Balancing the Scales Page 3

  “Fabio, you need to ask? I won the case,” I tell him.

  “I know you win your cases. I meant with the girl. I could feel that chemistry from my truck. Could have fried bacon on that heat.”

  Marty’s eyebrows are raised as he wipes crumbs from his mouth.

  “I bought the woman breakfast. You two need to calm the hell down.”

  Fabio holds up his hands. “Whatever you say, my man. Whatever you say.”

  As I’m shaking my head, I take a look over my shoulder. Am I making sure she isn’t here or wishing she was?

  Dismissing the two assholes trying to get a rise out of me, and my own wayward thoughts, I change the subject. “Did you get that mess straightened out with your street license, Fabio?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Drew. Got the new one here.” He holds up his mobile food vendor license with pride. “You fixed me right up. Are you sure I can’t pay you?”

  “Forget it. Just keep making the best coffee in the city; that suits me.”

  “I appreciate it, Drew. Really.”

  I nod, not wanting to give Fabio a chance to get all sentimental on me, and make my way to the office with Marty.

  * * * *

  I’m standing behind my desk, waiting for my laptop to boot, when Sarah steps inside. “Smiling again. Who was last night’s celebratory lay?”

  “Sometimes you cross the line, Sarah, you know that?”

  “Please. I’m Sarah. I define the line.”

  I look down to hide my smirk. She’s clearly been binge-watching Suits again. “How many times have we had the discussion about you blurring the line between boss and friend?”

  She starts counting on her fingers. When she’s used them all up, she shrugs. “Nope, sorry, too many to count.”

  The woman drives me mad, but she’s the feistiest woman I know, and I like that. I like that she challenges me. It’s part of the reason we’re such good friends. I just don’t need to tell her that.

  “I’ve dealt with your post-court filings. You’ve got a ten-thirty with Carlton Best. And Preston Hamilton asked if you can move your three o’clock to four.”

  “Can I?”

  She tsks. “Already done. Remember, I have a half day today with full pay.”

  I lift my head sharply from where I’m typing my password. “Did I authorize that?”

  She smiles and turns on her heel to leave my office, purposely swaying her hips as she moves. “You sure did. You said I should consider it part of my birthday gift.”

  I stand up straight. “Is that right? What else did I get you?”

  She reaches her desk and holds up a scarlet leather handbag. “This limited edition Dior.”

  “I’m a hell of a boss.”

  She sits and spins in her chair to face her computer screen. “The best.”

  I should sit. I should start trawling through my inbox. But I don’t. With one hand on the waistband of my gray tailored pants, I rub my other hand over my day-old stubble—yep, it’s definitely a non-court day. Then my fingers find my lips. The lingering taste of coffee reminds me just how good that cake was with my morning blend. And I get the most ridiculous, impulsive idea I’ve had in a while.

  I pull a piece of paper from the top drawer of my desk and grin to myself as I write.

  Blondie,

  Thanks for the desserts and the hours I will now need to put in at the gym. For your information, I’m STILL not a dessert man. As they were on the house (kind of), I think you deserve some constructive feedback, so here goes:

  In third place, with a score of 5/10, we have Opera with a Twist.

  In second place, scoring 5.75/10, Red Silk.

  The winner of mediocre desserts (read: glorified cupcakes), is Violet Passion. 6/10.

  See you around, Cupcake.

  Drew x

  “Sarah, I’m going out. I’ll be back before my ten-thirty.”

  I walk through the glass door of Edmond’s restaurant. Part of me was hoping it wouldn’t be open because on the short walk here, I started to wonder what in the hell I am doing. Why I’m sending notes like a kid. And doing it in person. Impulsive is not who I am. Instinctive, yes. Impulsive, no way.

  Edmond is sitting at a table with Beatrice, the restaurant manager, documents and coffee laid out in front of them. He looks up first. “Drew, how are you?” His French accent has softened over the years.

