A Thin Line-

by DL White

Preston is a skilled attorney with a breadth of knowledge and experience that would afford him lucrative employment virtually anywhere he wanted to go, so long as he dropped his uncle’s name. Despite opportunities to work on retainer for mid sized Orlando corporations, or fight cases that would put him on the six o’ clock news, Preston remained in Orlando, near friends and family. That has made it easier to track down any cases I’m working on and get himself hired as opposing counsel.

  He has beat my ass every time.

  The best that my law school grades and connections could get me was an internship at Flanning & Rourke. My father sold a BMW to Gregory Rourke and dropped a hint that I’d been looking for an opportunity.

  I took a liking to Gregory and his partner, Doug Flanning. The variety of work that filtered through the doors meant that there was never a dull day. They offered me a position after I graduated from law school. Though the pay was moderate and the office was nothing like I’d imagine working as a lawyer to be, it gave me the stability that I needed at the time.

  My father’s Parkinson’s diagnosis and the rapid change in stages was a blow. I needed work that was close to home that wouldn’t be taxing or stressful while we worked out treatment plans and schedules for getting him to and from the hospital.

  I hadn’t planned to stay at Flanning & Rourke for more than a few years, but seven years later, I’m pulling into the parking lot full of divots and gravel.

  A Honda pulls into the space next to me and Troy, a shorter, rounder, less arrogant version of Preston bounces out of his car, waving in greeting. Troy is a few years out of law school and a fellow associate. His grades weren’t terrible, but were unimpressive and it took him three tries to pass the bar. He has bucked Preston’s trend of begging for help from his uncle.

  “If he gets me a job and I fail, it hurts him more than it hurts me,” he once told me. “I need to turn this around for myself.”

  After refusing help from everyone else, and striking out at several firms around Orlando, he finally let me put in a good word for him at F&R. That he chose to take a direct opposite and more difficult route than Preston is every indication of the type of man Troy is. And why I like him infinitely better than his brother.

  I sign off with my mother, toss the phone into my bag, grab my heels from the backseat, and walk to the grayish, stone building with him.

  “Morning.”

  “Back atcha. You look rough.”

  “I am rough. It was a late night.”

  “Preston came by the house on his way to work. He said you guys hung out.”

  My stomach turns. I didn’t want to think about him so early in the morning. “It wasn't the highlight of my evening.”

  Troy’s head bobs with his laughter. Our contentious relationship is a point of amusement for him. At the rear door to the building, he pulls a badge from his pocket, swipes it across the reader and pulls the door open after it beeps. He follows me down the hall into the kitchen.

  I sit in one of the chairs around a table covered in sweet treats and kick off my sneakers. The receptionist is a middle-aged woman that loves to bake. She brings in what her grandchildren don’t eat. I occupy myself by slipping into a pair of black Ferragamo pumps. I stand, smoothing any wrinkles out of my dress and join Troy at the coffee pot.

  "You heard about the wedding Nate and Morgan talked us into planning?” Troy nods with a sympathetic smile. “They conveniently waited until I’d already had a glass of wine to trap me. Preston threw out this stupid Hawaii idea—”

  "He mentioned that you weren't into it." I snort. He adds, "Okay, he said you screamed at him about it. But also that Nate cut that off.”

  "Because Nate has class.”

  I can’t stop thinking about how I don’t want to pose for wedding photos next to an animal on a spit.

  Troy fills my cup, leaving room for cream and sugar, which I add generously. If I'm not going to eat the goodies on the table, I'm going to drink sugary sweet coffee.

  “I’m not looking forward to this. Weddings are mostly about the bride. Preston will fight every idea I have, even though I know Morgan the best. He's going to plan the most…ugh….” I shudder. "The most gauche and déclassé bachelor party for Nate—”

  "Bachelor parties are pretty déclassé by nature.” Troy snickers, curling his top lip. “Only women throw those respectable bachelorette parties.”

  “When is the last time you went to a bachelorette party?”

