Page 43 of Liar's Point

“Looks perfect now,” Cassandra said.

“Thank you.” She climbed down from the ladder.

Cassandra took a deep breath. “Are you Alex Breda?”

She smiled broadly. “Close. I’m Leyla Breda. One sec, I’ll get him.” She strode past her and leaned her head into the hallway. “Alex! You have a visitor.”

Then she returned to the seating area, tucking her hands into her apron pockets.

“Can I offer you a coffee?” She nodded at a granite counter along the wall. “Alex only has the Keurig, sadly, but there are some coffee pods.”

“No thanks.”

“You know, you look really familiar. Do you work at the Banyan Tree, by chance?”

“I do, yes. You’ve been in?”

She made a face. “Not in a while. I was doing those stretch classes with Danielle last fall, but then my schedule got crazy, and I fell out of the habit.”

Cassandra smiled awkwardly, wondering how long she was going to have to make small talk. “You should come back, though. Get into the groove again.”

“Ugh! This one’s crooked, too.” Leyla Breda stalked across the room and adjusted the picture beside the door. She took out the level again and placed it atop the frame.

Cassandra walked over to study the picture. It was a framed magazine article with a color photograph of a man and woman, both with their arms crossed and their backs to each other as they smiled for the camera. Breda & Braxton Take On H-Town, read the headline.

This man was Alex Breda? He looked like someone straight out of central casting.

Yes, we’re looking for tall, broad shoulders, commanding presence. Perfect teeth and golf tan a must. Oh, and make sure he has blue eyes and ridiculously long lashes.

Cassandra’s last lawyer had had bifocals and pattern baldness and was four inches shorter than she was.

The woman straightened the frame. “Doesn’t that look nice now?”

“It does.”

She glanced at the back of the office. “Sorry. One sec.”

She walked to the hallway and disappeared around the corner this time. Cassandra heard a door open, followed by muffled voices.

“Alex, someone’s here.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. A client, I think. Get your ass out there.”

Cassandra tucked her file folder under her arm and turned to look at the seascape again.

A moment later, the woman was back with a smile. “He’s coming.”

“Thank you.”

A man strode into the room. In ripped jeans and a faded Rip Curl T-shirt, he barely resembled the magazine photo.

“Hi. Alex Breda.” He thrust out his hand and smiled, and she caught the perfect white teeth.

“I’m Cassandra Miller,” she said, shaking his hand. “I saw your sign out front. Are you open for business or—”

“Absolutely. What can I do for you?”

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