The Divorce Attorney

by Melanie Munton

  When I don’t immediately reach for the card—because I’m still waiting to hear the punchline of his obvious joke—he lifts my hand and places it in my palm. His eyes remain locked intently on mine as he steps back into his office and lets the door slide shut.

  I stare at that door for a long ass time, fingers grasping the card until the edges dig into my skin.

  Did my divorce attorney just proposition me for sex five minutes after I got divorced?

  When my fingers start to cramp up, I look down at that card.

  Oh, my God.

  He totally, completely did.

  “Halt your hoochie little ass right there,” my roommate and one of three best friends commands.

  With a reluctant smile taking over my face, I slowly wheel around to face Gretchen. She sits at the bar of The Suckling Pig, vodka gimlet in hand, pinning me in place with her customary take-no-fucks expression.

  “You know better than to drop a bomb like that on me and then strut off without staying for the Q&A,” she chides.

  “I’m working, Gretch.”

  She raises one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “Yet you still felt compelled to tell me the tale of Prince Counselor Charming hitting up our fair maiden for some naked attorney-client privilege time. All the makings of my kind of fairytale. The only problem with that story is that you didn’t finish it.” She takes a sip of her drink, watching me over the glass’s rim.

  I quickly dash off to take the drink orders of a younger couple at one of my tables. To my dismay, she’s still waiting for an answer by the time I return and pass on the orders to the bartender.

  “What do you expect me to do, Gretch? He’s so out of my league it’s laughable. Like, piss my pants in front of the entire playground laughable.”

  She scowls and slams her nearly-empty glass onto the bar’s scratched surface. “I’m not even trying to hear that noise. Leagues don’t apply to sex, babe. Minors, majors, it doesn’t matter. You can hit home runs anywhere you want if you’re just playing for fun.”

  I slap my hand over her mouth, my eyes flying over the bar area. “If you get kicked out again, I am not covering for your drunk ass this time.”

  The last time she was “escorted” out, she’d been celebrating getting her current job at a prestigious advertising company and had tried to start a Coyote Ugly situation on top of the bar. Which my womanizer manager didn’t really want to put a stop to, but laws and all that.

  She rolls her eyes and pulls my hand away. “Dustin is the manager tonight. He went to high school with my older brother. I’ve got so much shit on him, he wouldn’t dare throw my drunk ass out.”

  Feeling flustered, I shove the tendrils of hair that have fallen out of my topknot off my face and place the couple’s finished drinks on my tray. “I’m not interested in getting involved with anyone. I just signed my fucking divorce papers yesterday. All I really need to do right now is concentrate on getting my master’s, making money, and”—I snatch two entrée plates from the kitchen window and add them to my tray that I prop up onto my shoulder—“deliver this food. There’s your happily ever after. The end.”

  “It’s called rebound sex, babe. Like chicken soup, it’s good for the soul.”

  I scurry off, but not before she rushes out, “Pound and rebound!” drawing the attention of several diners.

  I glare at her over my shoulder and silently mouth shut the fuck up.

  She just grins and responds make me.

  I drop off the food and drinks, using the opportunity to gather my patience. Gretchen has always been far more adventurous in her personal life than I’ve been, so it’s easy for her to give me the hookup green light. She isn’t a slut per se. She just doesn’t hit her own red light as often as I would.

  And she was one of the first and only people brave enough to tell me that marrying Grant would be the biggest mistake of my life.

  We’re best friends because somewhere deep down inside me, I knew she was right.

  We were suitemates in college, along with our other two best friends, Harper and Quinn, who also happen to be ex-stepsisters. Our little rag tag quartet has been tight ever since freshmen year. We’ve seen each other through all of our highs and lows. And when I decided to move out of the apartment I shared with Grant, each one of them stepped up. They all made sure I had enough cash for gas and groceries and helped me haul up all my shit to Gretchen’s two-bedroom loft.

  I would be so lost without the three of them in my life.

  Buuuuut… I can’t always trust their judgment.

  Namely, right now with Gretchen and the topic of sex with my divorce attorney.

  She often tends to think with her vagina—which she once dubbed “The Duchess of Charleston”—more than with her brain. Not that she’s not smart as hell because she is, especially when it comes to street smarts. But the girl is gorgeous and never has to go in search of male attention. Men flock to her as if her nipples have beer on tap. Thanks to her Greek father, she has a unique blend of features, from her almond-colored skin, to her dazzling silver eyes, to her head of lustrous chocolate curls.

  She draws penises to her like Noah drew animals to the Ark.

  God love her.

  “The last man that came into my life nearly ruined it,” I hiss at her when I approach the bar again. “Clearly, my judgment with men is seriously flawed right now. I don’t need to get twisted up in some affair with a man who is way too sophisticated for my broke ass.”

  She gapes at me like I just told her I’m taking a vow of chastity. “Uh, that’s exactly what you need. If this guy is as panty-dropping hot as you say he is, and if he’s got some miles on him, he’s probably experienced enough to be a pro. And since you consider yourself an amateur, maybe he could show you a few things.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Get you pumped and primed for your next marriage, you know?”