  I sink into the memory of the deliciously hunky, dark-skinned cowboy—Stetson and all—that I hired for the last party I planned. I distinctly remember his rippling muscles, his deep voice, how he grabbed me and spun me into his arms while he ground his—

  I snap back to find Troy staring. I wipe what must be an odd expression from my face. "Anyway, he'll love working my nerves, and he will not pass up an opportunity to piss me off."

  “Don’t let him know he’s working your nerves, and that you’re pissed off. Your reaction makes him work harder to get under your skin.”

  “You do not understand, Troy. Preston just…” My hands clench, almost crushing the cup in my fingers. “I wish I knew why he was so invested in driving me crazy."

  Troy’s laughter comes from deep in his throat as he stirs sugar into his black coffee. He turns, grabbing an attaché case that is already scuffed. "You know why, Angie. You don't want to know it, but you know."

  “Don’t start, Troy.” I pick up my scuffed case. “That man is not in love with me.”

  Contrary to my prayers for no new work, I have snagged a monster—a property owner evicting tenants from a mid-rise building. My least favorite person is representing the property owner.

  My eyes rise to meet the steely gaze of Gregory Rourke. I have more than half a mind to shove the case file back into his hands.

  “I…it’s just that I’ve never won against Reid. Maybe—”

  “I'd give it to another associate, but I don’t want anyone else going up against this guy. This property owner is a piece of work. Take him out.”

  I swallow hard and give a short nod. “Done.”

  When Rourke leaves my office, I wilt. Then throw a very silent temper tantrum. I’m flattered that my bosses recognize my skill. I excel at turning up shreds of evidence and getting settlements for my clients. Most attorneys play fair, present their cases, and let the mediator or the judge decide the fate.

  Preston is not most attorneys. And he loves to antagonize me.

  I sit up and push some folders around, already mentally shuffling my workload. In addition to a new case where I will oppose him, Preston and I will plan a romantic destination wedding for our best friends.

  My life just became all Preston Reid, all the time.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  3

  Wedding planning begins with the bride ranking which of her closest friends would look best in satin and taffeta in seafoam green.

  Morgan, seated at her kitchen island, presses her lips together and leans onto an elbow, resting two fingers on her temple so as not to mar a perfectly shaped brow. On the back of an old playbill are the names of said closest friends.

  “You’re my Maid of Honor, of course. I don’t need more than two bridesmaids. Brandess and Jackie?”

  “If we can pull Jackie away from Matthew.”

  I curl my lip and whine her new husband’s name with a childish sneer while reaching for the lemon-tinged sparkling water that I’ve been sipping since I arrived at Morgan’s. I still have cottonmouth, and my head is pounding from the previous night’s celebration and a long day at work. I don't want to see another shot for at least a week.

  “She has been conspicuously absent for a while. I haven’t seen her since before she ran off to get married. She won’t even let us throw her a post-bachelorette party!” Morgan taps the tip of her pen against her teeth. “I never pictured her as a woman that dumps her friends when she meets a man. But here we are.”

  “Maybe Chef Matt is serving up something be
tter than a weekly course of wine and bitching about men.”

  Morgan pulls two fingers through her locs, confusion riding the lines on her forehead. “What’s better than wine and bitching about men?”

  Jackie Ross sat between Morgan and me in English 102 during our freshman year at the University of Central Florida and became an instant friend. She was a constant presence in our group of friends until she met her husband on BlackSinglesMatch.

  Matthew was all Jackie talked about for months. Matthew this and Matthew that and Matthew asked me to marry him over the flame of Bananas Foster, and we’re flying to Vegas tomorrow.

  Matthew is a nice guy, and nice-looking if you like an average height, brown-skinned brother with a crisp fade that looks dashing in a chef’s coat. He’s just... thin. There’s a saying that you should never trust a skinny chef. Matthew is still on the watch list, as far as I’m concerned.

  Morgan blows a puff of air from full, round cheeks before pushing the sheet of paper away. “I hate to be that bride—”

  “We’re on day two of wedding planning. It’s too early to turn BrideZilla.”

