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“I’m thinking…” He tapped his finger on the desk, clearly at a loss. “We agree that Beth is the best junior this year, we agree that Gerald’s wife’s doll obsession is bordering on hoarding and we agree that you should give up your office for mine once we survive sharing.”
I snorted. “You almost had me there. I know you want that sweet sweet placement near the bathroom and the elevator.” I was perfectly positioned for privacy and away from all the loud talkers and first years. You could practically smell the stress coming from their offices late at night.
“I just don’t want Ann to know my comings and goings. Is that too much to ask?” He looked aggrieved and I smothered a smile.
I pointed my pen at him. “It is, in fact, too much to ask. You’re a slave to the law Markman and don’t you forget it.” I gave him my best blue steel. His lips quirked. “You know one time, she saw me leaving at eight pm to get my dinner and asked why I was leaving so early when, and I quote, “studies showed that you only needed six hours of sleep per night at my age.’”
“Hitching your wagon to hers was your first mistake.” Ann was the absolute devil. She probably had to be, since rocketing to the top as a female M&A partner was practically harder than placing at the Olympics, but her humanity had been stripped away on her rise to the top. I had vowed to Cynthia I would never be like her when I made partner.
“Like Gerald is much better,” Andrew retorted. I shook my head.“Just a different flavor of awful, but at least he’s never in after 6 pm. Too many martinis to drink and too little time.”
Andrew hummed his agreement. “For someone who drinks as much as he does, he’s shockinglyhealthy, don’t you think?” He sounded skeptical and I laughed. “This is a topic of much debate between Cynthia and me. We’ve concluded that he must have exchanged his first-born child for eternal youth or something, because that man’s diet is mostly gin and stress.”
“Isn’t all of ours?” He retorted. I shrugged. I knew for a fact that Andrew Markman barely drank, worked out constantly, and had a resting heart rate of 55. He had bragged drunkenly about that fact at a closing dinner two years ago. Drunken for him was two drinks instead of his usual one glass of wine.
“You’re not fooling me, Markman. I know you barely imbibe.”
“Aw, I’m touched.” He gave me bedroom eyes and my heart stuttered a little.Damn him and his jawline and his shiny hair.“It’s almost like you’re paying attention to me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I turned back to my computer before he kept this going. It was going to be one hell of a long month.
17
Margo
That night, I was thumbing through takeout options on my phone, mug of tea long gone cold and replaced with a glass of wine, fuzzy socks firmly on my feet. “Pizza, Magoo? I know you love to sit on the warm box.” Magoo stared at the door, ears perked. Not a minute later, a knock sounded.
I started.This better not be a murderer. Or worse, a neighbor.I shook my head. Only in New York City would a neighbor be worse than a murderer. I pulled open the door just a crack and saw Andrew Markman standing in the hall. I closed it again and leaned back against the wall. I squeezed my eyes shut. Why,whywas he here? Maybe if I was really quiet, he would go away.
Another tap. “Margo. I know you’re in there. Isawyou.”
“Go away. Margo Clarke is dead.”
He laughed. “I promise not to bite. Open the door.”
I shivered at that. Biting didn’t sound so bad.Be nice to him. Office mate. Partner. Gobs of and gobs of money. Definitely no biting.In fact, better make that no touching at all since I couldn’t control myself around him and I was only going to make a fool out of myself.
I flung the door wide and faked surprise “Andrew? What are you doing here? You look like hell.” And he did. He was in a bulky grey zip-up with what looked like another sweatshirt under it, black workout pants, and Converse, hair sticking up in the back of his head. He had a distinct wild look in his eye, like coming to my door at eight pm might be the worst thing that ever happened to him. I leaned against the door frame and appraised him. “I didn’t even know you owned Converse. Or sweatshirts for that matter. I assumed you woke up in the morning in a full suit.”
He smirked at me. “I do actually.” He pushed a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up even more in the back. “My heat is off. They’re working on it now. Can I hang here for a little bit? I’ll buy you dinner.”
His words came out in a rush like he was actually nervous about my answer. Too bad he had never been nervous a day in his life. He was everything I wasn’t. Arrogant and confident when I felt like an imposter. Fitting in everywhere when I frequently felt like I fit in nowhere. Comfortable betraying a friendship when I knew nothing mattered more than friends and family. He was a jerk.A really hot jerk. And one I was supposed to be befriending. He even looked hot standing here in my hallway, in his stupid outfit and lumpy gray sweatshirt. I could almost imagine he had just come from the gym. His workout pants were indecently thin, and I could see the outline of every muscle in his legs. I swallowed hard.
Andrew was waiting patiently for my response so I adopted what I hoped was a cocky and confident air as I said “You’re telling me that my arch nemesis is here, at my door, hat in his hand, and I’m supposed to let him in? Little red riding hood got eaten in the end, Andrew.”
He grinned at that. “I’m perfectly harmless, MC.”
“That’s what they all say.”
He moved in closer, sensing victory. A friend would let him in. Cynthia’s encouragement rang in my head. After he and I had agreed to be pleasant to each other, I had to bury the hatchet. I sighed and looked back at him. “Fine. Come in.”
* * *
This was a bad idea.I knew it the second I let him in the door. My analogy about little red riding hood had been apt and now the big bad wolf was in my modest two bedroom apartment. At least he looked as uncomfortable as I felt. I took pity on him and pointed at the couch, which took up most of my living room and was a glorious, deep sectional with a chaise that I loved to lounge on with Magoo.
“Make yourself at home. But don’t take the chaise. That’s my spot.”
He held up his hands placatingly. “Don’t worry, message received.” He wedged himself into the spare seat between Magoo and the sectional, clearly uncomfortable. I laughed. “You can move Mr. Magoo if you want. He won’t mind.”
