Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“The plaintiff claims they found a loophole. It holds no weight from what I’ve read.”
“They’re stalling since they have no evidence to back it up.”
What a fucking mess.
“If you’re not back on the docket for tomorrow, you need to find out what’s going on. We shouldn’t be playing games in court when the facts support our side. Wrap this disaster up, Loch. Make the Reinholds happy, and let’s move on.”
After realizing I’m still blocking others in the middle of the sidewalk, I start walking again. “I will.”
“I know you can get a favorable outcome. You always do, but don’t sleep on this, Loch. Time is money, and we have millions on the line, so close this case.”
Sleep?
What’s that?
Getting sleep is foreign to me these days. I should be accustomed to the endless hours at the office with the weekly rotation through the courthouse, but I’m not. I’m exhausted. That’s not something I voice, not ever. I won’t risk losing the trust he’s placed in me.
I’ve done everything I can to prove my dad can count on me, but here I am, still working round the clock like I started yesterday. I don’t consider myself a perfectionist, but I have tendencies. It comes with the territory of expectation—what I expect of myself and the weight of expectation from my family.
“I’ll button up the case.” Aiming for the coffee shop on the corner, I reply, “I won’t let you down.”
I’m about to hang up when he adds, “You never do, son.”
I pause because emotions don’t win cases. Evidence wins the case. Nobody forced me into the family business, but I headed straight for law school as if my path was determined long before I was born. Maybe it was.
Feels like it.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I disconnect and shove it into my pocket, knowing my plans are shot for the night. I’ll be drinking caffeine instead of whiskey. Eating something delivered instead of keeping a reservation I booked more than three months ago.
The worst of it is that I’ll be buried in files tonight instead of my date.
I open the door to the coffee shop, discovering I’m not the only one in need of caffeine this afternoon. I take a spot at the back of the line and pull up the schedule app, once again reminded that I need to cancel my date with . . . Christine.
Fuck. Christine’s always a good time.
I type: My apologies, but I need to postpone dinner to another time. Court ran late, and things didn’t go as planned. I have a mountain of work ahead of me. Rain check?
I move with the line, noticing a blonde at the front of it. You’d think she was explaining the plot of a murder mystery instead of placing a coffee order by how she swung her hands around. She’s definitely what I like to call a hand talker, or someone who can’t carry on a conversation without looking like they’re competing in a mime competition. From this vantage point, it’s hard to tell if she’s upset, demanding, or just expressive. All I know is the line’s not moving because of her, and I don’t have time to wait for Miss Handsy to get her point across.
“Is it so hard to place a coffee order?” I grumble under my breath.
My chest rises with a deep inhale. I’m working on my patience since I seemed to have been born without that trait. At least that’s what my family says. I don’t blame them. As the eldest of four, my shoulders bore the brunt of responsibility and leadership; typical eldest sibling syndrome, I suppose.
That’s when she says, “I don’t have time for this . . .” My thoughts on my growing impatience drown out the rest.
Join the damn club. If she doesn’t hurry this up, I’ll be forced to leave without that coffee, and I can’t be held accountable for what I say or do without caffeine.
Dropping my gaze back to my phone, I start going through emails. I delegate three and reply to one before I reach the front of the line and place my order. Finally. Moving out of the way, I wait along with the others, who look as needy as I am for their afternoon fix.
The crowd thins as orders are called out, eventually leaving Miss Handsy and me standing front and center at the end of the coffee bar.
Lovely . . .
Of course, that doesn’t explain why I’m still standing here when my order—a basic Kona bean double espresso with the slightest hit of coconut milk—hasn’t been called out.
I check the time, then look up at the counter. The line has started to build again, but the baristas have been running to fill orders, so the delay is not from a lack of effort.
“What is taking so long?” Her voice matches the cadence of her tapping foot. Both echo off the concrete floors, leading me to her impressive heels. My gaze slides up, noticing her even more impressive shapely legs. That’s when I look up and see the woman who the world apparently revolves around . . . at least in her own mind.