by Tia Louise
“Handwritten notes? I thought all the kids dictated these days.”
She smiles without looking up and continues writing. “It helps me think.”
Leaning to the side, I watch her slim fingers move. “Your penmanship is impressive.”
“Sylvia insisted all our Thank You notes be hand-written.” Dropping the pen she turns back to the computer. “She also insisted they not look like they were sent by a serial killer.”
Again I laugh, and this time her eyes flicker to my face. Her fingers pause a moment over the keys, and those glossy pink lips tremble. I’m a breath from covering them with mine again, but it’s too soon. I can’t keep pushing her when she’s clearly not ready.
Her words at dinner troubled me. Social order, revenge, and jealousy. I can’t help wondering which of the three had her beautiful eyes so clouded when she came to me. I want her to know she can come to me any time.
Her attention is back on the screen, and she’s using the mouse now, clicking on several places. “I want to show you a few company sites I think are superb. You can tell me which you like, and I’ll communicate all of this to the designer.”
“Do you already know who that will be?”
“I’ll contact the sites you like best and ask them for referrals. People are always happy to share when you compliment their web design.” She pushes back and stands. “Take a look at the five I have up now.”
Sitting I click through the windows she has open on my screen. All are sleek and streamlined, and all have the classic business image we want. “It’s like you’ve read my mind on all of them.”
“Don’t forget I’ve worked in the corporate world for years. I know what you stuff-shirts like.”
There she is—that’s the woman who called me old man. No matter how many times I tell myself I won’t chase her, I can’t resist her sassy attitude.
“Stuff-shirts?”
She glances back with a grin before walking to the window where I just stood looking out. “You all pretend to be so unique, yet you all repeat the exact same behavior.”
Fuck that. It sounds like why she keeps leaving me with my pants down wanting more. Still, I don’t go to her. I have a feeling it’s what she’s expecting, and I didn’t get to be the top attorney in my field by not being able to read people. Amy Knight, get ready to be surprised.
“I’d like to add brief interviews with each of the partners. Give visitors a sense of our individual style.”
“Mmm,” she nods. “Excellent idea.”
“Also, I’m sure a corporate philosophy is as unoriginal as every other website you’ve got here, but I want to have a page stating ours.”
She turns her back to the window and crosses her arms as she faces me. “Did you have something specific in mind or do you want me to collect several and let you pick one that suits you.”
“You mean copy someone else’s mission statement?”
“We can tweak it to make it ours. They’re all basically the same touchy-feely crap.”
My jaw tightens, and I exhale a smile. She’s showing me her wall, and I can’t help feeling like this is progress. “I have something specific in mind.”
Her eyebrows rise and she looks around my office. “Let’s sound it out, then. Tell me what’s in your head.”
Leaning back in my chair, I watch as she strolls around my office, my home away from home. “Nothing excites me more than taking a case everyone says is a lost cause. I care about the little guy.”
Stopping in front of a bookcase, she looks back at me over her shoulder. “You can say that with a straight face, working in this ridiculous office?”
“Excuse me? My office is not ridiculous.”
“Oh!” She feigns surprise and turns back shaking her head. I watch her long blonde waves shimmy across her back. “Did you inherit it from the governor?”
“As a matter of fact, a few government officials did occupy these offices a while back.”
“So it makes you feel like a public servant?”
“It makes me feel like I’m home.”
“I’ve been to your condo. It’s nowhere near this... outlandish.” She’s standing across the desk from me now, and she lifts the bronze pointer dog off the corner. “You’re an avid duck hunter?”
“It was a gift.”
“So he helps you flush out flighty ideals like truth, justice, and the American way?”
“Maybe.” Her head cocks to the side, and I cross my arms. “Is nothing sacred to you, Miss Knight?”
Pressing her lips against a smile, she turns and continues her journey around my space. Stopping at the oversized leather recliner with ottoman, she looks up at me. “Please continue your mission statement, Mr. Merritt.”
