Page 95 of The Wedding Situation Romance

“Worse,” I say.

“What’s worse?” he asks. “God, did he die? Is this a Les Misérables story?”

“What? No! He was a divorce lawyer,” I answer.

“Oh,” he breathes out. Then, “Oh…”

“Yeah,” I say. “And he’s known for making the demise of people’s happily ever afters his life's work.”

“And you fell for him…how?”

“Because it’s not who he is,” I say. “After spending time with him at all the weddings, I realized he’s not the monster people think he is. He’s sweet and considerate and deep, and funny. Sarcastic, yeah. But–”

“He’d have to be to handle you,” my dad winks.

“Exactly.”

“So what happened?” he asks.

“What happened is we figured out that his current client was my client’s husband…” I say, knowing full well that the next part of this sentence, the part he is probably already deducing. “Yourclient’s husband…”

“Wait,” he sits up. “You mean…the Overholt case?” he asks, and then his eyes go almost dark, a color I rarely see.

“Yes…” I answer.

“You were going to weddings with…andseeing…August Remington?” he asks.

“Yes,” I echo, but this time my voice is much smaller.

And with that, my dad’s signature easy-going resolve is a little less…resolved.

“He wasn’t happy about it,” I go on.

“Neither am I. Why didn’t you tell me you were dating one of my rivals?” he asks.

“I didn’t know!” I say. “You never talk about who you’re working with or against. And I knew him by–”

“Reid. Right,” he grits out.

“And he thinks that I knew all of it. All along. That I was using him for his money and trying to make a fool out of him, and that you were in on it too,” I explain.

My dad humphs. “Listen, if I knew you were seeing him, I would have had a problem with it too. Idohave a problem with it, Quinn,” he says.

“I know, I just–”

“He’s slime, Quinn,” he cuts me off. “He is one of the most conniving, manipulative, calculating, underhanded lawyers in the state of New York. It’s why he’s so hated. And also why he’s so rich.”

“How rich?” I ask, not that it matters.

“Rich enough that funding the nonprofit isn’t enough to make him check his bank account before agreeing to do it.”

Jesus.

“But that’s not the point, Quinn. The point is, I am not okay with you seeing him. Not for weddings or…otherwise,” he spits out the last word.

“I know,” I nod, my voice starting to shake. “And you don’t have to worry about that. Now that he thinks I was using him all along, I’m probably never going to see him again.”

My dad nods, but then his eyes flash over to me. Because he can hear the hurt in my voice. And he can see the tears on my cheeks. “Oh Quinny…of all the pickles you’ve managed to get into, and trust me, with your high-hopes whimsy you really do have an affinity for getting into pickles, this one might just be the sourest.”