by Lauren Layne
“Are there any non-bitter divorces?” I ask.
“Not many,” he admits. “At least not ones that come across my desk. All of the mutually-irreconcilable-differences ones don’t need to bring in the big guns.”
“Google says you’re the biggest divorce lawyer in the city. So does Marley.”
He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t stop watching his wine. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”
“Yes it is,” I insist. “It means you’re good at your job.”
He looks up at that. “I would have thought a girl like you would hate my job.”
“A girl like me?”
“Optimistic. Bubbly. Enthusiastic about glitter, and—”
“And…?” I prompt. “Say it. You know you want to.”
He takes a sip of wine and glances out at the city before relenting. “And ridiculous.”
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye as he says it, a whisper of a smile playing on his mouth that makes me go all warm inside.
I lift a glass. “If ridiculous means I don’t believe in divorce, then I’m proud of it.”
“You can’t not believe in divorce. It’s a reality.”
“I know,” I say sadly, taking a sip of my wine. “I guess I mean I don’t believe in it for me.”
“Well, the good news is, you’ve got some time. First comes marriage and all that. Unless you’re close to that.”
“Um, no.”
He’s watching me. “Brody?”
“Not a thing.”
“He’s interested.”
I shrug. “Yep.”
We both fall silent for a few moments that are surprisingly peaceful considering that just a couple of days ago we were icing each other out hard-core.
“What about you?” I ask. “Is there a lady becoming the next Mrs. Mulroney anytime soon?”
“Not soon, not ever.”
“Oh no,” I say in exasperation. “You’re not that guy. The one that thinks he’s never going to get married because his career only shows him the bad side of marriage.”
He looks at me again. “I am definitely that guy.”
“But you do date?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about Hailey?”
His brow furrows. “Your friend? What about her?”
“You should ask her out. She likes you. I saw you exchange numbers.”
Andrew takes a sip of his wine. “You did not.”
“I did.”
He leans back again. “You saw her give me her number. I didn’t give her mine.”
“Why not?”
He doesn’t answer, instead looking behind him. “Shall we start on the cleaning?”
I’m oddly disappointed by his lack of response, but I nod. “Yeah. I should probably get it over with. You don’t have to help.”
He’s already on his feet, extending a hand down to me. I know it’s just a gentlemanly gesture to help me up, but my stomach flutters a little all the same.
I give him a carefree smile as I place my palm in his, as though I’ve done this millions of times with millions of guys, which I sort of have.
But the feeling I get when my skin touches his is anything but routine. It’s…electric isn’t quite the right word; that’s too sharp.
It just feels…pivotal.
Get it together, Georgie.
He releases my hand the second I’m on my feet, and I think I see his hand clench as he drops his arm to his side.
“You didn’t go out tonight. With your friends,” he says.
I lift my eyebrows. “Obviously.”
He looks away. “So you won’t be out late tonight. Or early. Whatever you call it.”
“Correct.”
Andrew’s eyes flick back to mine. “I won’t be seeing you tomorrow morning.”
I laugh. “Well, since I’m not a robot like you who lives and dies by making it to the gym on time, no, probably not.”
The comment comes out sharper than I intend, and his eyes narrow. “There’s nothing wrong with how I live my life, Georgiana.”
The tiny emphasis on my has my teeth grinding. “Ah, of course. It’s my life that’s the mess, right? Because I don’t live and die by a schedule?”
“You have no idea what my life is like,” he snaps.
Annnnd…goodbye peace treaty.
“And you have no idea what my life is like,” I snap back. “So you don’t really get to judge.”
He takes a step closer. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in my shoes.”
His simple dismissal of me rolls off his tongue so confidently that I suck in a breath. I’m so tired of being nothing in his eyes, so eager to change his opinion….
“Try me,” I blurt out.
He blinks. “What?”
“Take me along. One day in your life, wherever you go, I go. I’ll prove I could Elle Woods the hell out of this city.”
He doesn’t even pause to question my Legally Blonde reference.
“One day in my life,” he repeats.
I lift my eyebrows. “Worried it’ll kill you? Spending all that time with me?”
“Honestly?” he says, his voice gruff. “A little.”
His eyes drift over me when he says it, and I realize that he’s talking about an entirely different kind of reaction to spending time with me. The sexy kind.
I bite my lip to keep from asking him to kiss me.
Instead, I extend my right hand. “Five o’clock tomorrow morning?”
His grin is victorious, and I suspect I just caught a preview of what Andrew looks like after he wins a big case. Terrifying.
“Five o’clock,” he confirms reluctantly. “And Georgiana?”
I meet his eyes and hold my breath as he leans in. “Yeah?”
“Wear your workout clothes.” He steps back.
I exhale my disappointment, and he turns away, but not before I catch his knowing smirk.
It would seem our cold war just got a tiny bit warmer.
Bring it.
Georgie
WEDNESDAY, 4:49 A.M.
I drag myself out of the elevator and into the lobby, determined to beat Andrew downstairs.
Last night I felt great about my plan.
This morning, though?
