Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
I exhale in relief. Ben is ready for retirement, but the intersection of that milestone with a huge negotiation makes it extra hard for him to let go. But he’s doing so because he trusts me.
I follow Ben out the door to the lobby of city hall, telling Joanne that it’s showtime with the lawyer. “I’ll send him to the conference room when he gets here, Wren.”
I retrace my steps, grabbing my laptop and the Township files—yes, the paper copies that have the original signatures on them—and sit down in our multipurpose conference room. It’s nothing special, just an oversize room with a long, laminated wood-top table and blue-cushioned, stackable chairs that were probably new in 1995. The ceiling is one of those grid-patterned, acoustic-tiled, drop-down deals, and the walls were freshly painted white about three years ago. City residents can reserve the room for baby showers, book clubs, or Tupperware-sale parties when it’s not being used for official city business.
I’ve chosen the space intentionally. I know my office isn’t impressive, but it’s telling . . . with pictures of my friends, family, and Finnegan, the not-so-stray, orange-striped cat that my entire street has adopted as a mascot. I don’t need Chrissy’s lawyer to know that much about me, though she can and probably has told him as much. But if not, I’m not going to volunteer the information.
Promptly at three thirty, there’s a knock on the conference room door, and a moment later, Joanne pokes her head in. “Ms. Ford, your three thirty is here.” God bless Joanne and her sense of propriety. I don’t think she’s called me anything except Wren a day in her life, but she knows this is a big meeting and goes for formality.
“Thanks,” I say, knowing she understands that I mean for more than just playing greeter. I stand and walk around the table as she opens the door.
The man standing with her is . . . not what I expected.
Divorce lawyers are usually one of two types—smarmy guys in cheap suits or smarmy guys in expensive suits. I expected Chrissy to go with the latter, someone experienced and successful enough to have made a name for themselves with divorces of this caliber. And I figured he’d look something like Ben—older, glasses, potbelly.
Assuming was my first mistake.
Because the man standing before me is none of those things. He’s tall, at least a foot taller than me, in his midthirties, with meticulously styled blond hair, a clean-shaven face even given the late hour in the day, and I’d bet a plate of my favorite nachos that he’s cut as hell under his crisp three-piece gray suit. His appearance screams money, city, and power.
This guy just walked off the set of Suits, didn’t he?
He smiles, his teeth worthy of a Crest commercial, and I realize I’m staring a bit. He holds his hand out, and I take it, shaking politely. “I’m Wren Ford, Cold Springs’ city attorney. Nice to meet you.”
The greeting I practiced, but instead of confident, it comes out sounding robotic because my brain is going hummina-hummina-hummina.
“Oliver Laurent, and it’s lovely to meet you.” His eyes never leave mine, but I sense he’s checking me out and likes what he sees too.
Joanne clears her throat. “Coffee? Water? I’m happy to get either of you some.”
“Oh, uh . . . none for me. Thank you. Mr. Laurent?”
“Oliver, please. And no thank you.”
Joanne’s eyes miss nothing as she closes the door, and I already know she’ll be on the town grapevine in a minute, telling everyone about the hot, young lawyer and my ridiculous reaction to him.
But it’s not interest.
It’s surprise.
That’s it. Or at least that’s what I tell myself, hoping the repetition of that lie will make it sound a bit like the truth.
I invite him to sit and take my place at the head of the table. It’s a calculated move, not sitting across from him as though we’re on opposing teams, while also showing myself to be in charge. Subtle psychology in action.
“I appreciate you taking the time to go through this with me. I understand it must be a difficult family matter for you as well, Wren,” Oliver says kindly.
“Thank you,” I answer, immediately catching that though he asked me to use his first name, he’s taken the liberty of using mine without invitation. I open my Township file. “Shall we get started?”
Serious. Professional. Think about Cold Springs.
“Sure.” He agrees with a slight smirk, like he thinks I want to get to business for an entirely different reason—the effect he’s having on me.
Narrowing my eyes, I scan the contract that I have memorized, and Oliver follows my lead, pulling a folder out of his leather briefcase. “This will be relatively straightforward. We certainly didn’t expect this situation when drafting the contract, but it’s ironclad as to what falls under city expectations and Ford Construction responsibilities regardless of the situations that arise during build-out.”