Balancing the Scales Read online

  As the doors move farther apart, I see two suited men in the elevator with her. One is an associate at the firm, whose face I recognize. The other is a junior partner in the Insolvency team. There’s no way in hell I’m looking like a pussy in front of these men. I should have thought this through. I should have planned what to say. I should have expected other attorneys to be in the elevator.

  Becky looks from the floor to me. I try to apologize silently because I can’t say the words. Not here. Not now. I step back from the doors, wishing they would just close. Close on this pathetic version of me.

  The doors start to move. She looks so hurt. I can’t give her nothing. “You were right about the letter,” I tell her.

  Then she’s gone, and I’m staring at closed elevator doors, looking and feeling like a dick.

  When I get back to my office, Sarah is standing by my desk, arms folded. “It’s for the best,” I tell her.

  “Whether it is or it isn’t, you just had a shitty as hell attitude with the sweetest girl I’ve met in a hell of a long time. What gives?”

  I move behind my desk and fire up my laptop, still standing because I’m too worked up to sit. “Nothing gives.”

  “She told me about the note you left, Drew. She’s wrong. It wasn’t just friendly. It was flirting. You went out of your way to get her attention; then she shows up here to reciprocate, and you basically punch her in the gut.”

  I wince at her words, and in my mind I see Becky standing in the elevator, her gaze on the ground. I did upset her. I sit in my chair and type my password. “I’ve got work to do,” I growl.

  “She made chocolates for you. Handmade. And instead of going home to bed after her early morning shift, she chose the chocolates she thought suited your personality and brought them to your office.”

  She did? “Yeah, well, I told her I’m not a dessert person. I don’t even know the woman. I didn’t even know her name until yesterday.” Sarah starts to speak but I hold up a hand, cutting her off. “Nor do I want or need to know anything about her.”

  She storms toward the office door. “Sometimes, Drew Harrington, you’re an insensitive piece of work. The girl is asking for a friend in this big old city.”

  “If you want her to have a friend, why don’t you befriend her?”

  “For your information, we’re going to brunch on Saturday.” She tugs the door closed behind her.

  I stare at my inbox, trying to focus. But I can’t. Sarah’s right. Marty’s right. I don’t show I have a human side. Based on this morning, I’m not even sure I do have a human side.

  * * * *

  I have spent the rest of the morning trying to convince the CEO of one of my biggest clients not to sell out his business to an investment firm. Two reasons. Now is not the right time for a shake-up at the client who earns me my biggest income at the Statham Turner. But it’s also sound advice. That investment company would swoop in and have him out of his throne in a matter of months. It would take away everything he has built from scratch. Everything he has worked so hard for would be thrown away with one quick signature. I don’t want to see that happen.

  Yeah, I know, I sound like I give it shit. Truth is, I do. I’ve worked for the guy for years. I’ve had dinner with his wife and kids. I couldn’t let him make such a mistake without at least trying to get him to see sense. By the time I finally hang up after the call, I think I have convinced him.

  I swivel my chair from my window view to my desk. There’s a white paper bag next to my laptop. Reaching inside, I find a pulled pork baguette. Not just any pulled pork baguette, a Hog Heaven pulled pork baguette. The best pig in the city.

  I hold up the sandwich and wink at Sarah. She rolls her eyes and wafts a hand flippantly. I guess we’re back on good terms.

  I take the food to my window and look toward Staten Island as I eat. I was brought up on Staten Island—a native New Yorker. My folks still live there. I haven’t lived there since I went to Columbia, and I definitely don’t go back as often as I should, but it will always be home. It will always be a place to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. I haven’t needed that for a while but sometimes, the city, the law, the constant dogfights, they can grind a man down.

  As I’m staring out to the distance, I think about Becky. She just wants a friendly face in the city. I scoff through a bite of my sandwich. She chose the wrong man for that. Yet I still feel shitty about the way I dismissed her.

