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I know I’ll probably have to talk to Oliver again. But the chances of it being face to face are low. You can sign and mail anything these days.
I’ll be divorced before I’m thirty, and it feels anticlimactic. I don’t remember my wedding and I’ll be divorced as soon as possible, likely without ever seeing the man I’m married to again.
All of it is just…weird.
I shift into drive and pull out of the parking lot. In addition to a regular workday, I have the dinner with my dad and Logan Cassidy tonight.
And now, I also have to find an attorney in the next couple of days.
* * *
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. The table isn’t quite ready yet. If you’d like to take a seat at the bar, one of the wait staff will let you know when it’s ready.”
The maître de eyes me warily, like a ticking bomb. The last time I was here, I saw a man make a scene about the size of his ice cubes, so I understand her apprehension. Perch wouldn’t be my first choice of restaurant, but I’m not surprised it’s where my father chose. It has a formal, sleek atmosphere that works well for an evening business meeting.
“That’s fine,” I say. The maître de’s shoulders visibly relax before I head toward the bar.
Several stools are open. Not only is it on the early side for dinner, but not many people come here to eat at the bar.
I slide onto one of the stools, the cool metal uncomfortable against my bare legs. I cross them, suppressing a shiver, as I set my clutch down on the quartz counter. One finger traces a darker vein in the rock, marveling at the sleek finish. Maybe I should renovate my kitchen again.
“Can I get you anything, miss?”
I glance up at the bartender. He’s smiling, and it’s an interested one that should elicit some reaction in me. But I feel empty instead of giddy.
“Just a sparkling water, please. With lime.”
He nods, his friendly smile turning forced. I watch as he fills a glass with ice and then opens a green bottle. The contents hiss as he pours the bubbly liquid over the ice, then flips open a container and adds a wedge of lime. It’s served with a napkin emblazoned with the restaurant’s logo.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Then he’s gone, moving down the line of few customers.
I stare down at the bubbles rising to the surface of my water. The last time I was in a bar setting was the night I met Oliver, and it’s an uncomfortable memory to revisit.
I didn’t feel empty when he looked at me. I felt like my drink—fizzy and sparkling and effervescent.
With a scoff, I shake my head and take a sip. I pull my phone out of my clutch and glance at the screen. I’m early, but my father usually is too. He must have hit some of LA’s infamous traffic. It never bends to anyone’s schedule.
I don’t have any new texts or missed calls. Just five emails, all follow-ups from attorneys I contacted earlier.
“You know, I swore off blondes, but for you I’d make an exception.”
The dark-haired man smirks when I look over at him, sliding a step closer. He’s attractive—tall, built, and muscular. Obviously practiced at picking up women. But I’m more fascinated by the agitated energy emanating from him. His fingers tap against the stone surface restlessly, even as his eyes focus on my face.
“How romantic,” I say, picking up my water and taking another sip. “Unfortunately, I like my men principled. If you swear something off, you should follow through.”
“I’mplentyprincipled,” he replies, then grins.
I half-smile in response to his boyish one. He’s charming, I’ll give him that. And not easily dissuaded, unlike the bartender. Immediately interested, unlike Oliver.
But comparing other guys to Oliver is not something I should be doing. And neither is flirting. I’m here for work. As a possible momentous step into a career I haven’t fully decided I want.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message. I grab it immediately, expecting it to be my father.
It’s not.
Oliver Kensington:Text me the name of your attorney once you’ve settled on one.