“Have dinner with me tonight. We can sound it out over steaks and pinot noir.” I hadn’t planned to ask her out, but something about her taunting made it hard to think of anything past wanting her with me.
She doesn’t answer right away. “Business dinners are actually great for brainstorming. Gets you out of your routine, enhances creativity.” She walks back to my desk and picks up the legal pad and her small case. “I’ll meet with Mr. Donnelly and Mr. Hampton and get their profiles. What time?”
The entire time I’ve been lost in admiration. It’s not often I encounter a professional woman who’s both vulnerable and fierce. Most I encounter are trying too hard to be men. It’s like they’ve lost touch with their feminine side. Add to it I know Amy is sexy and smart, and I waver between wanting to keep her on my team and wanting to rip her clothes off and fuck her. It’s a dangerous combination.
“Seven work for you?”
“I’ll be ready.”
“I’ll pick you up.” She can’t run out on me if I drive.
“No.” She stops at my door. “I don’t want Sylvia to think... anything.”
Frustration tightens my jaw. “Fine. Be at my condo at seven.”
She pauses, searching for an argument. Finding none, she nods. “Have a nice afternoon.”
* * *
Amy
Marcus didn’t say where we were going for dinner, and I stare into my closet for several long moments trying to decide what outfit can go anywhere. Finally, I pull out a black Kate Spade dress with beige trim at the hem, shoulders, and neckline. It’s very feminine and flirty, and I can already tell he loves that.
Stop. What did I just think?
I’m about to take it off when Sylvia appears at my door. Her eyes immediately light up. “You have a date?”
“Business dinner.” Her smile falters, and I can’t help feeling mildly guilty, which is utterly absurd.
“How was working with Marcus? Isn’t he the sweetest thing?”
Going into my bathroom, I dodge the question as I quickly brush out my hair. Sweet is not a word I would use for Marcus. “He needs someone to update his company website. It’s pretty run of the mill stuff.”
“But fun? Interesting?”
I’m not sure where she’s going with this, and I pause. She’s again dressed in her robe and she looks ready for bed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been out every night for the last three nights.”
“You were home last night,” she argues. “And you forget I was living alone before you moved back.”
Chewing my lip, I can’t help feeling penitent. “We’ll go to dinner tomorrow. Just the two of us.”
“We will not. I’ve got my Bridge game at Cassandra’s.” Shaking her head, she walks to my door. “Just like children—convinced their parents have no social life.”
Laughing, I can’t help remembering my conversation with Marcus earlier today. I suppose my ball-busting comes honest. “Sorry. I forget you have a very active social life.”
“Just be careful.” She drops on the couch, picking up the television remote. “Make good choices. Don’t do drugs.”
That makes me laugh even more. “I’m not sixteen, Mom. And I never was much for the mind-altering substances.”
Droppin
g her head back, she gives me a signature Sylvia smile. “I’m only teasing, darling. Have a nice time. You look lovely. Be careful Marcus Merritt doesn’t fall in love with you.”
Her words are like a bucket of ice water straight to my stomach. “No worries there.” I’m out the door feeling shell-shocked, and the evening hasn’t even begun.
* * *
Marcus meets me at the door to his condo looking good enough to eat. He’s wearing dark slacks and a light blue polo with the sleeves cuffed, but his hair’s a gorgeous mess, and that light scruff is still on his face. The overt appreciation when he sees me prompts an unwelcome flutter through my stomach, especially in view of Sylvia’s pronouncement. Dammit, Sylvia. Is it time? Was that the signal to run?
I don’t have a chance to answer my internal question before he pulls his door closed and catches my elbow. “I had an idea where I was going to take you, but now I’ve changed my mind.”
“Oh, really?” My amusement at his conspiratorial tone cancels out my internal debate.
“That dress would be wasted at Wasabi.”
