So things are not as green on the other side as I thought. Secretly that makes me feel better about being single and yet worse for being so jealous all these years. I am a little surprised at how emotionally mature Sarah appears to be.
“It has taken me nearly twenty five thousand in therapy to be able to say that, Abri. Thank God it was not my money.”
“Twenty five? Wow.” I am back in friend mode. “That is a lot. Wouldn’t some Hagen Daas and a good chick flick have been cheaper?” Sarah smiles but it does not reach her eyes. “Sorry, I know that’s not very professional.”
“No, that’s okay. How long have we been friends? I would expect my friend to say something like that. The therapy wasn’t because of Mark. It was to learn what a healthy relationship could be after seeing my mom and Don all those years. I thought I’d finally broken the cycle, so to speak, when I met Mark.” She sighs and fidgets with the hem of her cashmere coat. “So do you need me to fill out some paper work or something? How much of a retainer do you need? I have my dad—er, Don’s credit card. He may not be good at love and marriage, but he’s good at having cash when you need it.” She laughs a laugh neither one of us feel.
Don never adopted Sarah but she always considered him her father. Her real father, much like mine, disappeared after the divorce.
“Oh yeah. This is our new client packet. It has some information on divorce and some forms to fill out. Basic stuff. Names and addresses. Are you going to live together while this is going on?”
“Oh God, no! Mark hasn’t been home in days. He’s probably staying with friends or something, but I’m having the locks changed today. What part of town do you live in?”
“Uh, I live in Chinatown right now.” It’s cheap and I have a ton of student loans to pay off. “But I’m considering moving to Chelsea when my lease is up in a month or so.”
I inwardly grimace at the thought of what Sarah is thinking about my tiny ass apartment in Chinatown. Over the years I’ve become immune to the ever-present smells of Chinese cooking. I might even miss that dump a little when I am gone. Sarah is nodding her head while she fills out the forms.
I am skilled at reading upside after watching clients fill out these intake forms day after day. Apparently, Mark makes about a half million a year with his salary and other business dealings. Choke. No kids, of course. They rent a penthouse near Central Park. Figures. Several million dollars in liquid assets and various real estate holdings.
All this means I had better get a whopper of a retainer from her because once the fight begins Mr. Ainsworth will make sure most of this disappears. Not to mention that if Sarah knows about this much, there is probably much more she doesn’t know about. That kind of money never puts all its cards on the table.
“The retainer is one hundred fifty thousand. It’s nonrefundable, but it should be enough to finish things up.” I hope she doesn’t expect a discount because we are friends, I don’t carry that kind of clout around here yet.
“Oh, wow. Don figured it would be way more than that, it being New York and all.” With a smile, she flips a black American Express Card onto my desk. I have never seen one of those up close before. I don’t usually sign up the cases that bring in that kind of money. I manage to suppress the urge to inform her of this fact.
“Reason for filing...” Sarah mutters to herself, the end of a Monte Blanc pen in her mouth. Embarrassed, I pick up the slightly gnawed Bic pen sitting on the desk and shove it into a drawer. “Abri, I have to tell you something. The cruelty is not the only reason I’m filing.” She looks a little scared, no longer confident in what she’s doing.
“What else?” I ask. “Trust me; I have heard it all in here. He likes porn, plays too many video games, watches too much Sports Center, or chews with his mouth open?”
She shifts forward in the chair, looking around as if to see if we are being watched. I’m thinking this is a perfect time for Max to walk in his radar having picked up on whatever juicy tidbit Sarah is about to unveil, but maybe it’s only me he’s tuned into.
“No, none of that. Those things I could probably deal with given enough shopping, chocolate, and wine.” She filled her pause with a nervous laugh. “It’s like he’s possessed or something. I know that’s crazy and there’s no such thing as demons or whatever, but I swear it’s as if something has taken over his brain. Even when he’s not being mean, he’s just being weird. It scares me.”
