too. Took off work early and everything.” She clicked the TV on and the Weather Channel came up, but it was muted.

  “Sooo…”

  “So, your friend Brody has the emotional maturity of a nine-year-old.”

  Lots of guys did, but he didn’t think pointing that out would help. “What did he do?”

  She grabbed the Cheetos and ripped them open, spilling some on her lap. “He giggled.”

  “Giggled.”

  “Yeah. And pointed.”

  He twisted the caps off both beers as she crunched on Cheetos. “Pointed at other people?” He took a swallow of beer. That really didn’t sound like Brody.

  “No. He pointed…” A pink flush moved up her face and she took a deep breath. “He pointed at penises.”

  It was a struggle to not choke on his beer, or worse yet, spew it from his nose. After he could breathe again, he set the beer down. This conversation was one of the most entertaining he’d ever had. “Whose penises?”

  “Everyone’s. Do you know how many penises there are in the Met?”

  Now, the conversation had escalated into plain awesome. “I have no idea. How many?”

  “Lots. Lots
and lots. Probably dozens in the European Paintings Hall alone. Not to mention breasts and…and…well everything.” She took a huge pull on her beer and clicked the channel.

  “Everything?” He grabbed the Cheetos bag and grinned. She was so cute, all red-faced and flustered.

  She settled for an old horror movie, volume still muted.

  He stood and paced the floor in front of the coffee table as if he were delivering a cross-examination of a witness. “So, to summarize for the jury, Ms. Dixon: my workout buddy took you on a date to the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art and proceeded to point at naked genitalia in paintings.”

  She nodded, face remarkably serious for a subject so amusing. “And sculptures.”

  “And sculptures.” It was all he could do to not bust out laughing, but he continued with his act, pacing the floor with his hands clasped behind his back. “What else did he do?”

  “He giggled.”

  He stopped and faced her. “Giggled.”

  “Yeah. Like a little kid. He pointed and giggled, and I was sure we were going to get kicked out of there, or worse, run into somebody I knew.”

  “Well, it’s my belief that the testimony calls for a summary judgment from the court. There is no other option but to insist you never date this giggling genitalia pointer-at-er again.”

  “Case closed!” she said, saluting him with her beer.

  He joined her on the couch and Gandalf settled in between them to watch the movie, which was a routine he could get used to, even if it meant playing dating service every week. It was going to be hard to find someone she’d less likely want to date than Brody, but Eric did love a challenge. “Court adjourned.”

  Chapter Ten

  The week after the penis pointer, Jane had a date with a guy who was allergic to peanuts but failed to tell the waiter, then puffed up like a toad when he ate the French fries made with peanut oil. Nothing says romance like a trip to the ER.