Balancing Act (The Santa Monica Trilogy Book 3)

by Blake, Jill

  “Here we are,” Jeannine said, opening the door to a retro-style diner with red faux-leather booths and Formica-topped tables running along a wall of plate-glass windows.

  Zach snagged the one unoccupied table and flagged down a server. Once they had placed their orders, Jeannine pulled several files from her bag and spread the documents out across the table.

  “The writing’s pretty small,” Jeannine said. “You’ll see better from this side.”

  Zach craned his neck across the table, trying to decipher the fine print. The suboptimal lighting didn’t help. One of these days he should probably invest in a pair of reading glasses. He sighed and got up, sliding into the booth beside Jeannine.

  “Let’s start at the top and work down,” she said. “Stop me if you have any questions. First up is air quality. Given the additional subterranean parking structure you’re putting in, we’re projecting short-term construction emissions of nitric oxide and nitrogen dioxide gasses that exceed the South Coast Air Quality Management District’s regional threshold. Here’s a list of mitigating measures we propose you implement to reduce construction exhaust emissions…”

  In between bites of their burgers and fries, they spent nearly two hours poring over the twenty-page executive summary. It was crammed with jargon that covered everything from gas emissions and construction effects to detailed analysis of seismic hazards, and recommendations for grading, setbacks, site preparation, fill placement, erosion control, shoring and internal bracing.

  Jeannine glanced at her watch and cursed. “I have to go. You can take these with you to look over with your team. Let me know in the next few days if you have any questions or corrections, so I can make whatever changes are needed before submitting the final report.”

  “Will do.” Zach slid out of the booth first and helped Jeannine up. “You’ll be okay getting back to the office on your own?”

  “Of course.” She kissed him on the cheek, then grinned and used her thumb to wipe the faint smear of lipstick from his skin. “You’ll take care of lunch? Thanks. Gotta run.”

  Zach watched as she hurried off, then resumed his seat and flagged down the server for a third cup of coffee and the check. As he waited, he perused the rest of the papers. The project was finally starting to come together. The only person who would be even more pleased about this than Zach himself was his dad. Zach gathered the files together, paid the bill along with a hefty tip, and headed for his car, whistling a jaunty tune.

  ~

  Angie checked her watch before dashing across the street. She hated being late. Now, thanks to a client who wanted to nitpick every point of what Angie thought had been a pretty straightforward contract, there was no way she’d get to Logan’s office on time.

  She pulled out her cell to text him.

  Running late. Meet at club in 15 min?

  They got together every month for what Angie had come to think of as their “snack and yak” sessions—an opportunity for the siblings to catch up on each others’ lives over lunch. Sometimes Eva joined them, but usually it was just Logan and Angie, since they both worked within easy walking distance of the university Faculty Center.

  The phone rang in her hand. “The nanny just called,” Logan said. “Jack spiked a fever.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I’m on my way home right now.”

  No surprise there. Even though it was his wife Grace who had the medical degree, Logan was the one who dropped everything and went running when either of the twins was sick. While he claimed it was an issue of logistics—his work schedule was generally more flexible than Grace’s, especially since he’d gotten tenure—Angie suspected there was also an element of over-compensating for his own childhood with an absentee father. Regardless, he’d taken to the role of family man as if he’d never cut a wide swathe through L.A.’s population of single females.

  Angie wondered whether Zach was capable of making the same kind of transformation. He hadn’t exactly announced his intentions, but the hints he’d been dropping lately certainly seemed to imply he was thinking along those lines.

  “Anything I can do?” she asked Logan.

  “Yeah. We might be out of children’s Tylenol. Can you swing by the pharmacy and get some?”

  “Sure thing.” She slipped the phone into her purse. The nearest pharmacy was just down the street.

  The aroma of burgers and fries from a greasy spoon along the way made her stomach rumble. As she hurried by, a familiar figure at one of the window tables snagged her eye. She slowed, stopped. The gorgeous blond ex-girlfriend who wasn’t a cover model but could easily pass for one. Jeannine DeLuca. Yes, that was definitely her, sliding out from the window booth and leaning in to her companion—

  Oh, God.

  That was Zach in there. Zach, with another woman’s fingers caressing his cheek. A woman who, by his own admission, was in love with him.

  He’d sworn that his relationship with Jeannine was over. And Angie had believed him.

  Her vision darkened, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

  Someone jostled her arm. “Hey, lady, you okay?”

  And then another voice: “Looks like she’s gonna faint.”

  Air whooshed back into her lungs. She blinked and glanced at the cluster of strangers gathered around her.

  “Maybe you should sit down,” one of them said, touching her elbow and pointing toward a nearby bus stop bench.

  She shook her head. She needed to get out of here. And go where? She was in the middle of doing something—

  “Maybe we should call 911.”

  She frowned. “What? Oh, no. Thank you. Really. I’m fine. I just—” She eased away. “I need to go. Sorry. Excuse me.”

  She hurried down the street, passing the drugstore before she remembered. Tylenol. She needed to get some Tylenol for her nephew. She turned back.