  I ball the empty paper bag in my hand and take aim at my waste basket, nailing the shot, as I always do. Then I put my hands in my pockets and, with a sigh, I resolve to at least apologize to the prettiest, most annoying damn Brit in New York.

  Fastening my jacket, I pass by Sarah’s desk as she’s taking off her headphones to end a call. “You win. I’m going to apologize.”

  “While I fully endorse that decision, you might want to hold off.”

  “Why?”

  “That was Archer Williamson’s secretary on the phone. Archer is on his way down here. He wants to explain in person, but the gist is unsavory photographs in the hands of the media. Again.”

  Archer Williamson. One of the slimiest, fakest sonsofbitches walking the earth. The man’s had more affairs than I’ve had cheese burgers. And I like cheese burgers. The greatest irony is that his logistics company is all about “going green” and supporting women’s and kids’ charities. The guy has one of the cleanest public reputations in the world, and he’s a total scumbag. Now he’ll want me to work all night to get him another injunction to stop the press from going public with whatever his latest seedy shit is.

  “That son of a—”

  “Bitch.” Sarah finishes my sentence.

  Chapter 5

  Drew

  “I brought you another coffee,” Sarah says, setting a mug on my desk. “Can I get you anything else? A bite to eat? I can order in for you.”

  I glance at the clock on my laptop and drag my hands over my face. “No, I’m good. It’s after one in the morning—you should go. You’ve been great tonight, thanks.”

  “Any time, boss man. How’s it going?”

  “I think we’re set. I just got off the phone with the judge. The injunction should be granted. That dirty, lying cheat will be off the hook, again.”

  Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had a lot of women. But I would never cheat. I have more respect for myself than that, and I’m certain, if I ever found the woman, I would have too much respect for her.

  This isn’t even my line of work—injunctions against the media—but Archer Williamson is a big client. Morals and the law are an interesting thing. They’re both meant to keep us all on the straight and narrow. The problem is, when one fails, the other tends to follow suit. Still, if Archer’s family is going to be hurt by his actions, he should be the one to break it to them. Airing his filth in public is not what his family needs. That’s the only thing that stops me hating myself for protecting his ass.

  “You did your job, Drew.” Sarah places a hand on my shoulder, and I cover it with my own. She’s my accomplice in all of this, and I know she’s just as uncomfortable about defending Archer as I am. To the other partners, I might seem impenetrable on all fronts, but Sarah knows some things get to me. Screwing over family and friends is high on that list.

  “You too,” I tell her. “Make sure you get my driver to take you home, all right?”

  She nods. “You know, I was thinking. If you’re going to be here any longer, you won’t have much time to wait before Becky starts her morning shift. Maybe you could still squeeze in that apology.”

  I want to tell her she’s crazy. Becky doesn’t start for hours and I’m wrecked and ready for sleep. Yet I don’t say that because, more than once, between calls to the judge and waiting for associates to draft court papers tonight, my mind has wandered to Becky. Each time I think about how I treated her, I feel worse a
bout how I handled the situation. I encouraged her to come here, and I went through her like Babe Ruth would go through a bush league pitcher. She didn’t deserve my anger. I was pissed at myself and how I behaved in the partners’ meeting, not at her, not really.

  “Sleep tight, Sarah.”

  “’Night, Drew.”

  When I finish my coffee I head down to the kitchen and make myself another.

  * * * *

  I’m standing on the corner of the block with my hands tucked into the pockets of my overcoat. It’s spring, but it’s still cold at this ungodly hour of the morning. I watch Becky climb out of her Uber. She looks up at the restaurant and smiles. It’s a serene smile that makes her button nose crinkle. She’s happy here. She might still be finding her feet in the city, but she looks like she’s sticking around. I don’t even know her and that thought warms my chilled body.

  She doesn’t notice me as she walks to the glass door of the restaurant and fumbles with the lock, then the alarm inside. When she’s in and the lights are on, she holds up a hand to the driver and he pulls away.

