Balancing the Scales Read online

  “You will not curse in my house, young man.” Mom leans into the camera and points. “And you stop calling him an accident.” That bit is clearly for my benefit.

  In unison, my brother and I apologize.

  This is my family. Nuts. All nuts. God love them.

  “Listen, I can’t stay,” my brother says. “It’s like four in the afternoon over here in London, and I didn’t get much sleep last night. I might still be pissed. I just wanted to say hi.”

  After a brief lecture from Mom on the topic of alcohol poisoning and liver damage—she ignores the reason he probably didn’t get much sleep—Jake leaves us to it.

  “Are you coming for lunch today?” I’m back to just Millie.

  “Sorry, Mill, I’m working.” Guilt churns in my stomach. I haven’t been to Mom and Dad’s for Sunday lunch since…I can’t even remember. The fact that my dad is the only one who didn’t steal the laptop screen has something to do with that, I’m sure.

  “You’re always working, Drew. You look tired. You need to take a break.”

  “Did you get the flowers I sent this week?”

  “Yes. And they were beautiful. But I’d rather you brought them in person every week.”

  I hear my dad in the background, confirming my suspicions. “Now, Millie, leave your brother alone. He has more important things in his life than family.”

  I chomp down on my gums. Thing is, I’m angry at myself, because he’s right. I should make more of an effort. It’s just work can’t wait. When shit hits the fan, I’m the person who’s supposed to fix it. That’s why I’m going to make named partner. It’s how I’m going to repay my parents for everything they ever did for me growing up. My old man will see that soon enough. I hope.

  Millie rolls her eyes and leans in to the screen to whisper. “I know you don’t think that.” She leans back and talks at normal volume. “You’ll be here next weekend though, won’t you? It’s Aunt Nellie’s sixtieth, and Mom is making Key lime pie on Friday night.”

  Mom does make an awesome Key lime pie. In fact, it’s the only dessert I really eat. Or it was before this week. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Disappointment drops her shoulders an inch, and I feel like the shittiest brother in the world.

  I am.

  Chapter 8

  Drew

  Scrutinizing my reflection in the office mirror that’s usually hidden on the inside of my wardrobe door, I pull my jacket over my white T-shirt. I drag a hand back through my hair and shake my head at the nervous loser in front of me. When I’ve studied him enough, I bend to adjust my jeans over my boots.

  “What’s this? Has a client requested dress down?”

  I stand to face Chewie. Variably known as Chewbacca—owing to the hairs that poke out his shirt collars—wanker from the forty-sixth floor, the partner heading up real estate, or Malcolm Eddy. I want to throw out a snide remark. Hell, more than anything in the world right now, I want to throw out a snide remark. But Marty’s words are still rolling around in my head. The vote. Be human.

  “What can I do for you, Malcolm?”

  He looks visibly taken aback. His second chin wobbles as he draws his head into his neck like a cock…erel. Cockerel. Be nice. “I just wondered if you’ve got two minutes to talk over something. It’s more your bag than mine.”

  I check my watch. I really don’t. Trying not to roll my jaw, I tell him, “Sure, take a seat.” I move to sit on the window ledge behind my desk and give him his two minutes.

  See, this is the thing with real estate lawyers, they know jack shit about anything other than buying properties. Two minutes turns into ten by the time Malcolm leaves my office.

  I need to get him on my side; then the rest of the forty-sixth floor might follow suit. There’s still work to be done, but I’ve made baby steps.

  Now rushing, which is not like me at all, I grab the suit I changed out of and hand it to Sarah as I head out of the office. “Could you get this dry-cleaned?”

  “No problem. How are you feeling?”

  Sick. Nervous like a kid with zits asking a girl to prom. But I’m not going on a date. I’m being sociable, kind even, and taking a woman who is relatively new to the city to a Yankees game. “Fine. Why wouldn’t I?”

  One side of her lips curl and she waves a hand in a way that tells me she can see right through me.