“The Japanese place?” I’m tempted to change. “You said steak and pinot, so I went fancy.”
Catching my waist with a grin, he escorts me to his car. “We’ll wear jeans and eat ramen on our first date.”
My eyes narrow. “It’s like that, is it?”
“Yes. Save the most expensive dinners for the firm’s tab.”
He’s holding my door, and I step in with a laugh. He’s excited and playful, and nothing in me wants to change his mood.
“How’s it going with the web updates?” His eyes are on the road as we make our way to I-94.
“I touched base with a few of the designers you liked. I think Superior Design would be a good choice. They’re fun and interactive but elegant.”
He nods, taking the Milwaukee Street exit. “I trust your judgment.”
“I’d like to take better headshots of the three of you.”
A quick glance, and he’s back to the road. “You’re a photographer?”
“I’m not a professional, but I’ve worked with enough of them to fake it.”
“We can hire a professional photographer if we need to.” He pulls us into the parking lot of what looks like a tavern.
My brow lines. “Where the hell...?”
“City Tavern.” Keys out, he gives me a wink before climbing out. “It’s on everybody’s best new restaurant list.”
He’s opening my door just as I’m reaching for it, holding a hand down to help me out. I can’t help teasing. “Aren’t you the gentleman?”
“I’ve heard it’s what women like most about me.”
“No credit to your poor mother?”
Something flickers in his eyes, almost clouding his cheery mood, but he recovers fast. “No, actually.”
Curious. I’d like to know more about that, but I’ll save it. “Well, if you don’t trust me, I’ll happily find a professional to reshoot—”
“I already said I trust you. Just say the word, and we’ll set it up.”
Stopping at the hostess’s stand, Marcus gives our names while I glance around the interior. Elegant wooden armchairs with expensive, fabric-covered cushions are arranged around weathered dark-wood farm tables.
“We have to wait at the bar,” he says, taking my elbow and escorting me into a side room.
Blue leather and brass-studded barstools line a long, wooden bar. The entire place is rustic and cozy, yet elegant, from the white-painted brick walls to the blue and white striped wallpaper. “This place could be attached to your law office.”
“Portage Park is up and coming, and they’re supposed to have the best house-made charcuterie.”
My eyebrows rise at his perfect accent. “You speak French?”
“Not very well.” He pauses to order us each a vodka rocks. “The person who told me about this place pronounced it.”
I can’t help being curious. “And who was that?”
“My father.”
That makes me laugh. Our drinks are back and he hands me a short tumbler. Before he can do anything, I clink my glass against his. “Skal.”
That gets me a smile. “You beat me.” He takes a sip and continues. “Dad recommends the ribeye. They dry age it in-house for up to three weeks.”
“Sounds delicious.” Sipping my drink, I can’t help but notice how much fun I’m having. My earlier flight-mechanism forestalled.
He leans against the bar, and I sit on a high stool, and for a moment, we only consider each other.
“I can’t hold you forever,” he finally says, and my insides tense. “We only have so many marketing needs.”
Relaxing, I exhale. “Are you saying updating the firm’s website wasn’t a top priority before now?”
“In all honesty...” He takes another sip and clears his throat as I laugh. “Any idea who you’d like to work with? I’ll let you know if they’re worth a damn.”
Thinking back over the week, I recall one email. It was a less than desirable offer, but I have to consider all options. “I got a query from Dickerson, Cox, and Broadhead—”
“No.”
“Sorry?” His abrupt response catches me off guard.
“Troy Cox is an ass, and Roland’s not much better.”
I only know Roland, but I can’t disagree. I also can’t resist teasing him.
“Despite what you and I are doing here, extracurricular activities aren’t on my regular menu of services.” He’s clearly annoyed, which has me even more curious. “What exactly makes Mr. Cox an ass?”
The hostess arrives right at that point to lead us to our table. Marcus signals the bartender, and we follow the young woman to the back. It’s actually a navy velvet banquette. The arrangement leaves very little room between us.