  I move to the door but don’t knock, not yet. I just watch her take off her coat and hang it up. She drags her fingers through her smooth hair and pulls it into a knot on top of her head. I flex my fingers in my pocket, desperate to know exactly how silky those blond locks feel.

  Friends. That’s it. There are bigger things at stake right now.

  Eventually, I knock gently on the door. At least I thought it was gentle. The way Becky screams and practically jumps out of her own skin makes me realize otherwise.

  She stares at me, her eyes locking on mine, which probably look wild from caffeine.

  “Are you going to let me in?”

  She approaches the door cautiously. “This is a bit creepy, Drew. You’re not going to pull a machete on me or something, are you?”

  I chuckle. “That’s not my intention, no.”

  She unlocks the door and opens it but doesn’t step aside to let me in. That happiness I saw just moments ago has turned to a frown that honestly looks adorable on her. “I guess it’s my turn to ask what the hell you’re doing here at my office?”

  “I guess I deserve that.”

  She drops one hand to her hip, the other still holding the door and blocking my entry. “You sure do.”

  Hmm, this isn’t quite what I had planned. Not that I had had a plan beyond my impulse to see her.

  “Right. Look, I came to apologize. I was a jerk with you, and I’m sorry. If you’re looking for a friendly face in the city, I can be a friendly face.”

  Her brows furrow. “What makes you think I would want a friend like you?”

  Ouch. I take a breath that leaves me on a tired exhale. The effects of my coffee might be starting to wane. “You’ve got me. I don’t even want to be your friend, but it’s after four in the morning, I’ve been working all night, and I would really like those chocolates now.”

  I count the seconds I wait for her response. One. Two. Slowly, subtly, that glower dissipates and her dimples start to appear on one side of her inviting pink lips. “I thought you said my desserts were mediocre?”

  I step forward and take hold of her hand, peeling it from the door. That small touch, my big hand folded around her small, delicate fingers, is like a blanket wrapping around my body. I find myself wondering how nice it would be to lie with her now, and sleep, actually sleep, in her arms.

  She swallows deeply, as if she might have had the same brain fart I just had. I drop her hand and scratch the back of my neck for something to do with my fingers. She moves to close the door behind us, and I follow her to the kitchen. All the while, trying to shake the feeling that I’m the one who can’t handle being a friendly face and only a friendly face.

  The palpable awkwardness in the air begins to fall away as she sets about turning on ovens and taking bowls from stainless steel racks and cupboards. When she disappears into the refrigerated room, I try to calm my unusual nerves. I take off my coat and rest it on the bench; then I grab a stool from the bar and bring it into the kitchen.

  I take a seat at the worktop, opposite where Becky is spreading out ingredients—flour, eggs, sugar—and quite obviously avoiding my eye.

  “Are you going to look at me, British Becky the Cupcake Baker?”

  She lifts her head sharply and waving a wooden spoon at me, she says exactly what I expect her to say. “I don’t make cupcakes.”

  She disappears to another part of the kitchen, which is larger than I had realized from the restaurant view. She returns with a box I recognize from my office yesterday. She takes off the lid and places a tray of chocolates in front of me.

  “If I did make cupcakes, they would be like this.” She takes one more thing from the box, and it is very definitely a cupcake. I tell her so. “Just wait.”

  She slides it toward me and hands me a fork. “Go ahead.”

  I peel the paper from the sides of the cake and slide a fork through the creamy looking icing that’s piled high like a whippy ice cream cone. I cut straight through the middle of the confection, and the yellow cake bursts with some kind of soft center. I look up to find Becky grinning.

  I take icing, cake and the gooey center and put the hefty forkful into my mouth. My eyes close when I wrap my lips around the little bite of heaven. Mango. Cinnamon. Vanilla.

  When I reluctantly peel open my eyelids, she’s cocking one eyebrow at me, looking defiant and supercilious in equal measure.

