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‘See, you’ve got that wrong too, Charles. Just like you get everything wrong. I am his attorney. You know why? Because I’m the best goddamn attorney he could have, and he knows it. So, I’ll say it again. If you take issue with one of my clients, you come to me. And until you’ve got something concrete, you back the fuck off Jerome.’
* * *
My count for the day: lost and regained a client, pinned the attorney for the SEC to a wall by his throat, made an associate cry.
I glance at my cell, which is staring up at me from my desk and add to my count: woke from the best night I’ve ever spent with a woman, rejected her call and ignored her text message asking if we can talk.
Sighing, I close the lid of my laptop and move from my desk to the bar table in the corner of my office. Given the place is almost deserted, I pour myself a scotch and take a seat in the corner of the sofa.
I recognize Sarah’s footsteps without looking, the way the thin heels of her shoes click against the floor. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Help yourself.’
She silently pours herself a scotch and comes to sit in the opposite corner of the sofa, crossing her legs and adjusting her wrap-dress across her knee. ‘I thought men were supposed to be happy when they’ve, you know, had their happy ending, blown their load, emptied their loins.’
I raise one brow and turn my gaze from the rain drops peppering my windows to Sarah.
‘Emptied their loins? Seriously?’
She shrugs, her face full of humor.
‘Shouldn’t you be home by now?’ I ask.
‘Well, I had a call from Agatha. She filled me in on your visit to Wickman, and I thought maybe you would like a drink with a friend.’
I raise my glass. ‘To my finest professional hour.’
She raises hers in mock toast. ‘To clarify, are you referring to nearly beating an SEC official to a pulp or making Nicky cry?’
‘I’ll admit one was inappropriate, but I’m secretly proud of the other.’
She smirks. ‘I’m going to take a guess at which way around that applies. Wickman is a dick.’
‘True. But the kid has to learn a few lessons.’
We sip the orange liquor, for my part, enjoying the smooth heat against my throat. Sarah makes a popping sound with her lips as she swills the remaining contents of her glass. I brace myself for what she’s evidently about to say.
‘So, are you mad at yourself, or Becky?’
Her. For not putting on an alarm this morning. For driving me crazy with need. For making me want her so bad, I did the thing I’ve promised myself I’ll never do: put my work, my position, at risk.
Me. For letting those things happen. For not being strong enough to stay the hell away from her. For taking my eye off the ball and constantly screwing up since she’s been around.
Me, for not knowing where to go from here. Me, for knowing I’m going to hurt her because I need to draw a line under the whole thing and move on.
Her. For not giving me any goddamn clue about what she would have said to me this morning if we’d woken up together.
I drain my drink and rest my empty glass on the sofa arm, turning the crystal with my fingers.
‘Both.’
‘What happened?’
‘We crossed the line. Argh, men and women can’t be friends. Maybe I should be pissed at you for making me befriend her. You and your poor-British-girl-in-Manhattan routine.’
‘Oh, no, Drew. I didn’t force you to do anything, and I certainly didn’t tell you to go to bed with her.’ She takes my glass from me and tops us both up, then comes back to sit. ‘You like her,’ she says, definitively.
Like her? Understatement.