  “Edmond. Beatrice. I’m good, I’m good. I, ah…” Suddenly feel like a total idiot. “You have a new girl working for you.” And I don’t even know her name. “Patisserie.”

  They exchange looks; then Beatrice responds, “Do you mean Becky?”

  “Is she blond with”—an ass and tits I want to roll around the sheets with?— “ah, blue eyes?” Quick thinking, Drew. Nice.

  Amusement is splayed all over her face as she tucks her auburn hair behind her ear and stands to walk over to me. “That sounds like Becky. She’s been here nine months.”

  “Nine months? I’ve never seen her before.” God knows I’d remember.

  “Mmm-hmm, nine months. She’s always tucked away in the kitchen, I guess. Do you want me to grab her for you?”

  “She’s here?” My words come out too high-pitched, like someone just grabbed my balls and squeezed. My heart starts thumping in my chest. I think I might be having some kind of medical condition here. I press the side of my fist to my chest. What the actual fuck?

  Edmond moves over from the table. “She’s not here. She finished her morning shift early, and I sent her home. She’ll be back in for tonight’s service.”

  My breathing calms. “Right. Would you just give her this note for me? She, ah, asked for my feedback on one of…” I give up because the look on both Beatrice and Edmond’s faces tells me they see right through my façade. “Could you just give this to her? She’ll know who it’s from.”

  Beatrice grins. “Sure will.”

  I make some kind of frustrated grumbling noise and rub my fingers along my jaw. “Thanks. Edmond, we still on for poker Saturday, my place?”

  “I’ll be there as soon as service is finished.”

  I bolt from the place faster than lightning—idiotic, caught in the act, not fooling anyone. I head to the sanctity of the Drew I was before tasting those damn cakes. The Drew who kicks ass. The Drew who keeps women around long enough in the morning for seconds of the meal he had the night before, and no more. I head back to the office to prepare for my ten-thirty.

  Chapter 4

  Drew

  I’m sitting at the head of the oval board table, just off center. Marty and Richard Turner are in the chief seats. Opposite me is Patrick James—the joker who thinks he’ll be my competition for named partner. No chance. I mean the guy has two first names. Come on.

  The other Statham Turner partners fill the sixteen seats at the table. Other attorneys stand or perch on the window ledges. Some are dialed in and viewing the monthly partners’ meeting via videocon. We’ve covered most items on the agenda, but we’re running over.

  A tentative knock on the door tells us breakfast has arrived. Marty flicks a finger, beckoning the kitchen staff to come in.

  “Put it in the middle,” he tells the woman whose name I do not know, despite her working here for years. “All right, everyone, let’s grab a bite and we’ll finish up,” he tells the rest of us. He glances at his watch. “I appreciate some of you have places to be. For those of you who don’t, you ought to.”

  Like me, Marty can be a class A jerk to work with. We know it but that’s part of what makes us good lawyers. But it wasn’t his arrogance that helped get him named partner at thirty-six. What did help, was that his father was the Statham predecessor. I don’t mean Marty didn’t deserve it on merit, but on personality alone, he might not have won the vote of all the partners.

  The server leans between Marty
and me, putting down two plates. She’s a middle-aged woman. Kind of plump with a bad perm. She mustn’t have got the memo that the eighties are over.

  One of the plates is stacked with turkey bacon bagels—I can take a good guess at who ordered those. The other hosts a selection of French pastries. As I consider the French pastries, I suddenly feel like the arrogant ass I am.

  This woman has served me for the better part of a decade, as a junior and a partner, and I’ve never given her the courtesy of asking her name. In fact, I’ve possibly never even thanked her for her service. She comes and goes largely under the radar. She probably gets a train from some working class suburb and puts up with the commute and minimum wage to feed and clothe a family.

  I look at her, then the plates, and this time I don’t just see food; I see bread that someone has baked this morning because Statham Turner considers itself too highbrow to order in. Maybe this lady even baked and served. I reach out for a bagel and find my lips curling. Shove that in your bagel and eat it. I can’t stop the pfft of amusement that breaks my lips.

