Chapter Twenty-Two
The following Monday, the morning “Strategy Session” at Jefferson, Jefferson, Jefferson & Associates was cancelled for the first time. This was to prepare the firm for Representative Davis’ arrival. Gourmet coffee and Continental Breakfast was catered in. London sat in her office bracing herself.
At Church last Sunday it had just been the Davis family: Dion, his wife Vivienne, and their two little boys, Charles, age 8 and David, age 10. Today it would be Davis’ work family. That meant his staff: secretary, assistants, scheduler, aides…Clayton Moore.
It would be the first time she’d seen him since the breakup. Would he at least have the tact to feel awkward about it?
She looked at the clock on her computer. It was already 9:45. They had the large conference room set up to accommodate everyone for the meeting that was to start at 10:00. Best to just get it over with. Like pulling a Band-Aid off, the quicker the better.
She opened her door and headed down the hallway. She could hear her father’s loud, booming voice, which he reserved specifically for VIPs, before she even turned the corner.
“Ah, here she is,” he said once she made the turn.
London was relieved to see that it was only Dion Davis with him, along with his Chief of Staff, Sean Carmichael. Presumably the rest of his underlings were taking advantage of the free breakfast in the lounge.
“London Jefferson,” drawled the representative, his voice smooth as honey. “Lovelier, and lovelier every day.” He gave her a brilliant smile as he engulfed her slender hand in his larger ones. “That Clayton is a lucky, lucky man,” his eyes wandered down her body, quickly enough for it to seem almost innocuous.
London was too stunned by what he had just said to worry about it. “I’m sorry?” she asked, her eyes blinking rapidly.
“Uh, we should finish introducing you to the team before the meeting starts,” her father stammered, mimicking her own perplexed look. His was heavily painted with a plea to leave it alone for now.
She let them go. So the fucker didn’t even have the balls to tell his boss about the break up. Probably too worried about how Davis’ relationship with the firm might affect his standing. What a fucking weasel!
She let it go. After today, it would no doubt be apparent to the entire Dion Davis staff that Clayton and London were no more. She headed to the conference room preoccupied with those thoughts.
She saw them as soon as she opened the door. Clayton and Marissa.
Marissa Stokes, Staff Assistant.
Marissa Stokes, half black, half Mexican. Way to pull in double the constituencies, Clayton!
Marissa Stokes, whose father worked for the MTA, whose mother was a teacher. Two perfectly, humble, “antic”-free professions. A very serious family indeed.
Marissa Stokes, who’d always been so friendly and personable to London.
It was one full second. One second was enough.
Marissa was leaning back against the table, hands on the edge, head tilted girlishly to one side. Clayton, standing just close enough to invade her space, but not touching, leaning in, head tilted forward meaningfully. There was nothing damning about it. Two people on very friendly terms, no doubt chatting about something they were both passionate about.
It was the smiles that sealed it. London had smiled up at Clayton like that early in their courtship. He, in return, had smiled right back at her the way he was at Marissa right now. Those smiles took the dagger he had already stuck in her heart and gave it a fatal twist.
If the smiles hadn’t clued her in, the guilty way Marissa pushed herself off the table, and the easy two steps back Clayton took to distance himself, did.
“London,” said Marissa, her pitch just a notch too high.
“Marissa,” London said evenly. “Clayton,” she said turning her head to him.
“London,” he responded, his face a mask of complete apathy.
London turned around and walked steadily, but quickly, back to her office. The only thing keeping the panic at bay was maintaining that steady pace. One, two. One, two. She made it just in time to shut the door, lean back on it and let out a silent wail so powerful it brought her to her knees.
She skipped the meeting and spent the rest of the day in her office.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Knock, knock!”
Michael looked up from the computer to find Brooklyn standing in his doorway. This time around it wasn’t a surprise, since he had sent for her specifically. In the back of his mind he knew it was probably a tiny abuse of power, calling her up to his office. But being a partner had to count for something. If he was going to get anywhere with her sister, he had to nip whatever feelings Brooklyn had for him in the bud.
“Hi,” he said pleasantly. “Please, come in, have a seat,” he pointed to the chair in front of his desk, “Can you close the door behind you?”
She approached him with a wary expression, but closed the door behind her all the same. Once she was seated, he began.
“Brooklyn,” he began, placing his elbows on the desk. His fingers were intertwined, with both index fingers against his lips, a serious expression on his face. “Douglas & Foster is unusually lax in a lot of areas, like for instance, the dress code.”
A look of suspicious outrage immediately clouded her face. He took in the curly hair that was dark brown from the roots, and on the tips, blonde? White? Then he saw the black leggings, and oversized flowery blouse, and the same engineer boots she had been wearing the first time he saw her.
They really were lax on the 37th floor.
He immediately continued with his spiel to correct any conclusions she was incorrectly coming to.
“Also when it comes to inter-office relationships,” he went on. “Yes, some partners are, um, known to have…relationships with other firm employees. That’s a line I, personally, try not to cross.”