  “I want to lie so bad right now but this…this is no ordinary cupcake.”

  She nods. “I know. But I still don’t make cupcakes.”

  I laugh, hard. I have no idea whether I’m high on coffee, delirious from the combination of flavors in my mouth, or whether being around this woman somehow just makes me happy. “You’re modest, British Becky.”

  “That makes two of us, Yankee Drew.”

  As I begin working down the line of chocolates in front of me, Becky cracks eggs into bowls, sifts flour, and starts to hand whisk things—because she says that’s how you get the best feel for the mixture.

  “How come you’re in New York?” I ask her.

  She dips her little finger in the mixture in her bowl and sucks. The things that does to my crotch have nothing to do with friendship. I force myself to look away. When she starts whisking again, she replies, and I finally brave facing her.

  “I worked for Edmond in his London restaurant.” She shrugs and stares into the bowl she’s holding. “A job came up here and… I mean, Edmond works here in New York, mostly. What an opportunity, right?”

  I nod, wondering why the her expression tells me there’s more to this story. I say nothing.

  “So.” She plants the bowl on the counter, and her contemplative look switches to a smile. “I thought, why the hell not?”

  “That’s it?”

  There’s a slight pause that doesn’t escape my attention before she says, “That’s it. Here I am.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “The kitchen?”

  “The kitchen. New York.”

  “I love working for Edmond. The pastries I get to make are amazing. But one day I’d like to have my own place. A patisserie, not a restaurant. Something quaint. A place where I have regulars and I know their names and which cakes their kids and wives and husbands would like for their birthdays.”

  “You’re a family person?”

  She shrugs and casts her attention back to her bowl. “I guess. There’s something about the idea of a family looking out for each other. It’s…special.”

  “And New York?”

  She scoffs, and her momentary melancholy lifts. “Well, so far I’ve met a lot of arrogant people. You know, specifically at bagel carts. It seems arrogant men in suits hang out there, and they just latch on.”

  I’m laughing again as I
suck chocolate from my fingers. “Latch on?”

  “Yeah, kind of like ticks. They get under your skin, uncomfortably so, and they won’t let go.” Her smirk breaks into a giggle, but all I heard was that I’m under her skin. Yeah, well, that makes two of us.

  “Hey, why am I doing all the work here? Get over here and help.”

  Now it’s my turn to raise a brow. “You want me to make cakes with you?”

  “Oh, come on, it’s half past five in the morning and there’s no one here to see you.”

  As tired as I am, I slip off my suit jacket and roll my shirt sleeves up my forearms. After being told to wash my hands like a boy who’s been playing in dirt before dinner, I’m on the other side of the counter beating cake mix in a bowl.

  “Which chocolate is your favorite so far?” she asks.

  “I think the one with the purple stuff inside.”

  She’s beating her own mix beside me and rocks into my side. “That stuff is blackberry. And I don’t think that one will be your favorite. Look out.” She puts a hand on the small of my back to nudge me out of the way and leans across the counter to pick up a chocolate. Her hand is warm through my shirt. As I’m thinking that, she sticks her ass back, and it’s so close to my crotch my balls tighten. I’m staring, unashamedly so, and I’m pretty damn sure she catches me when she turns around. She’s facing me, and close enough I can smell the sweet scent of shampoo or soap on her hair and skin. Vanilla. Coconuts. I fight the urge to press my lips to her skin and taste her.

  Too much coffee and sugar, that’s all it is. Coffee and freakin’ sugar.

  I set the mixing bowl on the bench and in doing so I bring us closer together. My lungs force my breaths to come quicker and shallower. Jesus, I’m fifteen again.

  “Try this one. This will be your favorite,” she says. There’s a huskiness to her words I haven’t noticed before. She lifts the chocolate, and my lips part as I get lost in her. In her beauty, her scent, the pheromones that ooze from her and infiltrate my mind.