  I rub my mouth quickly and clear my throat, disguising the humor and regaining my composure.

  “A plate, Mr. Harrington?” The server holds out a side plate. I take it and, for the first time ever, I say, “Thank you, ah…?”

  The fact that she looks startled makes me feel like an even bigger ass. Then, as if one ‘thank you’ can make up for the countless times I haven’t thanked her, she beams. “Tricia.”

  I nod. “Thank you, Tricia.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Harrington.”

  “Drew.”

  She presses her lips together with two quick nods, but her eyes continue to smile. And I feel…good?

  I take a bite, then set down the bagel in front of me. My mind goes right back to the bagel truck and, I’ve now decided, the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen hot women. I’ve had hot women. But Blondie…she’s hot in a different way. Like the kind of beautiful you want to keep in your bed not just all night but all the next day too, even when the makeup has come off and the mini-dress and heels are on the floor. She’s natural, fresh. The kind of mesmerizing you don’t just see in a club but the kind you want to take to the Hamptons and roll around in the sand with for an entire weekend.

  What the fuck am I thinking?

  “Drew. Drew?”

  I jerk back to reality, where all eyes around the table are on me. In the process, I knock my coffee cup on its saucer, spilling coffee. “Fuck.” I look up to see Marty’s scrunched brows. They’re somewhere between questioning and pissed. Tricia is still in the room and comes to my rescue with a towel to mop up the coffee. “Sorry, I was thinking about the strategy for the Harbandon case. Something just came to me.”

  Marty is still looking at me the same way but he says for everyone else’s benefit, “Always got your mind on the game, Drew. Take note, folks, this is what a top dog looks like.” I breathe subtly and straighten my shoulders.

  “Looked like you were going to make love to your bagel to me,” Patrick mutters.

  I lean across the table and whisper. “I don’t need to put my dick in bagel holes, Pat. That’s for people like you. You know, the kind of people who don’t have women falling at their feet.”

  Marty sniggers. “As I was saying, Drew aced it. It was a big win for the firm, and the coverage of the case won’t harm our profile either.”

  “All in a day’s work,” I say, back to slick, confident, best goddamn lawyer at the table.

  Blondie needs to get the hell out of my head. This is what I do. This firm is my focus. This is what I’ve been working twenty-eight hours a day, eight days a week to achieve.

  “To our final matter then. Richard, I’ll let you do the honors.”

  Marty glances at me and this time there’s a subtle curl of his lips at one side. It’s my turn to frown questioningly.

  “Thank you, Marty.” Richard rises from his leather chair and fastens one button of his suit jacket. “As many of you know, I have been considering retirement for some time. I was here at the very beginning. I helped build this firm from nothing. And I’m incredibly proud of what we’ve achieved in the last thirty years.” He runs a hand through his thin gray hair. “The time has come for me to hand over the reins. I wanted you all to know together. Today, I will formally serve my notice to retire. I’ll be here to oversee a vote on my replacement as named partner and to assist in the handover process. However, from today, I won’t be taking new cases.”

  I don’t hear the rest of his speech. I’m too busy throwing my bring-it glare across the table at Patrick. Statham Harrington. That’s what this firm will become, whether Patrick wants to cry about it or not.

  When the meeting is wrapped up, I head with Marty in the direction of my office. “Why didn’t you tell me? You knew when we had dinner the other night. You had to have known. It was two days ago for Christ’s sake.”

  I’m annoyed, but my voice is at a level below conversational as we walk the corridors, keeping beneath the earshot of the secretaries in the open-plan pool.

  “He wanted to announce it, Drew. I owe the man that. He’s a big reason this firm is Statham Turner and not Wilson Turner.” He’s referring to Richard having his back when he was running for named partner. “It makes no difference. You know you’re front runner. Everyone in that room knows you’re front runner.”

  I scoff. “Patrick?”

  “Well, no, he doesn’t seem to have caught the ball.” He stops in front of his office door. “I’ve got to tell you though, Drew. While Patrick doesn’t have your balls, or your financials, the other partners like him. You might want to think about that in the run up to a vote. God knows I had to think about that once too.”

