by G. K. Brady
Except for one client, Michaela hadn’t acquired any of her business herself. She’d merely inherited the higher-ups’ dregs.
Hours from now, she’d hit the reset button and down a few gallons of coffee before plugging back in at work, ready to deliver another sixteen-plus hours. And while she could barely keep from drowning under the weight of the work, the partners collected the praise and the paychecks. But that was fine, she reminded herself. She was in the dues-paying cycle of her career.
Still, being the most junior of all the junior attorneys was killing her social life, and she wanted some balance, damn it! Did her fun side live and breathe under the mountain of to-wits and therefores? She’d mothballed vibrant, fun Michaela so long ago she wasn’t sure that part of her still existed. She missed that girl.
That very thinking was what had led her to tonight’s fiasco, which had in turn led her into that awful pepper spray-threatening mood. She cringed with embarrassment. Never mind that she’d semi-fibbed to the guy about being at work. Well, she had come from the office, even if she hadn’t spent the entire time clocking work hours. Excuses aside, how was she ever going to apologize to the big guy for her bad behavior?
With a tired sigh, she pushed away from the door, kicking off her shoes and dropping her purse as she wandered deeper into the empty space she hadn’t yet grown accustomed to. It wasn’t so much empty as it was minimalist sterile, all white and gray high-end furnishings that looked wholly uninviting and uncomfortable. They weren’t bad once you perched on them, but she simply didn’t want to. Saturday would change that, though, when she moved in the red leather couch and sank her bones into it.
She advanced cautiously into the darkened apartment. Couldn’t find the light switch, couldn’t find—Ow! Mmph! Found the damn chair leg. With a breathless curse, she plopped into the hard-angled offending chair and massaged her big toe.
Buzzing sounded on the floor behind her, and she got up, keeping her weight off her damaged foot as she inched her way toward the purse she’d dropped.
A text glowed in the dark. How did it go?
With an eye-roll, she tapped out, Why are you asking me at 3 a.m.?
Because it’s not 3 a.m. here. It’s 11 a.m., and inquiring minds need to be fed details.
Michaela laughed in spite of her throbbing toe and her disheveled ego. Best friends since middle school, Michaela and Fiona had a bond that couldn’t be broken. No matter what, her bestie always knew what to say and when to say it, whether it was to pick Michaela up or kick her ass. They were closer than she was to her own sisters—if she had any sisters. Pretend ones that lived in an only child’s active imagination didn’t count, she was pretty sure.
Michaela: You’re going to be disappointed, GF. No deets to report. The whole thing was a big suckaroo.
Fiona: So you didn’t find the one?
Michaela: Nope. If he’s out there, he’s not hanging out at speed-dating events. Unlike me, he’s way too smart for that idiocy. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure he’s not out there. Period.
Fiona: Oh, he’s out there. He’s just waiting for you to find him.
Easy for Fiona to say. She’d found “the one”—and a rich one too—the summer before law school when they’d donned backpacks and bummed around Europe. Fiona had literally fallen into his lap on the Eurail in Italy, and now she seemed to be forever exploring lands halfway across the globe with him instead of practicing law beside Michaela. How selfish of her! What had happened to the blood-sister oath they’d taken that night they’d decided to find out what getting drunk was all about? Didn’t that promise trump a man, even if he was the perfect one for Fiona? Sheesh.
Michaela: He’s either the proverbial needle in a haystack or his white charger came up lame.
Fiona: Nah, he’s just getting it shod, lololol.
Michaela’s phone rang, and she picked up, lifted by the sound of her best friend’s voice but still feigning annoyance. “I’m trying to sleep, you know.”
“I won’t keep you long. Just thought it’d be easier if we chatted. Besides, I needed to hear the tone of your voice to know how serious this is.”
“Very serious. Speed dating is not the answer. In fact, it sucks balls. It’s worse than the dating apps, if you can believe that.” Phone to her ear, Michaela meandered back to the two-story-high living space and stared out at Denver’s sparkling skyline. “I tried my damnedest tonight, Fi. Honest, I did. I got myself psyched up for a big adventure, but it was a complete letdown, and I ended up going back to the office and falling asleep on my desk. The closest I came to anything meaningful was almost licking a guy’s head.”