  The automatic doors parted, and she stepped inside.

  ~

  The next few hours passed in a daze. Afterward, she had a vague recollection of driving to her brother’s house, where chaos reigned. With one child sick, and the other screaming for attention, Logan didn’t seem to notice Angie’s distraction. He was too busy doling out Tylenol, Motrin, and bottles of warmed breast milk, while the nanny helped change diapers and launder mountains of soiled baby clothes.

  “Don’t you need to get back to the office?” Logan asked at one point.

  Angie blinked. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. It was as if she’s stepped through some kind of portal into an alternate universe, where time and the responsibilities of everyday life were suspended.

  “Hang on a sec,” she said, fishing the phone out of her bag. There were two missed calls from her secretary, one from Naomi, and a slew of text messages. She sent a brief note canceling the rest of the day’s appointments, citing a family emergency. “There, all set. What do you need me to do?”

  By the time Angie let herself in to her apartment later that night, she was exhausted. The numbness that had carried her through the afternoon and into the evening was starting to wear off.

  Her cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID and turned it off, not wanting to hear whatever excuse Zach would come up with. She didn’t want to hear him lie or fumble, or worse yet, tell her that it was none of her business what he did and with whom.

  They’d never actually discussed the rules of their relationship. Whatever assumptions Angie might have made were hers alone—and clearly erroneous. Somehow, she’d forgotten that even here, the basic tenets of contract law applied. First and foremost, there had to be a valid offer that was effectively communicated, negotiated in good faith, and explicitly accepted. They might have danced around the issues, but they’d never even gotten to the offer.

  The phone chimed. An incoming text flashed on the screen. She ignored it. The same way she ignored the next one, and the one after that.

  It was a long time before she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


  “Why are men such assholes?”

  Quinn paused, fork suspended halfway between his plate and mouth. “Is that a hypothetical question?”

  Angie frowned. “No. I really want to know.”

  He chewed slowly before answering. “It’s built into our DNA, I guess. Courtesy of the Y chromosome.”

  They were in the cafeteria on the ninth floor of the Stanley Mosk Courthouse, a panoramic view of downtown Los Angeles spreading out beyond the balcony.

  Angie gazed across the asymmetric curves and angles of Gehry’s iconic music hall, toward the backdrop of glass and steel high-rises. An ominous cloud cover was moving in. She’d have to leave soon if she wanted to avoid a wet and unpleasant commute home.

  Quinn finished his steak tostada bowl and glanced at her barely touched turkey wrap. “Are you going to eat that?”

  She pushed her plate toward him. “Help yourself.”

  “So,” he said between bites. “What’s going on?”

  This was the question she’d been dreading, ever since she’d exited the court clerk’s office and run into Quinn. The last time they’d had lunch together, she and Zach had just taken the first tentative steps in their tumultuous pas de deux. Now, nearly three months later, she was still trying to figure out how she could have allowed things to spin so far out of control.

  Quinn wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “I heard you got a big settlement out of S&L. So it can’t be work that’s got you down.”

  “No.” She stirred another sugar into her coffee. “It’s been busy. I’m not complaining.”

  He pushed aside his plate and leaned forward. “Sounds like you could use a break. The L.A. County Bar Association is hosting a networking mixer tomorrow night. Why don’t you come with me? It’s at Seasons 52, six o’clock.”

  She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

  “Before you say no, at least promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “No offense, Quinn, but watching you troll for new talent isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry. Really. I’m not in the best of moods today.”

  “I can see that. But no worries, I’ve got thick skin.” He cocked his head. “You can ‘troll for talent’ too, if you want. The field’s wide open.”

  She sighed and glanced away.

  “Unless you want to skip the mixer altogether and just invite me over. We can reminisce about old times.”

  She blinked against the unexpected sting of tears. “You don’t have to be nice to me. I’ve been through worse than this before.”

  “I might agree with you, if I knew what ‘this’ was that you’re talking about.” He waited several beats. “It’s about Mr. In-house Counsel, isn’t it? I’m guessing things didn’t work out?”

  Her eyes widened. “How…?”

  “You forget, it’s a small community. The Santa Monica Magazine had a whole spread on some gala event a few weeks ago. Including a photo of the two of you in a lip lock. And you’re not the only one who dines at Pomodoro.”

  It seemed like a lifetime ago. The gala, where under the cover of darkness Zach had offered her the first intimate glimpses of his childhood. Their first dinner date, a few weeks later. She closed her eyes, recalling the taste of the wine, the soft music in the background, the unbearable tension of waiting for that exquisite kiss, and then the hours of pleasure that followed.

  “So,” Quinn said. “You want to skip the mixer? I’ll keep you company.”

  She opened her eyes, blinking when his image wavered. He offered her a clean napkin, and she wiped away the mascara-tinged tears from her cheeks. “This isn’t me,” she said. “I never cry.”

  “I’ve got a nice broad shoulder,” he said. “And we can keep things strictly platonic. If that’s what you want.”

  She offered him a watery smile. Having Quinn right down the hall from her office was about the only thing she missed from her BigLaw days. “Can I think about it?”

