Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
“Don’t look at me like that.”
I sipped the scotch and soda I’d ordered. Another thing I’d missed. “Look at you like what?”
“You know.”
“Like I’d rather eat you for dinner than anything on the menu at this place?”
The hostess walked over to tell me our table was ready, curtailing whatever wicked response Layla had been about to dish out. That disappointed me.
I stood and held out my hand. “After you.”
She squinted. “Fine. But don’t look at my ass.”
Like there was a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening.
Once we were seated, Layla ordered wine, and I declined a second drink. Three years without alcohol made my tolerance low, and I wanted my mind to stay crystal clear while spending time with this woman.
I gazed across the table at her. She felt like a stranger in many ways now. Yet stranger or not, I felt more connected to her than anyone else in my life. A tether existed between us, and while she tried to sever it, I planned to keep pulling.
“So…your new partners seem nice,” she offered.
“Yes. Certainly better than the last one.” Knowing my alone time with her was limited, my mind only had one track: “So how long have you been seeing Pencil Neck?”
She furrowed her brow, so I clarified. Though I thought it perfectly clear to whom I was referring. “The attorney you work with. Doesn’t your firm have a policy against dating fellow employees?”
“You know his name is Oliver. And it’s none of your business how long I’ve been seeing him or what policies my firm has.”
The waitress brought Layla’s wine and took our dinner order. Watching Layla lift the glass to her lips and following her slender throat as she swallowed was an extraordinary sight.
She caught the look on my face and shifted in her seat.
“You’re right,” I said. “The less details I know, the better. So long as you aren’t fucking him.”
“I’ll sleep with whoever I want.”
“Have you slept with anyone since we started dating?”
She scoffed. “Dating? Is that what you’re calling my mandatory community service that forced me to work with you?”
“No. But that’s what I call the three hours we spent together each week before you ‘clocked in’ for your mandatory community service. And all day Saturdays that we spent together when you didn’t have to come anymore. And the long letters we exchanged every week. Of course it wasn’t ideal—I didn’t get to wine you and dine you or feel you up at the end of the evening—but I still considered it dating.”
“That makes one of us.”
I knew she was lying. She’d been right there with me. But it was easier to move on if she didn’t admit the truth.
“Tell me about your job. How are things for you now? When we stopped…” I smirked. “…dating, you were on shaky ground. I take it things worked out well since you’re still there?”
“I billed nearly three thousand hours last year—higher than any other associate by at least two hundred hours. I made it financially foolish for them to get rid of me.”
I did some quick math. “Three thousand hours is sixty hours a week of billing. Factor in lunch and commute, a couple of bathroom breaks, and you must’ve been working twelve hours a day, seven days a week.”
“I was. I’ve cut back to six days this year so I won’t get burned out.”
“At least that left you little time to date.”
She rolled her eyes before gulping the remainder of her wine. Finishing the glass seemed to relax her a little. Conversation became less adversarial.
“So, you’ve been out for what, two weeks now?”
“Fifteen days. I needed to get some things in order before I showed up at your firm. I was out of town for a week taking care of some stuff for my father.”
“I’m sorry again about your loss. That must’ve been hard on you.”
“My father and I had a strained relationship. But his last wishes were honorable. He had five wives but wanted to be buried with my mother.”
“She’d died when you were little, right?”
“Yes. Breast cancer at thirty-eight. She was buried out in California with her mother and sister, both of whom died before forty from the same thing.”
“Wow.”
“She was a florist—actually met my father when he came in to send his girlfriend flowers.” I shook my head. “Should’ve been a red flag right there for her.”
“So you had him buried beside your mom?”
“She’s probably gonna kick my ass for it someday, but yes. Made those arrangements while I was still locked up.”
Layla smiled.
“I was only nine when she died. But they’d been living apart for a few years already. Although she never did divorce him. She said he was the love of her life, and that when you found your one true love, you couldn’t replace them, because you’d given your heart away.”