Oh. Holy. Hell.
People do this? Willingly set their alarm and haul their ass out of bed while it’s still dark out?
I’m a little grateful that it’s a new guy behind the front desk. Charles is a sweet balding dude who works the early morning shift on Ramon’s days off. He’s only been here a few weeks and, lucky for him, I don’t think he’s grasped the full scope of the tornado that is me and Andrew Mulroney in the same space.
Last night’s temporary reprieve excepted, of course. I’m not sure what that quiet moment over wine was. An anomaly, definitely, because the rest of the cleanup session was half antagonism (me) and half icy silence (him).
It’s why I had to make sure to look extra good this morning.
Now, you might be thinking, how good can one look in workout clothes?
One word: formfitting.
The point is, I’m pretty sure my early morning grogginess will all be worth it when I see Andrew’s face when he catches a glimpse of me in yoga pants.
“Good morning, Charles!” I sing as I stroll into the lobby.
“Ms. Watkins,” he says, looking up in surprise. “Don’t I usually see you coming from the other direction this time of the morning?”
“You do,” I say, all but skipping over to the counter, delighted to have beaten Andrew down here. “Sorry I don’t have donuts for you this morning. A little change in routine.”
Charles pats his belly. “Just as well. Where you headed so early?”
“The gym, apparently,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor by my feet and rifling through the little bowl of chocolates they sometimes put out on the desk, searching for dark chocolate.
I’ve just popped it into my mouth when I hear his voice.
/>
“Candy is not breakfast, Georgiana.”
My head whips around and my stomach gives a little flip that has nothing to do with the chocolate.
He’s wearing the exact same thing as always—gray shirt, black pants, black gym bag, et cetera—but something feels…different.
Not the glare. That’s still the same. But there’s an extra little snap of awareness between us.
My eyes deliberately drift down his body to the black sneakers. “No Oz detour today?”
“No time. I’ll have a tagalong slowing me down.”
“Don’t let me stop you. I love poofy dresses. I can totally be the Glinda to your Dorothy.”
Andrew leans his elbow on the counter and takes a sip of the health goo in his travel mug as he stares me down. “Really? Because I sort of had you pegged as the Scarecrow.”
I blink. It takes me a minute to get it, but when I do…
Wow. Wow.
The comment is so unkind that I instinctively replay it once more, looking for a second meaning, because surely even he isn’t so much a jerk as to imply…
I swallow. “Did you just imply I have no brain?”
My voice is a little hoarse, and I’m horrified to feel the sting of tears.
Out of the corner of one now-blurry eye, I see Charles pick up the phone. Not because it rang, but because I’m assuming he’d rather fake a phone call than be present in the awkwardness that is this moment.
Andrew’s face seems to go slightly white at my reaction. “Wait. No.”
“Then what?” I ask, anger mingling in with the hurt now. “That’s how the story goes, right? The Tin Man needs a heart, the Cowardly Lion needs courage, and the dumb Scarecrow needs the brain. Just like ditzy, flighty Georgie Watkins.”
“Georgiana—”
I shake my head and bend to pick up my bag. “Have fun at the gym, Mulroney. I hope you choke on your wheatgrass.”
I’m still blinking back tears, but at least I manage to walk away with my head held high.
He catches up with me before I can make it to the elevator, his fingers wrapping firmly around my biceps and pulling me back around. “Georgiana.”
“What?” I snap, turning around. “What can you possibly say that you haven’t said a million times already with every scowl, with every eye roll, with every you’re ridiculous? You think I’m stupid and worthless. I get it.”
The guy’s expression is one tangled knot of emotional constipation. “That’s not what I think.”
“Yeah? Okay. I’m sure there was another interpretation of me being the brainless Scarecrow.”
I try to turn away, but he holds me still, his fingers in a vise grip around my arm. “Just—just give me a minute,” he snaps.
I wrench my arm free. “A minute for what? So you can think of new ways to insult me again? Pass.”
“I thought we had a deal,” he says in what seems to be a slightly desperate voice. “You tag along with me today, so we can prove—”
“That I don’t fit into your world?” I say, whirling around and taking a step closer to him.
He looks wary but doesn’t step back, not even when I stab my pointer finger into his solar plexus. “You know what? I think we can skip the whole exercise,” I say. “I don’t care about whether or not I fit into your world, because I’ve seen enough of it to know I don’t want to belong.”
“Georgiana.”
I put my weight against my finger, pushing away from him disdainfully. “Save it. Go find some woman with a big old brain who enjoys your condescension. Because this girl? She’s not it.”
“Wait—”
I don’t wait. I keep right on walking. “Hey, Charles,” I call over my shoulder, carefully avoiding looking at Andrew. “If anyone comes looking for me, take a message, would you? Let them know I’m unavailable because I’m off being ridiculous.”
Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t say a word, not as I stab the elevator’s up button, not after I step into the safety of the elevator itself.
I catch a glimpse of him as the doors shut, his expression utterly blank, and even as I hate him, I want to know what he’s thinking.
I want…him.