  “Are you telling me to stop being an asshole like you, Marty?”

  He shakes his head with a smirk. “Something like that. Just don’t give them a reason not to vote for you. Maybe let them see that as well as being a shark, you’re a human too.”

  “That’s not my style, Marty. You know it. They know it. They’ll vote me in because I’m a shit hot attorney, not because I bake cupcakes with my granny.”

  His face distorts. “Cupcakes with your granny? What the hell kind of reference is that? Where’s the sport?”

  He turns his back to me, and I continue toward my office. What the hell kind of reference was that?

  I need to brush off that girl. I need to stop thinking about fucking cakes. I need to be Drew. King of the courtroom. Not the goofball who spills his coffee and starts thinking about a woman instead of becoming named partner. Jesus, I must have looked like a dick in that meeting.

  My anger thickens when I reach Sarah’s desk outside my office and she isn’t there. Where the hell is she?

  I stop dead in my tracks on the threshold of my office. Through the glass walls I see the last woman I want to see right now.

  Sarah is sitting with one leg crossed over the other on the arm of my leather sofa. Her head is thrown back and she’s laughing at something Blondie is saying. Yes, Blondie. She’s sitting on the sofa with…what the hell…chocolates set out on the coffee table.

  I clear my throat, unmoving. God, she gets more attractive every time I see her. She’s the devil. The actual, distraction-that-I-don’t-need, godforsaken devil.

  She stands, adjusting her striped shirt and tucking it into her skinny jeans as she does. Her blue irises are bright, like she’s smiling in her eyes. And they’re staring right at me.

  “So, my desserts are mediocre?” Her hands come to her hips, and she pouts playfully. The attitude that seems to have stuck in my head for the last two days is back. Proof of the interruption she’s causing to what my mind should really be focused on.

  “What are you doing here?” My words are more curt than I intend, but I am pissed. More at myself than her, for sure, but pissed nonethele
ss. She can’t just come in here, all gorgeous as hell and… I turn my attention to Sarah. “Why did you let her into my office?”

  Sarah stands and holds up two hands. “Whoa, calm, Drew. Becky was—”

  “Becky? That’s right; that’s your name.” I remember from Beatrice at the restaurant yesterday. I’m still being abrupt and, frankly, shitty, but she needs to leave. This force field she seems to have around her is pulling me in and threatening to tilt my axis in the wrong fucking direction. She needs to get out of my space.

  She looks at me, then places a hand gently on Sarah’s arm. “It’s okay, Sarah. I’m sorry. I misunderstood. I don’t know many people in the city, and I thought your note… I guess I thought it was an invitation to be friendly. I got it wrong. I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

  She starts packing the chocolates on the table in front of her into a plastic tub. As she does, Sarah’s eyes shoot daggers at me. They’re no more painful than the daggers I feel in my gut when I notice Becky’s shoulders sag.

  Sarah strides past me and out of the office, glaring at me as she goes.

  Becky picks up her bags and moves toward me, her head down, her eyes on the ground. That fiery temper I seem to be crazily addicted to is gone. I hate that I’m the reason for its disappearance. When she’s in front of me, I reach out to her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just have a lot going on. This is my workplace.”

  The smile she gives me is obviously forced. It doesn’t reach her eyes. Those eyes, that are wide and truly entrancing. “You didn’t. This was my mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  She heads quickly toward the elevators, and I look after her. That was the right thing to do. I can’t deal with her. A woman. I mean, I can deal with a woman, women. Just not her. Not now.

  “If that was the right thing to do, why do you feel so shitty about it?” Sarah is leaning back in her chair, judging me. Nailing my thoughts better than I can understand them myself.

  Damn it.

  I jog down the corridor and toward the elevators. As if Drew Harrington runs after women. Christ. When the car opens Becky steps inside. I get there just in time to jam my hands between the doors and push them open. “Becky.”