  “They’re probably all cozy together, eating gourmet meals and scrolling the Netflix queue.” I roll my head toward Morgan, biting back a sarcastic comment. If we’re not hanging out together or as a group, that’s exactly what she and Nate are doing. “But I’ll have this woman in my wedding photos that I don’t even talk to anymore. Do I want her in my pictures? My memories? Forever?”

  “You and Nate ignore everyone in the room when you’re together, Morgan. Don’t be dramatic. Jackie’s caught up right now, but she’ll pull up, especially since she’s in the wedding party. If she can get time off from the magazine, this trip would be perfect for them.”

  Morgan’s lips twist to one side, but she relents. “I guess.” She picks up the pen and adds Jacqueline Ross-Cooper to the list.

  I swivel off of my stool and hop down to the Italian porcelain tile, heading to the refrigerator. One side of the stainless-steel monstrosity reveals a drink selection fit for a queen. I refill my glass with San Pellegrino and offer to fill hers. She slides her glass across the countertop to me.

  Seated again, I broach the subject that has been top of mind for the last twenty-four hours. “Why do you hate me, best friend? What did I ever do to deserve this?”

  She chuckles, not even lifting her eyes from a bridal magazine. “Took you long enough.”

  “You have jokes, but I’m not playing. What the fuck am I supposed to do with Preston?”

  Morgan’s expression is blank. Calm. Cool. Collected. “We told you last night. We want you to plan–"

  “I’m clear on the mission! I’m unclear on why this is a partner project. With Preston,” I stress again, in case she doesn’t pick up my meaning. “This is fucked up. He and I–"

  “Will be fine.” Morgan pats my shoulder reassuringly. “I have faith that you and Preston will squash this petty beef—”

  My eyes narrow and I rear back. “Bitch, did you use the word petty?”

  “You know what? Grow up, Angie.”

  Morgan’s dulcet tones have risen to a decibel that I’ve rarely heard unless she is on a stage. She’s so brash that I can only stare. “This is not about you. This is not about Preston. This is not about your stupid fight with him. This is about our wedding. Please, please do this for us. You owe us.”

  I bristle, my eyes wide. “For having to put up with Preston all these years, I think you owe me. I hope Nate is having this can't we all get along conversation with Preston. I will not ignore him picking a fight whenever we breathe the same air.”

  “Nate is talking to Preston as we speak. I’m talking to you. You know how you get with him.”

  “How I get?”

  Morgan perks, then claps her hands together and beams a bright smile. “I’m done talking about you and Preston. I want to talk about Nate and me and our dream wedding. Did you join TyingtheKnot, like I asked you to?”

  This is important. It’s not about me. I will not fight with Preston.

  I roll this chant through my mind as I pull into my usual spot at Prime for my first meeting with my co-planner. I’ll give him an hour, which won’t give him a lot of time to get on my nerves. We’ll talk about initial ideas, make a to-do list, and I can be home by eight o’clock. I have files to review and a brief to prepare before morning. Perry has already slapped us with a stack of paper an inch thick.

  For this reason alone, I don’t want to be near him.

  Preston’s sleek Benz coupe swerves into the parking spot next to me. He hops out of his car in a slim cut, midnight blue suit and a crisp, white shirt, open at the collar. His shoes are velour, slip-on Stacy Adams. My eyes roll on their own.

  “Evangeline—sorry. Angie.” He gives me a look that says he isn’t sorry, followed by an up-and-down perusal of my workwear: a belted, dusk blue shift dress with low-heeled sandals. “You dressed for me. I’m touched.”

  “Please. If I dressed for you, I’d wear sweats.” I hike my bag up further onto my shoulder. “Can we do this?”

  Our favorite table is available, set far enough away from the bar and the kitchen that we don’t get the noise or hustle of traffic, but close enough to the action that we’re still a part of the scene.

  Preston settles into a chair opposite me. His usually meticulous goatee has not a follicle out of place, and his hair is rolling hills of curls. His nails are clipped. Square. Shiny. Preston’s suave demeanor, sharp sense of style, and winning smile haven’t ever fooled me. I know what all those women that watched him swagger through the bar don’t know.