  I point my finger at her. “One, I don’t want to hear the word ‘marriage’ come out of your mouth again.”

  At this rate, I’m liable to become a spinster with twelve cats after my horrible introduction to marriage.

  She throws her hands up in surrender. “Fair enough.”

  “And two, I don’t think I’m capable of one-night-stands.”

  She sighs and pats my arm like you would a child who pronounces it “buh-sghetti.” “Oh, babe. We all are.”

  I shoot her a look. “You know what I mean. You know how hard I fell for Grant, and he was a d-bag even back then.”

  She nods. “Total asshat.”

  “Right. You know I tend to ignore the bad in people and only look for what I want to see in them. And when I think I find it, I lock onto it and make it into something bigger and better than it really is. I’m always attaching emotions to men, even if I don’t mean to. You remember the pizza delivery guy I thought I had a crush on?”

  She bursts into laughter. “Yeah, because he told you he was using his tips to save up and buy his little brother an Xbox that their mom couldn’t afford. Which you thought was the sweetest thing ever.”

  “And then we saw him buying weed from your neighbor,” I finish.

  She laughs harder.

  “But that proves my point,” I push on, ignoring her amusement at my expense. “I don’t even know why I do it. If I find one thing attractive about a guy, I’ll look for more qualities that I think will make him even more appealing until I’ve convinced myself he’s the perfect match for me. Grant was by far the most extreme example.”

  The bartender passes Gretchen a new drink, which she swipes up without taking her eyes off me. “So, how does this all apply to your divorce attorney?”

  “I already think he’s hot. We even joked around in his office, Gretch. He made me laugh, for shit’s sake. He’s obviously smart, and he even shut Grant up when he started going all asshole on me during the settlement. If I so much as kiss a man like him, I’ll probably be stupid enough to think I’ve fallen in love.”

  “Come on, you’re telling me
you didn’t learn anything from your experience with Grant?” she prods. “You’ve wised up since then, babe, even if you think you haven’t. You can’t tell me that you would marry the next guy you have sex with.”

  I pause, seeing her reasoning. “Well, no, I guess not…”

  “Then this situation is no different.” She shakes her head. “Regardless, you’re overthinking the whole thing. You’re a divorced woman now. This is the time to have fun and make up for all the years you wasted with that twat-hole.”

  Begrudgingly, I have to admit she makes a fairly decent point.

  But other things have to take priority right now. School and both of my jobs for starters. Once I get my life somewhat back on track, then I can think about resurrecting my social life. Until then, I have fresh batteries in my vibrator and a pretty vivid imagination. And both of those got me through four years of lackluster sex with Grant, so I think I’ll be okay.

  “That’s what I have you three for,” I tell her. “Whoever said I need a man in order to have fun?”

  “Well, if you ever want to have your snatch licked again, you might want to consider looking for one.” She moves her gaze down to my boobs that are once again imprisoned by the cinched corset. “I mean, you’re luscious and all, but that’s not my style.”

  I smack her arm, eliciting a chuckle from both of us.

  “Sloane, you’ve got another table,” one of the other waitresses calls out on her way to the kitchen.

  “Thanks.” I glance back at Gretchen. “Are the other two stopping by tonight?”

  She nods. “They said they’d be here around nine or so. Then we’re taking your ass out and getting you sloppy drunk.” She winks. “My treat.”

  “I never agreed to sloppy drunk,” I protest. “Just tipsy drunk, maybe with a little slurring. That’s it, Gretch. Take it or leave it.”

  I start to walk away before she can argue.

  “The Four Bangers are taking Charleston by storm tonight,” she sings loudly.

  “We never signed on to being called the Four Bangers,” I say over my shoulder. “Stop calling us that. It sounds disturbingly sexual.”

  “The Bitch Brigade?”

  “That’s insulting.”

  “Las Cuatro Diosas?”

  I pause. “The Four Goddesses? Better, but I’m not sold.”

  Her laughter trails me as I check on my tables on the way to my new one. From across the room, I can see a man sitting at the booth by himself. His back is facing me, but he looks tall and built, if the way he’s filling out that suit jacket is any indication. The fact that he’s sitting at a booth and not the bar tells me his girlfriend or whoever is probably in the restroom.

  That’s the worst part about working here, aside from the sexist uniforms. Seeing all the couples that waltz in and out of here is getting seriously depressing.

  I’m about ten feet away from the booth when the man turns around, gaze flitting over the crowd, as if searching for someone.

  I immediately spin around before our eyes connect.

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  Panic sets in as I hustle back over to Gretchen. My heart is pounding like a timpani drum, and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  I snatch her drink out of her hand and take one long swig. I could get fired so fast and hard if my boss saw me drinking during my shift, but I don’t give a flying fuck right now.

  “Whoa, babe.” She pries the glass from my fingers. “Save your stamina for later. What’s your deal?”

  “He’s here,” I whisper.

  “Who? Grant? That motherfu—”

  “Not Grant.” I suck in a sharp breath. “My divorce attorney.”

  Her eyes light up in unbridled excitement. “Ho-ly shit balls. Where? Show me, show me, show me.”