  “What’s this?” Marty’s voice comes across my shoulder.

  I roll my eyes before turning to him. There really is no hiding from these two. “I’m taking the afternoon.”

  “What do you mean you’re taking the afternoon? You never take the afternoon. You’re Drew. Workaholic.”

  He sounds like my sister. “Yeah, well, you told me to start behaving like a human. Reap what you sow, Marty.”

  * * * *

  By the time I reach the subway station, I’m hot in the day’s humid air. Great. Not only am I being forced to take the subway, but I’m hot as hell. I hate the subway, for the record. I haven’t ridden the subway since I was old enough to afford not to take the subway. But British Becky wants to ride the subway, so it looks like I’m taking the sweat oven right up to the Bronx.

  “Hey!” I swivel to face the person whose hand is on my shoulder. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. Her lips are kissed with gloss. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes…those eyes are going to be the death of my self-restraint.

  Put the brakes on, Drew. There are bigger things going on in your life.

  I’m about to do just that but I open my mouth and no words come out. Air passes my lips, but my synapses refuse to send a message to my voice box. I can’t speak as I drink her in. Who knew a baseball jersey and little denim shorts could be so damn sexy?

  “Are you okay?”

  The hell I am. I need to get a serious hold of myself.

  “Yeah, just wondering whether you bought that jersey especially for this game.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Well, duh. You can’t go to your first Yankees game without a Yankees jersey.”

  “Christ, I feel like a tour guide. Come on.”

  I lead us down the steps and to the station’s metro card booth. But when I go to take my wallet my from pocket, I find two Yankees tickets, a cell phone, and nothing else. “Fuck.” I try my other pockets. I didn’t do this. Come on.

  “Everything okay?” Becky asks.

  “I forgot my wallet.” When the hell do I ever forget my wallet? Jesus. Where is my head when it comes to this woman? “Give me two minutes. I’ll run back to the office.”

  Becky nudges past me and hands a twenty-dollar bill to the man selling metro cards. “Forget it. Let’s just go. I can pick this up. We can get your wallet on the way back.”

  “I can’t let you pay.”

  “Drew, you’re doing me a favor. It’s not like this is a first date or something. You can pay next time.”

  She’s right. This isn’t a date. We’re friends. I’m being a buddy. I’m being human. A human who wants to tear those tight little shorts off with my teeth. “You’re right. I’ll pay you back later. I’ll need a hot dog too. You can’t do Yankees without a dog and fries.”

  She hands me my card. “Deal.”

  As I watch her push through the turnstile, it dawns on me that I didn’t refute the fact there’d be a next time.

  “That was hell. Just so you know.” I breathe the infinitely less stuffy air as we follow the crowd up the steps to exit the subway.

  Becky nudges her shoulder into my arm. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t so bad.”

  “You’re right. I especially enjoyed the five-hundred-pound sloth who put his sweaty paws all over me for the last five stops.”

  She laughs, and I think I might write a list of things I could say that would let me hear that sound. “Right, tour guide, where do we find these infamous hot dogs?”

&n
bsp; “This way.” My hand is wrapped around hers and I’m moving us through the crowd before I comprehend what I’ve done. Thing is…it feels…nice. Her petite fingers. Her gentle grip.

  I don’t move my hand from hers until we’re through the crowd and at the back of the line for the hot dog stand. When I finally let go, she looks from my hand to hers, then lifts her gaze to mine. Something so intense, charged even, passes between us that I have to drag air into my lungs, desperate to feed my mind.

  “Listen, Becky, I need to be straight with you.” I look away and into the crowd, buzzing happily with either pre-game excitement, or because they have the afternoon off work. It helps calm the rate of my blood pulsing through my veins enough that I can look back at her. “This…us…it’s not going to become a thing. I have too much going on. And, honestly, I’m just not the kind of guy who does relationships.”