  ~

  Three days, and Zach still hadn’t managed to get hold of Angie. Mindful of the last time this had happened, he tried not to panic. There had to be a perfectly reasonable, innocuous explanation.

  But how difficult was it to answer a text? Or return a phone call? He stopped by her condo a few times, but the lights were always off. At work, her receptionist claimed she was in court, or off somewhere taking a deposition.

  Zach even skipped his weekly racquetball game to go for a morning run in her neighborhood, hoping to accidentally-on-purpose bump into her. No such luck.

  Had he overplayed his hand? Pushed too hard, too fast, for an emotional connection that she wasn’t ready to acknowledge?

  He’d thought they were doing so well. Thanksgiving weekend had felt like a new beginning, an opportunity to explore and build upon all the things they had in common. Things that had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with reinforcing the foundation of their future life together.

  Which was why Angie’s abrupt disappearance made no sense.

  At wit’s end, he finally called Eva, hoping she’d have some knowledge of her sister’s whereabouts and state of mind.

  Eva seemed surprised to hear from him. “I assumed she was going to tonight’s mixer with you.”

  “What mixer?”

  The silence stretched, and Zach forced himself to wait it out.

  Eva cleared her throat. “You know, it was Angie’s idea to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner.”

  He muzzled his impatience. “I appreciate that, and I want to thank you and your family for the hospitality. If I haven’t said this before, I’m also grateful to you for all the kindness you’ve shown my father all these years.”

  “The feeling is mutual. Tom will always be family. And by extension…” She hesitated, leaving the thought unfinished. “I’m sorry if I’m being nosy, Zach. But this situation with you and Angie…”

  “Did Angie say anything to you?”

  “Not really. I just thought, since she specifically asked that you be included in a family dinner…”

  Zach sighed. “I’ll be honest with you, Eva. Your sister and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I was really hoping we could get past that and build something good together.”

  “Are we talking work-related?”

  “Forget work. This has nothing to do with work. Angie and I have been dancing around this a long time. We finally got together, and it was—amazing. She’s an amazing woman.” He clutched the phone hard. “I’m not sure what happened. Something must have, but I don’t know what. For some reason she’s avoiding me, and that’s not like her. If she has a problem with something, everyone knows.”

  “True,” Eva said.

  He rubbed his forehead. “I’m worried. I don’t know what’s going on. If you know where she is, please, you have to help me. I need to see her, talk with her.”

  This time the silence lasted so long that he thought they’d been disconnected.

  And then, Eva said the one word that infused him with hope. “Okay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The music was too loud. The lighting was too dim. The laughter around her was too shrill. Too many people were talking at each other, trying too hard to have a good time.

  Angie was miserable.

  “Drink?” Quinn said.

  “What?”

  He raised his voice. “Do you want a drink?”

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  He left her side to battle his way to the bar, and she took refuge near a potted palm in the corner. She contemplated slipping out and taking a taxi home. The only thing that kept her rooted in place—other than good manners, which dictated that she at least let Quinn know she was leaving—was the fact that she didn’t want to be alone. She’d wasted enough time on regrets, asking herself questions to which she might never know the answers, and torturing herself with what ifs.

  “Here you are,” Quinn said, jostling her arm and nearly spilling one of
the drinks on her.

  She accepted the glass. “What’s in this?”

  “Rum, apricot brandy, pineapple juice, lime.” He tapped her glass with his. “Cheers.”

  She took a cautious sip and coughed. “Any chance of something solid to sop up the alcohol?”

  Quinn grinned. “Packs quite a punch, doesn’t it?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I think they have some finger food over there.” He waved vaguely toward the other side of the room. “Unless you want to go elsewhere for something more substantial?”

  “No.” She took another sip. “Maybe.”

  “Or—” he glanced up “—maybe not. Looks like we’re about to have company.”

  “What?” She followed his gaze to the door.

  Oh, God. What was Zach doing here? He stood just inside the entrance, eyeing the crowd. He clearly hadn’t seen them yet, and for a moment she felt the cowardly urge to duck behind the potted palm and head down the hall toward the ladies’ room to avoid him.

  And then his eyes lit on her and he forged a path through the teaming mass of bodies, like a battleship plowing through stormy waters.

  Quinn touched her elbow. “Do you want me to take care of this?”

  Angie considered it, then shook her head and straightened up. “No, it’s okay. I can handle it.”

  Zach stopped in front of them. “Angie.” He didn’t bother acknowledging Quinn. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

  “I’ve been busy,” she said.

  “Too busy to return my calls?”

  “You’re a smart man, Zach. If someone doesn’t return your calls, it usually means she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  Zach glanced at Quinn. “Do you mind?”

  Quinn shrugged and turned to Angie. “Your call, sweetheart.”

  Zach’s lips tightened at the endearment.

  Angie felt herself weakening. She’d missed him, damn it. Even in the midst of the crowd, with the heat and the chatter and the driving bass beat from the sound system, she could feel the pounding of her heart and the pooling of desire in her belly.