He looked at her to see if she was grasping where he was going.
“Listen Michael, if you’re asking me to quit,”
Wait, what?
“I should point out that I really need this job.”
Oh no. No, no, no.
That wasn’t at all where he’d been going. He could already see the law suit the firm would be exposed to. His intent had obviously taken a detour somewhere.
It was becoming very apparent that he was a partner, talking to a subordinate, in his office, with the door closed.
“Besides, I’m sorry but, I just don’t have feelings for you. I mean, I’m very flattered,” she added, obviously misreading his perturbed expression.
“Well, that isn’t exactly—”
“In fact,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “I think my sister is interested in you.”
The conversation had just taken an interesting turn.
“Well that’s nice to know, but I don’t really think it’s appropri—”
“It’s probably inappropriate of me to say it, but frankly she could use the rebound.”
Very good to know, but…time and place.
“I guess technically you’re my boss,” she pondered.
There was no technically about it. His eyes wandered worriedly to the closed door behind her.
“But she’s my sister so I have to ask,” she leaned in again and gave him a warning look. “What exactly are your intentions?”
All of a sudden his tie felt tight around his neck. This was not a discussion for the workplace.
“Well I just met—”
“Because even though you’re maybe, kind of my boss—”
“Actually I’m—
“—all I’m saying is, I don’t want her to get hurt.” She gave him a meaningful look.
Michael nodded. “I can appreciate that.”
She leaned in even closer. “This is probably waaay over the line but—
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t—” he began, his heart beating faster.
“—she spent ten years with a real loser, and, frankly, is in desp
erate need of a rebound. So I hope you’re at least good in bed.”
With that she popped up and headed toward the door, leaving Michael stunned.
“Oh wait,” she said spinning around. “Did you have a problem with your computer?”
He stared at her in bewilderment.
“IT department?” she reminded him, pointing at her chest. “You called me up?”
“Oh,” he said, flustered. “No, um, I’m good.”
He watched her open the door and skip out.
What the hell?
Two minutes later James popped his head into Michael’s office. Today he had on a pink and white striped shirt—French cuffs as usual—with maroon suspenders and navy blue pants.
“Did you see that girl?” he asked with indignation. “What in the world was she wearing? And that hair? I thought we had nipped that in the bud!”
“Well, James, technically her hair is in natural colors,” he made a concerted effort not to stare at James own helmet of hair, which looked as though he had been dipped head first into an oil slick.
“Humph,” James muttered. “I see I’ll have to have another discussion with HR.” He wandered off leaving Michael to his thoughts.
He drummed his fingers on the desk, staring at the phone. London had escaped after their kiss. He’d wandered the party, thinking maybe she was just avoiding him, but she’d obviously just vanished. He’d taken his cue from her and done the same. There had been nothing there that interested him any longer.
Even with the jarring news of his father’s announcement, he had spent the better part of Sunday thinking about her. He’d felt her response to his kiss Saturday night, despite her protests that he wasn’t her type. He smiled. Little sis’ had just confirmed it for him.
That was enough to get him to pick up the phone. A simple google search had given him the 411 on her. He had been surprised to find she was related to that Jefferson, the same Frank Jefferson who managed to snag a camera appearance any time a celebrity of a certain…persuasion, managed to find themselves a matter of public spectacle. It was nice to know they had something in common. Both of them hid in the shadows while their fathers stole the spotlight.
It was a Monday. Probably not the best day of the week for, well, for possibilities to unfold. But he had to at least try. Michael was pretty sure he couldn’t go the rest of the week thinking about her without acting on it. Who knew? Maybe he’d catch her in a moment of weakness.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Her secretary rang her through.
“Michael?” she answered, surprise in her voice. “How did you get my number?”
“There’s this thing called Google,” he said. “Fortunately it’s on your firm’s website. So, it seems we’re both partners, but at least you get top billing.”
She laughed, then got straight to the point. “What do you want?”
He decided to do the same. “I want to see you again.”
“Listen, Michael—”
“Before you say no,” he interrupted. “I have it on good authority that you are available.”
There was a pause on the other end as London put the pieces together. “What in the world did she tell you?” she asked. He could hear the displeasure in her voice.
“Oh, yadda, yadda, ten years, yadda, yadda, loser, yadda, yadda, rebound, yadda, yadda, hoped I was good in bed.”
She gasped, which made him smile. “Oh my god, I’m going to kill her.”
“If it helps any, I haven’t had any complaints as far as that last bit goes.”
“I’m not having sex with you, Michael,” she stated quite firmly.
“How about drinks then, on me…as usual.” He smiled into the phone.
She gave a small laugh. “Listen, Michael—”
“Every time you say that, I get this feeling you’re going to go into some extended diatribe as to why you can’t. So let me head you off and give you a few good reasons why you should.
“One, it’s just drinks; perfectly harmless. Two, You’re obviously attracted to me—”
“What?” she laughed.
