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“I like you. Marlow likes you. I’ve heard good things about your career, and I think this divorce is going to be a battle.” Lowering his voice, he adds, “I want to keep things in the family.” He clicks his tongue and winks.
I’ve known the man for years, but only through his occasional visits to his daughter. I’m thinking family is a bit of a stretch. “As much as I’m flattered, I think it would be wise to have an attorney in Los Angeles handle the case. California law is different—”
“Nothing you can’t handle.”
“I’m not licensed in California, but I can give you a referral—”
“No need.” His hand goes flat on the surface with the same impatience Marlow displays. “I’ve made up my mind. You’ll be representing me, Wellington. I’m filing in the state of New York. I think it will be cleaner here than in California. The Manhattan apartment has been considered my main residence for the past year.”
Ah. The plot thickens. “In preparation for filing.”
“California sees the divorce more equitably than New York.”
“True. It’s an equitable division state.”
“But that doesn’t mean half right out of the gate. Fair is not always equal.”
He’s done his homework. “Are you residing in the city?”
“I’m flying back and forth. I’m backing a new show on Broadway. It opens next month. For the filing, you can list the Park Avenue address.”
“And I assume you had a prenup?”
“Yes, but I got lazy. I should have filed six months ago.”
“Because?”
A scowl filters across his face. “The payout increases every six months. We didn’t discuss this, but I have a golf buddy who got his prenup voided. What’s the likelihood of getting that done for me?”
I do not—correct that—should not take this case. Red flags are already going up. Bob’s latest divorce will be a high-profile case and splashed on every magazine in the country.
I’ve worked tirelessly for three years to prove myself, sacrificing most of my personal life to show how dedicated I am. Cade and Jackson have given me shit for missing baseball games, parties, and canceling dates with certain European flight attendants who were in the city for only one night. If I take this case and it goes sideways—if I fail—all my hard work would be wasted.
But if it goes right . . . I’ll make partner by next year. It’s an ambitious plan, but I’m willing to take the chance. With caution.
“The travel expenses back and forth to California will be costly,” I say.
“I want the best, and my princess always talks about you being the best. This is your time to shine, kid.” Kid . . . time to shine . . . I try not to roll my eyes. Since the comments are meant as compliments, I don’t hold them against him. “I won’t take no, Rad. Draft the paperwork.”
Without an out coming to mind, I spy Mrs. Klein, a senior partner, eyeing me from outside her office. When her tap her temple, I know the signal. Bob Marché isn’t just a big name in Hollywood. I need to take advantage of this opportunity that just landed in my lap. It’s expected.
He holds his hand out. “Do we have a deal?”
I reach over and take it. “Let’s get started.”
Why do I feel as though I just sold my soul to the devil to make partner?
And yet, not thirty minutes ago, I felt as though I could make a genuine difference for the better in someone’s life? For Tealey.
Fuck if my life didn’t just get a lot more complicated.
3
Tealey Bell
The straps of my canvas tote dig into my shoulder as I feel around on the inside to find my keys. “See you tomorrow,” I call behind me. I’m usually the one working late, but I need to get home to pack.
When I still can’t find my keys, I kneel on the sidewalk and spread the handles wide to peer inside. “Ah.” I snatch them out and resettle the bag on my shoulder.
“Bell?”
I look ahead to find the familiar voice but shake it when I don’t see him.
“Bell?”
Over my shoulder, I spot the slate-gray car I was introduced to not even a month earlier. Nothing about Rad Wellington being in my borough or outside my office makes sense. “You lost, Welly?”
“Nope.”
Smirking, I tilt my head to the side, still standing too far away to have a real conversation. I maneuver around two women in a hurry and lean down to see Rad in his full glory—his short brown hair mussed as though he’s been tugging on it all day or just got lucky. My stomach twists.
I’m about to rest my hands on the open windowsill but stop myself, not daring to leave a fingerprint on this beautiful paint job. “What brings you to Brooklyn?”
“Want to go for a ride?” A rogue grin spreads across his face befitting the car—sleek and, dare I say, sexy.