  Her eyelids visibly open wider and she pulls her head back. “Relationships?” Her face contorts, and I instantly panic. She’s going to cry. Shit. Then she bends from her waist and laughs. “Crikey, Drew, did you think I was going to jump your bones for bringing me to a baseball game? I didn’t move to New York searching for love. Quite the opposite, believe me.”

  Whether it’s the fact that I deservedly feel like an idiot or that she sounds like the Queen of England when she says, “Quite the opposite,” I find my lips curling up.

  She places her hand on my shoulder. “Plus, you’re kind of an arrogant arse. That’s not exactly my type.”

  Now my smile is gone as I stare at her back. I fold my arms, annoyed and, yes, offended. But then, I am an arrogant arrrse, as she politely puts it. So why am I so irritated? And what did she mean by “quite the opposite”? What are you running from, British Becky?

  When we reach the front of the line, I order two hot dogs.

  “Anything else?” the guy asks.

  “Chips, please,” Becky says.

  The server asks her what flavor chips she would like. Becky’s look in response is completely perplexed.

  “She means fries,” I tell him.

  “Gotcha.”

  “Darn, I forget that every time,” Becky tells me.

  I take hold of our food as Becky pays. I still can’t believe I forgot my wallet. We eat and walk, which is Becky’s idea, but clearly she hasn’t thought this through. Eating a hot dog and walking is not an easy feat.

  But it seems I’ll have to stand corrected as Becky wraps her mouth around the hot dog and eats the whole thing in three bites. I gape, somewhere between disgusted and awed.

  “You got enough in there?”

  When she’s done laughing she accepts the napkin I hand her and wipes mustard from the side of her mouth. “You’d be amazed how much I can fit in here.”

  For a moment, I can do nothing but stare at those damn perfect lips and talk my cock back into its cage. Then she winks, knowing full well she sent my mind to the gutter. “Come on, I don’t want to miss the game.”

  “Your banter leaves a lot to be desired, Cupcake.” I subtly adjust my jeans as I follow behind her, deciding I’ll eat my food when we reach our seats.

  She follows me up concrete steps toward our seats. When she finally turns to take in the view of the stadium, her eyes sparkle, her jaw loosens, and she sighs, like being here is some kind of accomplishment. She looks happy. Content. Alluring. Watching her could become a new guilty pleasure of mine. Who am I kidding; it already has.

  The game is starting as we make our way past a row of people and take our seats. The Yankees pitcher is announced over the PA system. I’m trying my damndest to watch the game, instead of thinking about the press of Becky’s thigh against mine. But she blows my concentration when she leans in to my ear and I catch that sweet scent I’ve come to know; then her hot breath comes with her words, caressing my neck.

  I swallow hard.

  I’m starting to think maybe I should just take her to bed. Get this over and done with. Then walk away.

  “What’s that thing they say in Top Gun?”

  I drag my mind from the gutter, again. “You mean when Goose says, ‘It’s bottom of the ninth; the score is tied, it’s time for the big one’?”

  I spend the next twenty minutes explaining the quote. How the scoring works. The positions of the team. By the end of the game she’s hurling insults, screaming when the bases are loaded and, not that I’d ever admit it to Sarah or Marty, she’s the most fun guest I’ve ever had at a game.

  “Enjoy that?” I ask, when we’re squashed like canned sardines into the subway again.

  The smile she gives me is worth every second of the torture I’m enduring on this ride. “Thanks, Drew. I know you’re busy and everything. Watching a game was way better than taking a tour.”

  “It’s really no trouble.” And I mean it. Oddly.

  With two stops to go, more bodies file into the already-packed car, and I feel her move against me. Her slender frame rubs against my waist. I jerk my attention to her, our eyes locking. I swear if the heat between us keeps ramping up with every look and touch, me and my big-city attitude are going to go down in flames.

  The chug of the train breaks the tension but rocks her unsteadily into me. Instinctively, I wrap an arm around her waist to support her.