“—as am I to you. Three, even if we get caught, there’s nothing wrong with two lawyers meeting for drinks. Occupational necessity. Four, no pressure. It’ll be a chance to let go of whatever baggage you seem to be holding on to.”
“Excuse me?” she responded.
“Am I wrong?” he asked.
“Baggage is a very loaded word,” she pointed out. “No one likes being told they have it.”
“And yet everyone does,” he responded. “Look at me. Afraid of marriage, avoiding my dad, begging a woman who has no interest in me to go out for one simple drink. Baggage coming out of my ears.”
She laughed.
“One drink,” he urged.
“I…I really can’t—”
“One drink.”
“Michael.”
“One drink.”
She gave another soft laugh then sighed. “Okay, one drink. But not any place up here in Harlem,” she quickly added.
“Hmmm,” he mused. “So, like a secret tryst?”
“No, not like a secret tryst,” she countered.
“Okay, fine,” he conceded. “How about we meet halfway. The Roosevelt Hotel has a lovely lounge area.”
“Smooth,” she laughed.
It took him a moment to realize that he had just suggested a hotel. “I suppose it would do me no good to point out that I wasn’t suggesting anything.”
“Not really,” she chuckled.
“Well, they really do have a nice lounge, and it’s right smack in midtown. I’m downtown, you’re uptown. It’s pretty much a no-brainer.”
“Is that what your subconscious is telling you?” she suggested.
Now that it was out there, maybe she had a point. However, he had already started down this road so he might as well roll with it.
“I promise, no pressure. We can drink, talk, people watch, complain about our younger siblings, whatever you like. It’s Monday, after all. Let’s get the week off to an interesting start.”
He felt her contemplating it on the other end. “Fine,” she said, coming to a decision. “But don’t get any ideas!” she warned.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” he promised.
It was a lie. He was a red-blooded man, after all. Of course he was thinking of it!
She tapped the nail of her thumb against her teeth as she stared out the window of the cab.
What in the world was she doing?
Just one drink.
It was purely out of curiosity.
His phone call this morning had come at just the right time, almost fortuitously. She had naturally been pissed off when she realized how her little sister had been meddling. Then Michael had made her laugh. That was probably what had won her over in the end. That and the serious need for a drink. It was either this or a glass—let’s be honest, a bottle—of wine, and Netflix at home.
Just one drink.
No pressure. No promises. Just conversation (he was kind of funny), some enjoyable company (and fairly easy on the eyes), maybe a little flirting (she wouldn’t be entirely unopposed to another one of those kisses), and that was it (probably).
Just in case, she had booked a last minute appointment to get waxed.
Not that anything was going to happen.
“This is it,” the cab driver called out, snapping her out of her reverie.
She paid him and walked in the front doors. She had been to an event here once, but that had been a while ago and it certainly hadn’t been at the bar. As she walked up the stairs to the lobby she was instantly taken with how beautiful it was inside. It had a sort of old school glamour that didn’t seem faded, or overly nostalgic.
She was still in her work clothes. It was just a drink after all. All the same, she was glad she had chosen to look extra nice due to Dion Davis’ appearance at the firm this morning. Her hair was parted on the right and the edges curled in waves so that it fell on
one side of her face, fittingly similar to a golden-era, Hollywood actress. She wore a slim, black pencil skirt, a sleeveless, cream-colored, tie-neck blouse, and black Jimmy Choo high heels. She felt like some dame, off to meet Don Draper for—yes, a secret tryst.
“Tempting isn’t it?”
It was a masculine whisper in her ear and she spun around in surprise. “God!” she gasped, putting a hand to her chest, “you scared me!”
She turned to look at him. He was wearing a nicely tailored, navy suit, such as befitted a partner in a Wall Street firm. Very handsome, almost dashing. If it hadn’t been for that wicked grin of his.
“Forgive me,” he said giving an exaggerated look of atonement. “I was just so taken with the gorgeous stranger who entered the lobby, I had to approach her.”
She gave an appreciative laugh at the corny line. This was exactly what she needed.
“You really do look gorgeous,” he said.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she replied, fingering the lapel on his jacket.
He smiled down at her. “Shall we?” He placed a hand on the small of her back to guide her over to the lounge. It sent a shiver of delight through her body.
One drink.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“One whiskey sour for the lady,” Michael said, placing the glass before her on the table, “and one whiskey neat for yours truly.”
They had managed to snag one of the intimate sets of chairs facing each other in the lounge. As Michael set the drinks down before them, he admired the way the soft light made her smooth, brown skin glow. He found himself thinking it would be quite nice to see more of it.
He had promised one drink and one drink only, so he had exactly one drink’s worth of time to convince her to order another. Her sister had mentioned something about a loser and, more importantly, rebound potential. Who didn’t love getting drunk and talking about their exes?
“So what is this your sister was telling me about an ex?” he began, taking a sip.
“Oh no,” she warned. “We are not talking about him, especially not today.”
Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong: A BWWM Romance Page 12