  I subtly tip my head back at his booth, her eyes following the movement. Then they widen to the size of watermelons.

  “Please tell me you’re joking,” she exclaims. “That man sitting there with the sinful grin is not the same man who told you that he wouldn’t disappoint you.”

  How does she know he has a sinful grin?

  I peek over my shoulder to see that he’s switched sides of the booth and is now facing our direction.

  And staring directly at me.

  The moment our gazes clash, it’s like I’m sucker punched and all the air rushes out of me.

  “Yep, that’s him.”

  “Then what in the frigging hell is your problem?” she spits. “You told me he was hot. You did not emphasize he was the come-on-the-spot kind of hot. Sloane, that man said he could handle you. What are you waiting for?”

  In this moment, I truthfully don’t know.

  Because all the reasons I gave her a minute ago for staying away from this particular man suddenly go out the window. In fact, nothing in the world sounds better than letting my sexy as hell divorce attorney handle me all night long.

  “If you don’t treat yo’self to some of that,” she adds, “then I will. Then I’ll disown you as my friend. And probably kick you out of my apartment.”

  Van Gordon—he told you to call him Carter—slowly grins.

  Then crooks his finger at me.

  Gretchen whistles, giving me a shove. “You’re on, babe. Time to pound and rebound.”

  Those are so not the words I need to hear right before I approach the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in real life.

  Because I’m starting to think that might just be the best advice she’s ever given me.

  Long live the Duchess of Charleston.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Carter once I reach his table.

  He straightens his shoulders, as if preparing to do battle. “You never called.”

  I tilt my head to the side, impressed by his brazen approach. “Just cut right to the chase, huh?”

  He shrugs. “Why not?”

  I agree. Life is too short to be evasive.

  “You can sit at the bar, you know.” So you won’t be in my section.

  He immediately catches on. Perceptive man. “Are you bartending right now?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m good here.”

  “You were the one who gave me your card,” I say pointedly. “That gave me the impression the ball was in my court.”

  He narrows his eyes skeptically. “And were you actually planning on using that card?”

  I don’t respond.

  He tips his chin up. “Exactly. So, I thought I’d stop by and give it another shot.”

  I don’t bother asking how he knew I worked here because the outfit is a dead giveaway. Any local would have instantly recognized it the second I walked into his office yesterday.

  “I could have gone full-on stalker and showed up at your place,” he tacks on. “It’s not like those legal documents weren’t littered with your address. But I figured this was the more respectable route.”

  I’m honestly floored by his persistence. I decide to follow his lead and not beat around the bush. “Why? I don’t get it. You can’t tell me I’m your usual type.”

  I know I’m not.

  My judgment when it comes to men might have been a little off over the past four years—at least when it came to Grant—but I have the distinct impression that Carter here doesn’t typically go for the young ones.

  His gaze roves over my body in a brief once-over. “And you can’t tell me that you aren’t curious, too. That you didn’t think about it at least once when you were in my office yesterday.”

  I also don’t bother asking what he means by “it.”

  Life is too short to spend it being obtuse.

  “Are you the type to always act on every impulse he has?”

  He chuckles darkly. “Most of the time, yes.”

  “That’s a dangerous habit to have.”

  One of his eyebrows goes up. “Or a fulfilling one.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised that he always
has a clever answer for everything. He is a lawyer, after all.

  Since he already drank in the sight of me, I use the opportunity to return the favor.

  He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit with a black tie, the sight making me yearn for the red bowtie. No black-frame glasses like yesterday and sadly, no suspenders. Not that he doesn’t look immaculate—pretty sure he’d make tube socks and a potato sack look immaculate—but I prefer how he looked yesterday. More relaxed with his sleeves rolled up. Hair carelessly shoved off his face. And a slightly wrinkled button-down beneath those suspenders.

  But he’s still the same man who can command a room no matter how he’s dressed.

  “Look, if this is all about this”—I wave down at the revealing uniform, bulging boobs and all—“I can tell you right now this is about as provocative as it gets for me. The package isn’t as exciting outside of this bar.”

  I’ve had it happen before. Guys see the outfit, see the skin, and they get ideas. They assume any girl who’s willing to show any amount of skin for her job must be down to clown with anyone, anytime. The image is a fantasy for them, and that’s kind of the point. This is how we make our money, and I won’t feel guilty about it or apologize for it. When they realize the fantasy is confined to these walls, they usually give up.

  Might as well ruin it for him now.

  Carter’s gaze heats, leaving me feeling flummoxed. “Considering the definition of ‘provocative’ is stimulating, inciting, or vexing, I highly doubt that. You don’t need to dress like a lusty barmaid to provoke stimulation, Sloane.”

  My head rears back as if his words literally just bitch slapped me.

  I still can’t get past the fact that it doesn’t make a damn bit of sense for a man like him to be interested in someone like me.

  “I’m sorry, but whatever you think is going to happen here, it won’t.”

  My God, what are you saying?! I thought we agreed to put an end to the stupidity streak!

  His mouth tightens. “Why not?”