Page 8 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

A scowl filters across his face. “The payout increases every six months. We didn’t discuss this, but I have a golf buddy who got his prenup voided. What’s the likelihood of getting that done for me?”

I do not—correct that—should nottake this case. Red flags are already going up. Bob’s latest divorce will be a high-profile case and splashed on every magazine in the country.

I’ve worked tirelessly for three years to prove myself, sacrificing most of my personal life to show how dedicated I am. Cade and Jackson have given me shit for missing baseball games, parties, and canceling dates with certain European flight attendants who were in the city for only one night. If I take this case and it goes sideways—if I fail—all my hard work would be wasted.

But if it goes right . . .I’ll make partner by next year. It’s an ambitious plan, but I’m willing to take the chance.With caution.

“The travel expenses back and forth to California will be costly,” I say.

“I want the best, and my princess always talks about you being the best. This is your time to shine, kid.”Kid . . . time to shine . . .I try not to roll my eyes. Since the comments are meant as compliments, I don’t hold them against him. “I won’t take no, Rad. Draft the paperwork.”

Without an out coming to mind, I spy Mrs. Klein, a senior partner, eyeing me from outside her office. When her tap her temple, I know the signal. Bob Marché isn’t just a big name in Hollywood. I need to take advantage of this opportunity that just landed in my lap.It’s expected.

He holds his hand out. “Do we have a deal?”

I reach over and take it. “Let’s get started.”

Why do I feel as though I just sold my soul to the devil to make partner?

And yet, not thirty minutes ago, I felt as though I could make a genuine difference for the better in someone’s life?For Tealey.

Fuck if my life didn’t just get a lot more complicated.

3

Tealey Bell

The straps of my canvas tote dig into my shoulder as I feel around on the inside to find my keys. “See you tomorrow,” I call behind me. I’m usually the one working late, but I need to get home to pack.

When I still can’t find my keys, I kneel on the sidewalk and spread the handles wide to peer inside. “Ah.” I snatch them out and resettle the bag on my shoulder.

“Bell?”

I look ahead to find the familiar voice but shake it when I don’t see him.

“Bell?”

Over my shoulder, I spot the slate-gray car I was introduced to not even a month earlier. Nothing about Rad Wellington being in my borough or outside my office makes sense. “You lost, Welly?”

“Nope.”

Smirking, I tilt my head to the side, still standing too far away to have a real conversation. I maneuver around two women in ahurry and lean down to see Rad in his full glory—his short brown hair mussed as though he’s been tugging on it all day or just got lucky.My stomach twists.

I’m about to rest my hands on the open windowsill but stop myself, not daring to leave a fingerprint on this beautiful paint job. “What brings you to Brooklyn?”

“Want to go for a ride?” A rogue grin spreads across his face befitting the car—sleek and, dare I say, sexy.

“Where to?”

“My place.” I raise my brows. It’s not that I haven’t been invited before, but it’s never been just me—alone. I’ve only been there with the group. Rad and I are friends, of course. I even might have wanted to kiss him a time or ten over the years—how could I not? I’m a human, after all, and Rad is, well, Rad. He doesn’t look at me as more than a friend. And that’s probably for the best.

He’s just always been Manhattan elite while I’m more grounded in Brooklyn.

“A bit forward, don’t ya think, Mr. Wellington?”

“You asked.” He smirks, staring through the windshield. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I’m not sure, but I think I catch the smallest of grimaces before he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. He leans over and pops the door open. “Hop in.”

I look down the street toward my apartment. It’s five blocks, an easy walk, but skipping another night of packing sounds tempting. I know better, though. It wouldn’t be responsible to leave it until the last minute. “I really should go home.”

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