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“This is work, Mr. Astor.” I stress his name to get the point across. “And Iambilling you for every minute I’m here. We’ve been over this before.”
“We’ll see,” he says before looking down at his plate and picking up another forkful.
“I want to be very clear. You’re being billed for my time. So if you want to waste an hour cooking and eating, you should be aware of that.” He needs to get this. I need to say it out loud to remind myself.
“I’m not worried about it, Olivia.”
I want to shake the man. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I know the way he expects the evening to end — with me in his bed. It won’t happen. I barely taste the food and gulp down my wine a little too quickly in my desperation to calm down.
“I don’t want to be out too late. I have a case I need to work on tomorrow,” I say, hoping he’ll respect this.
“What are you working on besides this project with me?”
“It’s nothing you’d be interested in,” I tell him.
“You’d be surprised by what I’m interested in,” he says, and puts down his fork. I think about refusing to answer, but it’s childish, so I settle back with my glass of wine and open up.
“The work I’m doing tomorrow is pro bono. The case involves a little girl — only five years old. Her stepfather was beating her, which went on for six months. Her mother worked two jobs and didn’t realize what was happening. The girl’s been in foster care for almost a year now, and the mom’s jumped through a lot of hoops to get her back. She divorced her husband, has taken parenting classes, and has more than proved she loves her daughter.”
“Will she get her daughter back?”
“It depends on the judge. I hope so. I’ve only been an attorney for three years, but I volunteered for a children’s advocacy agency through college, and I can usually tell when parents are lying. I honestly don’t think this mother is. I hope she gets full custody of her daughter. Despite all the child has been through, she’s a ray of sunshine. She’s a sweet, smart little girl.”
“It sounds as if you’ve gone through a lot of emotional cases,” he says, and I’m surprised to hear sympathy in his tone.
“Yes. But it’s been worth it. I hope I make a difference.”
“There are several sides to you, aren’t there, Olivia?” he asks before making sure he has my full attention. “Just like there are a number of sides to me.”
His comment derails what I’m about to say. Who is this man? I can’t possibly be wrong about him... can I? I’m well aware of the old saying about a man being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and that is Tyler Astor right down to his thousand-dollar loafers. He’s the complete opposite of me.
I know he lived in a modest home for more than a few years with his guardians, but his inheritance was sitting there, waiting for him to turn eighteen, and when he did, the playboy lifestyle came on full throttle.
“I’ve seen one side of you — not the best — plastered all over the gossip rags,” I finally say.
“We all have a story. You didn’t bother to find mine. You assumed I was an asshole. Do you still think that?” Damn. This man doesn’t pull his punches. I don’t know how to reply to his question. Should I be honest? Or is this part of his game?
“I guess I’d say yes and no.” Tyler sits for a moment and then surprises me when he laughs, true merriment shining in his eyes.
“I enjoy your honesty, Olivia. It’s refreshing, especially in the world I live in, where everyone besides you is constantly kissing my ass. Let’s move to the living room and finish this.”
Without waiting for my assent, he stands, grabs a bottle of wine, and begins moving. I’m left with no choice but to follow. I’m almost eager to see what’s coming next. I might be as bad as he is.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Tyler
I settle down on the couch and put the bottle of wine on the coffee table. Where will Olivia choose to sit? She looks at the couch, then over at the chair, which is about as far from me as she can get. Predictably, she heads toward the chair.
“Join me on the couch. We have documents to look over.” She turns and gives me a skeptical look. “I’m not going to bite, Olivia,” I say with a smile. “Not unless you want me to.”
This comment earns me a contemptuous glare as she stiffly walks toward me and sits so tightly against the arm of the couch that not a wisp of air can slide between her and the leather. I make her nervous... which means I affect her more than she wants.
“Do you really want to know why I asked you to be my attorney?” I scoot closer to her. She gulps from her wineglass. “Maybe you should slow down with that.”
“I have a driver —yourdriver — and I’m an adult,” she says, taking another drink.
“Yes, you most certainly are,” I say.