“Whoa! That sounds like an adventure to me! He must have left quite an impression if you were considering going down on him. In a crowd no less.”
Michaela burst out with an errant laugh. “Get your mind out of the gutter! Not that head. The head I’m talking about had a bad comb-over. A few of his greasy hairs were waving in the air with static electricity, and I felt sorry for him. Thought I could slap some spit on those puppies and tame them. That way maybe he’d get lucky … with someone else.”
“Ohhhh. Got it. So speed dating isn’t like a bag of M&Ms?”
“Huh?”
“A rainbow of yummy choices. You don’t know which one to start with. Work with me here!” she said in an exasperated tone.
“Too tired, Fi.”
“So all that effort and you left without even getting a name?”
The dark, polished wood floor had an array of light faux fur rugs, and Michaela stepped to one and dug her toes into the softness. “I gave my number to one guy—only because I didn’t want to disappoint the hostess—but God, I hope he doesn’t call. I’ll have to invent an excuse to get out of seeing him, and you know how much I hate lying.”
“Have I ever told you that while honesty is an honorable trait, it’s impractical for an attorney?”
“A million times. Now it’s a million and one.”
“Well, at least you got out and tried to meet people. I’m proud of you, Micky-Dub. You need to do more of that. Find your fun in the sun, your mojo in … can’t think of a word that rhymes.”
“The dojo,” Michaela filled in for her. “And no, I’m not signing up for some dojo class so I can wear a white robe and badly fitting capris in order meet men.”
“Huh. Good point. How are you liking your new digs?”
Michaela winced once more as she recalled pulling out the pepper spray on her neighbor. “Good, but I might have blown any chance at neighborly relations. I kinda threatened one of the guys next door just now.”
“What? Like just now? Did he try to attack you? Have you called the police?”
“Uh, it wasn’t exactly his fault.” Good thing he didn’t call the police.
“Uh-oh. I feel a confession coming. What did you do, Mick?”
Michaela explained quickly—not that there was much to tell anyway. “Oh well,” she said on a humorless laugh. “Just another guy who thinks I’m out of control.”
“Hey, leave Anders molding in the past. It’s where he belongs. So this neighbor. Is he cute?”
Michaela puffed her cheeks and blew out a breath. “I don’t know, Fi, and honestly it doesn’t matter because he’s already taken. He was making out with some woman in the hallway. After she left him standing there, he tried to make conversation. Which is weird, don’t you think? All I wanted to do was get inside, so I kinda … went Terminator on him. The only thing I noticed about his face was his panicky expression. I do have a vague impression of a junior version of Chad Michael Murray—complete with the smirk—before I pulled out the spray.” So not my type. That sculpted body, though. I’d like it to be my type. She’d never been with anybody quite that … chiseled. Dorky girls never got the jocks—not that she’d ever met a jock she wanted to get.
“You’re cracking, Micky-Dub. You need to get laid!”
“What I need is my best friend home to dole out hugs. How much longer a
re you and James planning to traipse around Europe?”
“Another month or so. We’ll be home in time for Thanksgiving. For what it’s worth, you get an A for effort, Mick. You were brave to try the speed-dating thing. I never would have gotten up the nerve to do something so … so daring. Don’t forget, the right man is out there. Hell, he might even be next door! Whoops! Or not.”
Michaela barked out a laugh. “I miss you, Fifi.”
“Miss you too, girlfriend. Now get some sleep, but don’t forget what I said. Think opportunity. Think fun! Be bold! Let’s find you a man! Love you.”
“Love you too, Fi.”
Michaela chuckled to herself. Next door? Yeah, scratch that. Another wave of guilt had her shaking her head. God, what a way to say hello! She headed for the bedroom, turning over various apologies in her head. What if she baked him some cookies and left them at his door with a note explaining her evil twin had been the pepper spray-wielding maniac?