“I’m so sorry, Sarah. I’m no psychologist, but it sounds like whatever he’s going through right now is not something you need to be involved in. You’re doing the right thing. I will get this on file ASAP. Do you think he knows its coming?”
“No. He rarely comes home anymore. I don’t know where he sleeps most nights but when he’s home I try to stay out of his way as much as possible to keep him from acting weird.”
“This is the right decision, Sarah.” I reach across the desk to grab her hands. “It’s going to be hard, but from what you’re telling me, this is for the best.” I don’t feel like I’m making her feel better but law school didn’t teach me what to say in cases of demonic possession.
“Thanks Abri. I’m so glad it’s you handling this for me. Say, what are you doing Saturday? Would you want to go out and catch up on more pleasant topics? I mean, if you don’t have a date or something.”
“No, no dates. Ever. I’d love to go out. If you like Dim Sum there is a great place downstairs from my apartment.” I cringe again, thinking of my rat hole of an apartment. I wonder if Sarah would notice that I still have the same bed I slept in when I was ten. I no longer have the New Kids on the Block sheets at least—not that I wouldn’t use them if I did. I just won’t ask her to come upstairs.
“It’s a date. How about seven o’ clock?” Thankfully, she doesn’t comment on my lack of social calendar.
“Sounds good.” I write down my address and cell number on the back of one of my business cards. “Call me when you get downstairs, the buzzer doesn’t work.” Another grimace.
***
Lunch is a welcome break in an otherwise hectic day. I catch Lindsey up on Sarah and my ginormous retainer score over greasy diner food. I hope the partners are as excited about it as I am, I could really use a Christmas bonus come December. I am fantasizing about the things I could do with a sizable bonus when the elevator arrives. At least fifteen people crush on with us as we head to the 30th floor. This is certainly pushing the maximum weight of the car. I prepare to hold my breath.
I’ve managed to stay close to the front for an easy escape. Just as the doors begin to close, a woman jumps on in front of me. She’s in the midst of a very animated conversation on her cell phone, flailing her free hand about, unaware that the hot coffee she’s welding is sloshing out of the top of her travel mug. I am trying to dodge the spray. “Oh, sorry,” I mutter as I feel my heel crush down on someone behind me. The words force me to breathe.
“No problem,” says a velvet voice.
The voice caresses me from behind and I flush from the intimacy of it. I feel drawn back against him even though I’ve managed to shuffle a few inches away. Lindsey kicks me. She is standing in front of me, undoubtedly staring at the owner of that voice. I don’t dare turn around. Her face is placid but her eyes tell me he’s something worth looking at. My imagination is already filling in the blanks. Tight space, flushed face. Not the condition I want to be in to meet the man attached to that voice. I take a couple of deep breaths to steady myself.
“30th Floor, going up.” The elevator voice announces our arrival and I ready myself to shove forward out the door. Maybe I’ll get a good knock in on the coffee woman on my way out. Lindsey shakes her head and grabs my arm to pull me out.
“It is so sad that you are afraid of elevators and in New York City of all places. I hope your new place isn’t on the top floor.”
I scoff. “Like I could afford a penthouse with what they pay here.”
“True,” she agrees. “Abri you really should have taken
a look at that man in the elevator. He was beautiful. Godlike even.”
“Godlike? Really Linds?” I dismiss her. “I was already hyperventilating, like I needed another reason to freak out.”
Lindsey just shakes her head at me again and turns to make her way back to her office. My last comment stops me dead in my tracks. I am hyperventilating. That means I wasn’t holding my breath. I can find no logical explanation other than the distraction of that man’s voice.
Max is waiting for me with several new files to review so I force myself to dismiss it as random chance. The remainder of the day flies by full of emails, voicemails, and drafting Sarah’s divorce petition. I head home around seven thirty happy my Monday has turned out to be at least serviceable in spite of its rocky start.
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday starts out much like Monday with me not wanting to get out of bed. Only this time I am not hungover. This time I was up until damn near four o’clock in the morning thinking about the man in the elevator, replaying the sound of his voice over and over again in my head. Something long neglected began to unfurl itself inside me.