Andrew
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Andrew looked across the desk at another of the firm’s partners and realized he hadn’t absorbed a single word Katherine Hopkins had said since coming into his office ten minutes earlier.
He gritted his teeth against the unfamiliar sensation of being distracted. It wasn’t a familiar emotion. Nor a welcome one.
“Anyway,” Katherine said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “thanks for listening. Poor Jim’s sick to death of hearing me talk about this, but if I don’t vent to someone about the bitch, I’ll implode.”
“Not a problem,” Andrew said smoothly, even though he wasn’t entirely sure who the “bitch” was in this scenario.
Not that it mattered. Like himself, Katherine specialized in divorce law, and also like himself, she had no shortage of high-maintenance, shark-like female clients.
“How are things with you?” Katherine said as she smoothed her skirt and stood. “I’m still jealous you got the Dotson case, by the way. Although it’s just as well. The lawyer in me salivates over the rumored lack of prenup, but the woman in me sort of hoped Liv and Chris were going to beat the odds and make it. They’re so dang likable.”
Andrew shrugged. “Famous people get divorced just as often as regular people.”
She tossed her long dark hair back and sighed. “I know. But sometimes I want to believe in the fairy tale. Don’t you?”
“You’re living it,” he said, picking up the pen he’d bought himself when he graduated from law school. “I’m not.”
“Not yet,” she teased. “And, I didn’t think it was going to happen for me either, but then…bam, forty-two rolled around and I met Jim. You’re only, what, twelve? You’ve got plenty of time.”
Andrew gave a grim smile. His age was a favorite joke around the office. He knew thirty was young to make partner, especially at a firm as large as this one. But then that had sort of been his life. He’d skipped a grade here, another one there. College in three years instead of four, and so on. As far as his professional life went, he’d always been ten steps ahead of his peers.
His personal life, though…
Andrew swallowed as once again his mind drifted to the very reason he was having such a hell of a time focusing today. It didn’t matter what he turned his attention to: email, client work, meetings, lunch, Twitter. Everywhere he looked, he saw only one thing…big brown eyes, brimming with tears.
Tears that he’d caused.
And as much as he wanted to brush her off as ridiculous, as much as he wanted to label the whole episode as female sentimentality and forget about it, the truth was…
He’d fucked up.
“You okay?” Katherine asked, tilting her head and giving him a curious look.
Andrew cleared his throat and looked back at her. “Yeah. Just mentally prepping for a thorny case later this afternoon.”
She held up her hands and took a step back. “Got it. I’ll let you get back to work.”
She gave him a little wave, and though he knew it was irrational, he felt a stab of regret that she hadn’t pressed him for more information—that it hadn’t even occurred to her that Andrew Mulroney might have something weighing on his mind other than work.
Not that he could blame her. Until recently, he hadn’t had anything weighing on his mind other than work. But he suspected that was a particular gift that Georgiana Watkins had—flouncing her way into the consciousness of people who had no use for her.
Andrew vaguely registered Katherine exiting his office and shutting the door behind her, and he gave in to the urge to prop his elbows on his desk and rest his face in his hands, just for a minute.
This wouldn’t do. He hadn’t gotten a single bit of work done all day. He couldn’t think about anything except the horrible moment w
hen he’d thought he was making a joke, only to realize the second it left his mouth that it had been downright cruel.
Andrew had never been good with women.
But damn it, he was better than this. Smarter than to tell a woman she was essentially brainless.
The real kicker was, Georgiana was far from brainless. Ridiculous, yes, but to his way of thinking, there were few markers more telling of intelligence than a quick wit and a sharp tongue, and Georgiana had both in spades.
And even if she’d been as empty-headed as a balloon, his manners weren’t so off-kilter as to imply a woman had no brain.
He hadn’t meant anything by it; he’d just grown so accustomed to attempting to keep up with her, trying to stay one step ahead of her barbs.
And yet…there were barbs, and then there was just mean.
He dragged his fingers over his face, letting his hands fall with a thump to the mahogany desk.
What did a man do when he’d inadvertently called a woman an idiot simply because he’d wanted to hold her attention, to keep the conversation going so she didn’t tire of him?
It was schoolyard nonsense.
Andrew drummed his fingers on the desk, staring straight ahead at the bland, abstract painting that the firm’s interior designer had hung on his wall and which he’d never bothered to notice.
He could call her.
And say what?
Hell, forget that. He didn’t even have the woman’s phone number.
His eyes narrowed as he remembered that he did have her friend’s phone number…the sweet but forgettable Hailey. But somehow he didn’t think telling Georgiana that he’d contacted her friend to get her number would help his cause.
He could forget the whole thing. Let it blow over, then go back to their usual bickering tomorrow morning.
But what if she didn’t show tomorrow morning? What if she avoided him every morning from now on?
The thought caused more regret than he cared to admit, even to himself.
He drummed his fingers more rapidly, his brain running through the options before finally settling on one. It was a cliché. He’d hardly get points for creativity. But he needed to do something to ease the weird throb in his chest, or he’d never get any work done.