Oh hell. The guy was merely a neighbor, and only temporarily. She’d be moving out in a few months, and she owed him zip. Considering the redhead rubbing herself all over him like a catnip-crazed feline, he’d probably already forgotten Michaela’s mini-meltdown because, hello, he’d had his hands full. Very full.
The image of the couple yanked her firmly back to the hotel ballroom and the myriad desperate people searching for their match, like plugs looking for the right sockets to connect with so that electricity could race through them. Ha! She’d have to write that analogy down in her journal … if she ever started keeping one.
Maybe if she had been bold … What if she’d dressed provocatively, like the redhead or some of the other women at the event? No, she would have been even more uncomfortable, and the choice in men wouldn’t have changed.
Her mother’s voice floated through her head, telling her if she expected to land a man who wasn’t a total loser, she needed to tuck her brain away for a while. “Men are intimidated by women who are smarter and more successful than they are,” her mom had warned more than once. Did that mean she should dumb herself down? No. If her smarts were too much to handle, well, that was his loss. Michaela had thought herself clever once, doing an end-around and picking someone smarter and more successful than she was, and look what a disaster that had turned out to be.
Ah, motherly advice. Because Michaela was an only child, she had grown up routinely bombarded with all kinds of guidance—helpful and not so helpful—from her elderly, well-intentioned parents. But the constant barrage wasn’t all bad: it had pushed her out of the nest early and brought her to Colorado from Kansas, where, at barely seventeen, she’d begun her first year of college at CU Boulder, speeding through her undergrad coursework and conquering law school ahead of schedule. And she was proud of that accomplishment, damn it! Besides, Fiona was smarter and she’d landed her Prince Charming, who treated her as though she walked on water.
So why was Michaela different? Was it a lack of choices, like tonight’s epic failure? Or was it her? Was she too picky? Too intense? Too unappealing? These questions were not new. She’d been asking them since Anders had shocked everyone by getting married two years ago.
Another thought popped into her head—apparently, she wasn’t getting to sleep anytime soon—and dragged her mind back to the couple getting it on next door. What had the woman meant about “lessons”? Salsa? Mixology? Sex? Nah, he didn’t look like a guy who needed lessons in sex. Probably could teach them, though. At least someone in this building was getting some action, she grumbled to herself.
“And time to put that distracting thought away,” she said aloud, followed by, “Barbecues and movie night, my hiney. Oh great. And now you’re talking to yourself.” Fiona was right. She needed to get laid.
As Michaela got ready for bed, she brushed out the goo that held her unruly curls in check so she didn’t end up resembling a dandelion. Removing her glasses, she eyed her reflection in the mirror. Fuzzy hair aside, she was attractive, wasn’t she? So why didn’t she feel attractive? Because it’s 3:00 a.m. and you’re exhausted! And why, oh why, couldn’t she find someone who appreciated her the way she was? She thought she’d found him once, but she’d been wrong … like so many of her guesses when it came to men.
“Stop beating yourself up,” she told her reflection in a Spanish accent. “You don’t need no stinking man.” With that, she executed a plucky pivot and blew herself a kiss. “He needs you.” Whoever he is.
Chapter 3
A Couch Is a Hard Thing to Move
Days later, Michaela sat in her office, shutting down her computer, when Brad Hewitt stuck his head in.
“Working on Saturday?”
Her knee-jerk reaction was to toss out a dry “obviously,” but then she remembered this was Brad, and she softened her tone. “Actually, I was just heading out to meet a client.”
“Ah. And here I thought you were getting your ducks in a row for the Fenton account.”
Benjamin Fenton, a big-time land developer, had been Steadman’s client for nearly two decades. But Steadman, the law firm’s patriarch, was looking to cut back his workload, and he was offering to personally mentor one of the junior attorneys—essentially grooming them to take over the account after Steadman retired. A plum opportunity, for sure, that offered lots of billable hours. And while every junior attorney in the firm was vying for the chance, Michaela was in a good position to win it because of her real estate focus. If she could win the Fenton account, she might fast-track to a partnership.
