Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“How do you bring in new business?” he asks curiously.
I give a sly smile. “I don’t. It finds me. Truth be told, I have more requests than I can possibly take on. I get to pick and choose what I work on.”
He smiles. “Lucky for me I caught you at a slow time, then.”
I take another sip of my drink and look away, not quite ready to tell him that there’s no such thing as a slow time for me. That when he’d asked for my help, I had nearly a dozen other opportunities, some that would have gladly paid triple what he’s paying for my assistance.
Instead, I’d taken on Matt’s job. Not because the money was the best, not even because his case was the most interesting. But because it was Matt.
And he’d needed me.
Do I regret it? No.
I just wish I could do it over again, this time not falling in love with the man. But maybe that’s not possible. Maybe I’ve been headed down this path with him since that very first night.
It doesn’t matter, I suppose. How I got here isn’t important. What does matter is that the feeling isn’t going away anytime soon, and I need to decide what the heck I plan to do about it.
It’s rare that I don’t feel completely in control, and I don’t like it. At all.
“So what is next?” Matt asks, leaning on my counter. I see that his phone’s already rebooted, but his attention’s still on me. As though what I have to say is important.
“Well, the gala’s more than a week away, so officially, I’m still on your payroll,” I say.
“And after the gala?”
“I’ve got my pick.” I twist the glass on the counter. “I’ve got an invitation to spend a couple weeks playing companion to a ridiculously wealthy eighty-year-old in Florence whose son thinks she’s got a bad habit of getting engaged to fortune hunters. There’s a lotto winner from Jersey who wants me to wrangle an invitation for his daughter to meet a prince. Any prince. A midtown lawyer wants me to play flavor of the week to make an ex-girlfriend jealous.”
“No,” Matt says. “Not that last one.”
I smile at the note of jealousy in his voice. “Does it make a difference if the lawyer’s a woman?”
He opens his mouth but hesitates. Then shakes his head. “I still vote no. Though I realize I don’t have any claim on your time past the gala.”
You could. All you’d have to do is ask.
But I don’t have the guts to tell him, and he doesn’t have the guts to ask.
Or worse, maybe he doesn’t even want to.
I bite my lip, wondering if I should remind him of Jarod Lanham’s interest in my services. I decide against it. If Jarod does decide to hire me, and if I decide to take him on as a client, he deserves the same privacy I give all my clients.
Matt picks up his cell phone, and I do the same. There are a couple dozen new emails. That’s expected.
There are also several voice mails and text messages. That’s not expected. My email address is on my business card—plenty of people have it. My phone number? Only a select few in my inner circle have it. Ian. Kate and Lara.
All three of them have texted me. Multiple times.
Ian: Call me.
Lara: Thank God you’re not the freak-out type. Right? You’re not freaking, are you? Let me know.
Neither of theirs tells me what’s going on. Kate’s is more helpful.
Kate: OMG. What? Read this. Then explain.
A link to a gossip site accompanies her text, and, when I click on it, the headline tells me everything I need to know.
WALL STREET’S MOST NOTORIOUS PLAYBOY PUTS A RING ON IT . . .
The accompanying picture is Matt and me at dinner last night, sharing a bottle of wine and looking, well . . . intimate. Though how the hell someone looked at this and figured engaged is beyond me.
A quick skim of the article, and I have my answer. It’s nothing but a case of good old-fashioned bullshit. A “source close to the couple” claimed that I’d been dress shopping. False.
That we’d been considering Saint John’s as the site of the ceremony. False.
That we’d already booked tickets to New Zealand for our honeymoon. False.
That Matt had been seen in Tiffany & Co., looking at engagement rings. Super false.
I let out a little laugh at the audaciousness of it all. It never ceases to amaze me how much of this stuff is made up. Granted, this time, it works in our favor, but it’s still worthy of an eye roll.
I look up at Matt and can tell from his scowl, he’s gotten similar messages.
I lean forward with a teasing smile. “So. What kind of ring did you get me? I’m sort of partial to the traditional Tiffany cut, but as long as it’s big and shiny . . .”