“Cozy,” I note.
“Shall we?” He nods toward the waiter.
I agree, and he orders the ribeye and a bottle of pinot. Before long a sommelier appears to open and serve the pale red wine. He leaves, and I return to our abandoned topic.
“Back to Cox,” I say, taking a sip of wine. Notes of cherry and pomegranate hit my tongue, distracting me. “Mmm... This is going to be perfect with the steak.”
Marcus laughs. “Agreed. And that’s exactly as much breath as we’ll waste on Troy Cox. I’m not ruining dinner.”
“Hmm,” I say taking another small sip. “Tabled for now.”
We’re quiet a moment, and I push against the velvet cushions, letting my eyes roam our surroundings. “It’s really lovely here. I’ll have to add it to my list of go-tos.”
“My secretary worked in the restaurant business in college. She keeps track of all the new places.”
“Janice?” I smile, thinking of Sylvia. “My mother loves eating out. I’ll have to bring her here for Mother’s Day.”
He leans back, placing his fingers on the stem of his glass. “How’s that going?”
“What? Living with Sylvia? I love it.”
“Not looking for your own place?” The way he studies me causes a little flicker low in my stomach.
“Eventually.” Now I’m really laughing. “What interest do you have in my living arrangements?”
“I’m sure you can figure that one out.” His sly grin causes that little flicker to grow into more of a sizzle.
“Pretty sure of an invitation, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been pretty lucky in the past.”
A server appears with our plates, and it isn’t long before I’m cutting into perfectly cooked, medium-rare steak and roasted cauliflower with gruyere. Taking a break, I sip more wine and our eyes meet in the dim light across the table. His drop to my mouth then lower, lingering over my shoulders.
His gaze is like a caress, clearly hungry for more than steak. My head feels hot, and I curse not getting out more with C.J. I need to reconnect better. Then Marcus wouldn’t be so damned tempting all the time.
“We’re supposed to be discussing your missi
on statement during this business dinner,” I say, hoping to break the tension.
With a blink, he releases me. “How did the interviews go with Paul and Chris?”
“Just fine. That’s another thing we should take care of tonight.”
Setting his fork down, he leans back, lifting his wine glass. “What do you want to know? Shoot.”
I follow suit, leaning back on the velveteen bench. “You weren’t born in Chicago. Is Wilmington home?”
“Nice memory,” he grins, glancing down. “Yes. I grew up in Wilmington.”
“That explains the good Southern manners.” He chuckles, and I continue, recalling my curiosity at our earlier conversation. “You don’t credit your mother for them. Were you raised by another relative?”
“A rather personal question, Miss Knight.”
“You shouldn’t hide things from your PR person,” I tease. “Survivor stories are a marketing goldmine.”
“Is that so?” His question is slow and thoughtful, and he’s not smiling.
A protracted pause, and I decide to back off. “You don’t have to tell me. I was really just curious.”
“I know.” His eyes are on his wine glass, and I feel guilty for prying.
“What’s that saying? ‘It will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end’?” It only gets me a small smile, and I keep going. “I read it on a cat poster.”
That gets me a laugh. “You’re quoting the Lego movie now? What are you, twelve?”
“You caught the reference.”
“I happen to like Will Ferrell.”
This is better. I grin, “I seem to recall someone said I was a baby.”
“I’m starting to think you have daddy issues.” He lifts the wine glass and takes a sip. “Don’t most women?”
Wrong answer. “Don’t go there.”
He blinks up at me, and his expression softens. “Sorry.”
An uncomfortable silence floats between us, and I try to think of anything to say. I hadn’t meant to be sharp. I hadn’t meant to show my hand, and I really wish we could turn the clock back to a few seconds ago.
I’m surprised when he suddenly answers my original question. “My mother left when we were kids.” A little pause, a little frown. “Elaine was just a baby.”
