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We bonded. Now she’s my best friend. We’re both in our mid-twenties and have the same values and drive. I know she’d do whatever she could to help me.
Her fiancé is a billionaire. One of them, anyway. She had a wild summer fling with three men who shared her. Now all three are in love with her and the guys are excited about the baby.
It’s still hard to wrap my head around her open relationship with three men.
My stomach twists at the idea of dragging her into this. How can I ask her to help me pay for my imprisoned ex-boyfriend’sastronomicalattorney because I was careless with the designs I promised her?
She trusted me to deliver them. Admitting to her that I failed, that I fell on my face after risking everything to come to New York is morethan I can bear on top of all this.
“Mr. Montgomery will see you now.” A woman dressed all in black with a shockingly small waist comes to collect me from the waiting room.
Ford Montgomery’s office sits in a Wall Street high-rise made of glass and reflects the rippling Hudson River current that I’ve been staring at, contemplating jumping in.
I lift out of the deep-set waiting chair but fall back when my heels slip out from beneath me on the polished, tiled floor.
All eyes land on me, and I know those judgmental stares are because of my weight. I dress as appropriately and classy as I can. Which is a challenge at my size.
That’s why I decided to design plus-sized fashion exclusively for me and women like me.
There area lotof women like me and Stella, which is why she’s so successful.
Steady on my feet, I run a smoothing hand down my blouse and follow Ford’s assistant through a maze of wide hallways and glass-panel offices.
The opulence of the place is overwhelming.
Astronomical, I bet.
A man with caramel color hair, streaked with natural golden highlights, from sunbathing in the Hamptons I bet, sits behind a teak wood desk with clean lines.
“Miss Armstrong,” he says my name without looking up. “What can I help you with?”
Wearing dark-rimmed glasses, Ford, with his chiseled cheekbones and firm jaw, makes me think I’ve stumbled into a damn photoshoot.
Did I accidentally reach out toFord Modelsinsteadof Ford Montgomery?
“My boy... Afriendof mine needs a lawyer.” I can’t say a man I hate needs one.
“Iama lawyer. This is a law firm. So that’s assumed.” He looks up and his lips part. With a hitch in his breath, he says, “Where is your...” His intense blue eyes rake over me, and it feels like a lover’s caress with a hint of possession. “Friend?”
“Rikers. Drug possession and distribution.” I swallow nervously.
“I don’t represent drug dealers.” His words shatter me.
“He said you were the best criminal defense attorney for getting those cases dismissed.”
“White-collarcases, yes. Not drug cases.”
My head falls forward, and I clutch my necklace, Mom’s cross on a thin gold chain. It’s all I have left of her.
After a sigh, Ford grumbles, “Name? Of yourfriend.” It sounds like he knows I’m lying.
“Michael Kinsey.”
And he’s not my friend, he’s my blackmailer.
I bet if this bored, prim lawyer knew the truth, he’d perk up.
“Have a seat.” Ford enters the info into his computer. “Date of birth?”