Brad was a junior attorney too, though six months more senior—a fact he never brought up, never rubbed in her face, unlike a few of the other juniors at Steadman, Hart & Fast. Of course, he wasn’t the face-rubbing type, nor was he trying to land the Fenton account, which meant he and Michaela weren’t competing against one another. He was a reserved guy, bordering on milquetoast, with dark hair and expressive brown eyes that gave him an almost feminine appearance. And they were his best feature. What he lacked in physical appeal he made up for with a quick mind and quiet tenacity. Michaela respected him, liked him, could talk to him endlessly about the nuances of law, but that’s as far as it went. For Brad, however, she suspected he nurtured hope for a romance that would never bloom.
Offering her a tentative smile, he paused to clear his throat. “What a coincidence. I’m leaving too. Would you care to have lunch?”
She had sidestepped a number of halting almost-invitations from him, but today she didn’t need to search for a genuine excuse. “Can’t. I have to pick up my new, er, used couch, and April’s meeting me at my place.”
Those dark brows of his knotted together. “You guys hang out together? But she’s your assistant.” A hint of puzzlement creased the corners of his mouth.
Though she knew he didn’t mean it the way it sounded—like she shouldn’t be hobnobbing with the “help”—she bit back the urge to explain that April had merely offered to do her a favor. “We’re running an errand together,” she said instead, hoping he interpreted it as a work errand, consequently freeing her from swerving around a fib.
“Oh. Well, perhaps … that is … What are you doing for dinner?” he blurted.
Michaela’s heart tugged. He’d never been so bold before. “Brad, I’m afraid—”
Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and he swiped a pale, puffy hand across it. She flinched inside, knowing what the invitation must have cost the socially awkward man, and she raced to fill the silence. “Thank you, but—”
Her phone chimed, and she picked up. Saved by the bell! “Hi, Paige. Yes, I’m heading your way right now. See you soon.” She ended the call and looked up at Brad with a vague smile. “Can’t keep a client waiting. Gotta go.”
Brad stammered out an unintelligible answer. Michaela shot up from her desk, gathered up her things, and flipped off the light switch, all while dodging Brad—in more ways than one—on her way out the door. Increasing her stride, she called, “Have a good weekend, Brad,” over her shoulder, locking
out an image of him gaping after her.
God, I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. Once inside her Toyota Tundra, she glided through traffic as she headed toward the 7th Avenue Historic District in Denver. Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into a private alley and parked in the driveway belonging to a gorgeous stone-and-stucco manor. Before she could hop out, the garage door lifted, revealing a big man, a slighter man, one tiny woman, and a red couch.
“Hi, Paige,” Michaela called to her favorite client, the lone one she had brought to the firm. Petite Paige Miller, Denver real estate mogul and owner of Anderson Homes, smiled her dazzling, dimpled smile and did a Vanna White-like sweep toward the couch. At odds with her diminutive frame was the protruding belly swelling nearly as wide as she was tall. Beside her stood her towering husband, Beckett Miller.
“Hi, Mick,” she greeted. Only special people called Michaela by her nickname; Paige was special. “It’s all yours.” The couch was a leftover from a redecorating project for a wealthy client that Paige’s associate, Mia Morales, had been handling. The client hadn’t wanted the piece in the end, and Paige had called Michaela. Paige had also arranged the house-sitting gig in the gorgeous luxury condo Michaela had just moved into. Yeah, Paige was very special.
Michaela leaned in to give her a squeeze, trying to avoid her baby bump but somehow not managing to. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
Paige waved her off. “It’s okay. I bump into everything, so I’m used to it. I feel like I’m hatching two Butterball turkeys instead of a pair of peanut-sized babies.”
Beckett chuckled. “You’d think she’d tip over, right?” He leaned down and kissed her temple and caressed said turkey-hatching center with a sweet look that about melted Michaela’s knees. “Need a back massage when we’re done here, pixie?” he murmured low, but Michaela’s tuned-in ears caught it.