Lindsey had come into my office on her way home to gush again about how cute he was and how disappointed in me she was for not turning around to look. “It was like he was staring into your soul,” she’d said. “Like he was lost until you.” Those were strong words to describe someone who only saw the back of my head. It’s more likely he was staring at the moron who’d nailed his foot with her heel. Leave it to lovelorn Lindsey to confuse serendipity with a sore toe.
It is going to be a long day on three hours of sleep and tonight is the monthly associate’s happy hour. The partners sponsor it each month in a feeble attempt to keep the natives from getting too restless. It’s going to take the largest coffee at Chen's to get me going this morning. I quickly decide against the train and opt for a cab instead. I am too tired to even walk to the subway station. I hail a cab outside of Chen’s Deli and try not to doze off as we lurch through the morning traffic. My mind starts wandering back to my elevator guy. I can already tell this is going to eat up a large portion of my day. My soul is restless again.
The ride takes longer than I planned. As soon as my beloved building comes into sight, I flip the fare and a decent tip though the open vent and bail out. Maybe the shocking cold of the block-long walk will calm the stirring in my chest.
Lucky for me my delayed cab ride causes me to miss the morning rush for the elevators. I will get to freak out alone during my ride up. Maybe I should start budgeting to take a cab every morning. The door begins to close and is forced back open by a hand.
“Thanks for holding the car.”
I don’t even bother to look up from my coffee lid; I am too busy distracting myself from the ride by repeating my elevator mantra of “Don’t fall. Don’t crash.” As if he can sense my apprehension, my elevator companion moves to stand against the far side of the car. He probably thinks I am afraid of being alone with him. I feel bad about that, he probably doesn’t look the least bit like a serial killer. Amazingly, worrying about this stranger’s feelings has distracted me enough that I’m actually thinking rather than mindlessly placating my irrational fear. In fact, I am relaxed and breathing steadily in and out. Grateful this distraction has allowed me another breakthrough, I start to glance over and at least acknowledge he’s spoken to me with a polite smile.
“30th Floor. Going down.” The elevator voice signals my destination, interrupting my train of thought. The instinct to get off as fast as possible overrides my attempt at courtesy.
“Thanks again,” he says. I feel a little shockwave go through my body and my cheeks start to pink. I’ve been standing next to the man of my dreams for the past thirty floors. Thank God, I didn’t realize it was him from the beginning or I would be unconscious right now. I am so flustered and embarrassed that I devoted an entire night to fantasizing about the very man standing before me that I can’t even bring myself to meet his eyes and acknowledge his gratitude. He doesn’t know this but I am still ashamed. I leave him standing unacknowledged in the elevator.
I stop off in the ladies’ room to collect myself. Some cold water and a few deep breaths have me feeling better so I hurry down the hall to my office with seconds to spare before I’m late. I see Max peeking around the corner of the copy room and he looks as exasperated as I feel.
“I have the weirdest story to tell you,” I whisper. “I will explode if I don’t tell someone.”
“Girl, it will have to wait. I have something to tell you.” It must be good for him to ignore my having a story to tell, especially one that will make me explode.
“Whatever it is I’m sure it will not top mine, but go ahead.”
“There is a guy here, a walk-in, he says he knows you and he needs an appointment right now.”
My heart skips a beat. I refuse to admit that I want it to be the man in the elevator. “We don’t do walk-ins.”
Max looks around and leans in conspiratorially. “I know. So he walks in and demands to see you but Stacey tells him that he can’t unless he has an appointment. He persists so she calls me to check with you, thinking maybe you do know the guy and are expecting him. No offense Abri, but this is not the kind of guy that you know.”
Perturbed by that statement, I try to look around the corner to the lobby to check out this mystery man. There is no way it can be my mystery man, I left him on the elevator. Though two in one day is probably a world record. “Exactly what kind of men do you think I know or don’t know, Max?”