  This man is an asshole.

  I pull a clean notepad and a ballpoint pen out of my bag before setting it on the chair next to me. In neat penmanship, I write Nate & Morgan McCord Wedding across the top.

  “Let’s start with dates. Morgan didn’t have any preferences. How about Nate?”

  I glance up to find Preston making eyes at the same waitress from a few nights ago. I clear my throat and tap my pen against the table. “Preston.”

  “Yuh.”

  I reach across the table and grab his chin to turn his head toward me. “Let’s get through this so I can leave, and you can hunt. Hmmm?”

  Preston lays an arm across the top of the chair next to him. “Why the hurry? Got a hot date?”

  “Yes, with some briefs that opposing counsel dumped on me today. Can we get back on topic?”

  “Let’s get a drink first.” He raises a hand, and the waitress starts to make her way over to our table. I groan inwardly at the way she stands— one hip popped out, chest forward. “Remy Martin and pineapple. What’ll you have, Evange—”

  He pauses at my glare and rephrases. “Angie, what’ll ya have? My treat.”

  How generous. “I’ll stick with water.”

  He grins at the waitress. “Forgive her; she’s uptight. Bring her the same. I need her a little loose.”

  “I don’t want a drink,” I bite out through clenched teeth, but my protests are futile. Preston shoos the waitress away and watches her bounce back to the bar. “I don’t want to be at this all night.”

  “You can have my whole night if you want it.” He winks and a little of my dinner threatens to come up.

  “No, thanks. That’s not worth much. Did Nate talk to you about timing?”

  “Nope. They trust us to come up with dates that work.”

  “I think we’re talking summer, then. Brandess and Keith have kids in school.”

  Keith Liao, a Black Korean real estate broker, and Brandess Whitmore were our first set of friends to hook up. They met at a multi-cultural university mixer and circled each other for over a year. Two children, a house in the suburbs, a thriving real estate partnership, school sports, Korean language tutors, and visits to family, both in Jacksonville and abroad, have taken up their free time in recent years. Their lives are so perfectly curated.

  Well, it looks perfect on Facebook.

  “It sou
nds like Nate and Morgan want more of an extended weekend.” I pull my phone from my bag and open the calendar app, forwarding the dates to the following year. “That gives us a lot of time to plan.”

  “I don’t need a lot of time to do anything.”

  “Sorry to hear about your premature ejaculation problem.”

  Preston sits up in his seat, his mouth pursed in irritation. I laugh to myself, mentally scoring a point. I struck a nerve.

  I flip through the months, back and forth from June to September. “I assume we want to be below the equator, which means prime booking season. Not that I’m worried about Dr. Nate’s pockets, but the less we spend on the rooms—”

  “The more liquor we can buy.” Preston finishes. Good point, though that wasn’t exactly where I was going.

  “I was going to say, the more we could spend on the reception.”

  Our drinks appear before us, and the place must be picking up because the waitress doesn’t linger.

  “I have a destination idea. Might make it easier for us. Want to hear it?”

  “I guess.” I sit back, sipping the drink I didn’t want, chanting to myself in my head.

  “One of our partners went to a wedding at a resort on St. Lucia. All-inclusive package— accommodations, food, drinks. All with views of the ocean. There’s a long list of excursions you can add on, and they work with you to put together the ceremony and the after-party.”

  “Afterparty?”

  “Reception. Whatever, Angie.” Preston is still irritated, and I’m enjoying it. He lifts his glass to his lips and takes a few sips.

  “It’s a start,” I admit. “We should research a few other places, get some information and prices, and present them to Nate and Morgan so they can pick.”

  “They put us in charge. We get to pick.” He sets his glass down and fixes his gaze on mine.

  For a long… long moment we stare at each other.

  Until I become uncomfortable and drop my eyes to the table.

  Preston chuckles; I curse myself. Every conversation is a battle of wills.

  “It’s a good idea, but you know everything about it, and I know nothing. Do you mind if I look it up?”