Forty-three floors. Forty-three floors of thinking about vanilla and the way she laughs when George headbutts something expensive.
I check my phone. Three missed calls from Gideon. One text that reads, “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Perfect.
The elevator dings. Forty-third floor. I straighten my tie, roll my shoulders back, and remind myself why I’m here—partnership, legacy, the biggest case of my career.
Not as a wedding planner who smells like expensive candles and chaos.
I manage the elevator ride without once thinking about the way she smells and how I want to bury my face in her neck.
Well. Mostly.
I step into the familiar gray-and-glass hallway of Grant & Feldstein, nod to the receptionist, and head straight for my office.
“Whitaker!”
Gideon’s voice cuts through the hallway before I even reach my door. He’s standing outside the conference room, arms crossed, looking like a disappointed father whose kid just brought home a C-minus.
I stop. “Morning, Gideon.”
“Is it? Because according to my watch, morning was three hours ago.”
I glance at my phone. 9:47 a.m.
Shit.
“Traffic,” I say.
“From where? Connecticut?”
Close enough. “I’m here now.”
He steps closer, squinting like he’s trying to diagnose me. “You look… off.”
“I look tired.”
“No, you look annoyed. More than usual. Which is saying something, because your baseline is already pretty hostile.”
I unlock my office door. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re wound tighter than a Swiss watch. What’s going on?”
I dump my briefcase on the desk and power up my laptop. “Nothing’s going on. I’ve got a motion to file and a client to close. Same as always.”
Gideon doesn’t move. He’s still standing in my doorway like a human roadblock.
“When’s the last time you took a vacation?”
Absurd. “I don’t take vacations.”
“When’s the last time you got laid?”
I look up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re walking around like someone who needs to either punch something or—”
“Gideon.”