“He’s not in there,” Max whispers and points down the hall. “He’s in your office.”
“Seriously? What the heck are you and Stacey thinking, letting some stranger back into my office without an appointment? He could be some disgruntled ex husband out to kill me!”
Max makes a clucking noise. “Girl, there is a hot man in your office that says he knows you and stopped at nothing to get in here and see you and you want to call security? You’re even more hopeless than I thought.” Is he really saying this?
“Hot? Well, you didn’t say he was hot. I mean, that makes all the difference in the world now doesn’t it? He couldn’t possibly be a murdering psychopath and hot now could he?” Part of me wants to slap the crap out of him for being such an idiot. The other part of me is curious.
“Abri, would I lead you wrong? Stacey checked first. He’s not related to any file in this office and he doesn’t have a criminal record either.”
“What’s his story then? Any obvious connections between me and this—what did you say his name was?”
“Didn’t.” Max draws the word out. “It’s Lucan O’Reilly.” He looks at me anticipating a positive response to the name.
“Sorry, Max. I don’t know any Lucan O’Reilly’s.” What a formal sounding name. I would remember a name that like. Max brakes my train of thought.
“Duh, I told you that, but he wants to know you apparently. What are you waiting for? Go in there and see what he wants. He wouldn’t say earlier.”
CHAPTER FOUR
As I head for my office, I try to calm myself. It has already been a harrowing morning with my fantasy elevator man showing up again and now some other guy is lurking in my office. I am still ignoring the fact that I hope the two situations are related, though I know they can’t be. I also ignore the fact that the two situations have occurred in the same lifetime. This is the most male interaction I’ve had in months and I feel as if I might explode. I snap myself out of my daydream and politely knock on the door as I open it.
“Mr. O’Reilly, is it?” No need to pretend I know someone I don’t. The man in question is standing in front of my window with his back to me.
A little wave of nervous excitement hits my stomach and I’m glad I haven’t eaten anything this morning. Puking is no way to make a first impression.
He is dressed in a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, jeans that fit him better than any jeans ever had a ri
ght to, and black boots. I notice a leather jacket slug over one of my chairs that is worn and lived in, though I can’t tell if it is from actual use or cleaver manufacturing. It reminds me of my grandfather’s WWII bomber jacket that always hung in their guestroom closet. It smelled of mothballs and motor oil. I half wonder if this one does too. His black hair is short and looks more tousled than styled. I feel that unfurling begin inside me again and I want him say something, to turn around.
“Lucan—er, Luke. Please call me Luke.”
The first syllable out of his mouth sends a shockwave through my body like a chorus of church bells. It’s him. I left him in the elevator and now he is standing in my office telling me his name. I have somehow hit the cosmic lottery. This is unbelievable and I fear I’m actually still at home dreaming.
Luke O’Reilly turns to face me. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. His impossibly blue eyes stare right into my soul. Lindsey was right; he is godlike.
His face is boyish and yet there is a cool masculinity in the line of his jaw that makes you feel forewarned and completely ravaged. His skin is pale, but not in a sickly kind of way, more luminescent. He reminds me of a dark haired Anderson Cooper but I stow that thought away for later. His blue dress shirt tugs against his muscled upper body in all the right places. For that matter, so do those jeans, as he makes his way across the room to me. I am in complete awe.
“Luke,” I repeat, realizing it’s been a while since it was my turn to respond. I try to shake the image of what might be under those jeans and that shirt, what I’ve thought about all night long, out of my head. “What can I do for you? What brings you in?” I at least sound professional and calm, inside I am on fire.
He gives me a crooked, almost knowing smile.
My heart jumps in my chest and I can hear the blood pulsing in my ears. Undoubtedly, my face is fifty shades of crimson. Luke gestures for me to sit down at my desk. He makes no effort to shake my hand, which is strange as he has an air of good manners about him. My sweaty palms are thankful nonetheless. “Thanks. Please, sit,” I offer, discretely wiping my hands on my pants.
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