  She looks at me, apologetically, but it’s me who should be sorry. Sorry that I can’t bring myself to move my arm from her waist, sorry that I must be giving off every signal on the planet that I want this woman, because I do. Badly. So damn sorry that I’m not the kind of man who does long term, and I can’t risk hurting her by doing what I really want to do and waving her out of my apartment hours later.

  When she drops her gaze to the floor, her head comes under my chin. She’s so close I’m breathing her in. Defenseless. When we chug out of the next stop, whether she does it reflexively or not, her hand moves around my waist, and we’re locked together, forced together, in an unintentional embrace. Yet, neither one of us shifts as the train moves toward our stop.

  Exiting the station doesn’t just mean I get fresh air; it means breathing space from my own irrational thoughts and from being pinned up against a woman who is quickly starting to drive me crazy.

  We stop walking outside Lexington Tower. The orange glow from inside the building casts a light across Becky’s cheeks. Her lips look so fucking kissable. That’s what I’m thinking when she cuts into my thoughts. “Do you want to grab a beer? Maybe a late burger? There’s an Irish bar just around the—”

  “Sorry, Becky, I can’t.” I can’t be near you for a second longer without taking you to my bed and screwing you until you’re screaming my name. “I need to check on things in the office. Wait here and I’ll go grab my wallet to pay you back for—”

  She presses a finger to my lips. “Stop. It’s fine, Drew. We’re two friends who caught a baseball game together. You don’t need to do the excuse thing, and you don’t need to pay me back. You can pay next time.”

  She pats a hand against my chest, then heads toward Paddy’s Irish bar, her tight ass in those tiny shorts teasing me as she goes. “Catch you later!” she calls back.

  She has a habit of showing me her ass like this. Fine as it is, it wreaks havoc with my self-constraint.

  I ride the elevator to my office, staring out at Manhattan’s lights, as the car climbs. I’m wondering whether I should have gone to Paddy’s because I can’t remember the last time I didn’t want a night to end as much as this. She’s beautiful, no doubt about it. But she’s smart and wickedly funny. That’s a combination not often found in women I know.

  My thoughts immediately change when I notice Sarah sitting behind her desk, then I hear my phone ringing in my pocket. She looks up as I retrieve the phone and cancel her call.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  “We have a problem.”

  “What kind of—”
/>   “Drew, what the hell kind of advice did you give me?” Malcolm Eddy cuts me off, storming like a double-chinned bull out of my office.

  My body instantly reacts, my shoulders drawing back and my chest rising. “You need to lower your tone and get the hell out of my space.”

  Wisely, he takes a step back. I move past him into my office. He follows, closing the door behind him. “Talk,” I tell him, in no mood to be “human.” We stand feet apart, facing each another.

  “Your advice was a load of shit.”

  “Hold up! You came in here asking about patents, trademarks and copyright. I told you how the protections work. There was no shit in there.”

  “You told me copyright attaches to an author without registration.”

  “It does. I also said registration gives you greater protection because it creates a presumption in favor of the author.”

  “A presumption! You didn’t tell me to register.”

  I understand without his needing to go on. I put my hands into my jeans pockets to stop myself accidentally flipping the incompetent dick the bird. “Let me guess. You decided to take on an intellectual property case that you know nothing about. You were slow off the mark registering your client’s rights, and someone beat you to it, trying to claim that they are the real author. About sum things up?”

  He stays silent.

  “Who’s the client?” I ask.

  “Astrana.”

  “Shit. Our biggest real estate client.”

  “Our.” He snorts. “Suddenly you give a shit about the firm when you’re less than four weeks from a vote on whether you make named partner.”

  “Wrong. I’ve always given a shit about this firm. Give me the case and I’ll fix it.”

  He sniggers and rubs a knuckle under his nose. I refrain from asking if it smells like he’s been shoving it up his asshole. Be human, Drew.

  “See, there it is. You don’t give a damn about the firm. You want to make a move on my client, like you always do.”

  “You know something, Malcolm, I’ve never taken a client from a partner at this firm who didn’t beg me to do so. Now, if you don’t want my help, show yourself the hell out of my office.”