Page 16 of The Wrong Side of the Law

“What?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a hot boss before.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, of course I have, but omigawd. Are you serious? You think John Whitehall is hot?”

My own face screws up in horror.

“No! God no! How could you-”

“I mean, I’ll grant you,” Rita says, pulling another slice of pizza onto her plate. “The man is… let’s call him distinguished, I guess.”

“He’s older than dirt, Rita!”

“Isn’t that what I said? Distinguished.”

I laugh, reaching across the table to grab the slice off her plate instead of one of the remaining pieces on the round serving platter.

“Dork,” I say, laughing even harder at my friend’s mad scramble to stab my hand with her fork.

“No jury in the world would convict me,” she says, brandishing the utensil with a scowl.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “I’ve got a hot-as-hell prosecutor that might be able to talk them into it.”

“So if it’s not Whiteall,” Rita says, “then it must be…” Her eyes go distant, and I can almost see her mentally riffling through a file cabinet. After a long moment, she turns a baleful glare on me. “No. No, way. Not him.”

“I don’t know who you’re thinking of,” I say, “but I’m talking about Gabriel Cooper.”

“Yeah. The six-foot-three, spends all his time in the gym or in court, not an ounce of fat on his body or his brain, surfer blond hair and green eyes Gabriel Cooper.” She sighs, shaking her head. “At least he’s not Whitehall, I guess.”

“How do you know him?” I ask. “And what’s wrong with him?”

“Please try to pay attention, girl. It’s my business to know everythingthat happens in this town, and that means knowing everyone.”

“So, what do you know about him? And again: what’s wrong with him?”

“I know everything worth knowing about him,” Rita declares proudly, dabbing grease away from her lips. “He rents a large one bedroom plus den in Harrison Tower. He periodically goes on visiting sprees, looking at places for sale—not rent—but he never follows through.”

She goes on and on about the details. I want to cut her off, tell her I’m not really interested in his living situation… but in spite of myself, I am.

“He and his wife,” Rita continues, “owned a really adorable little house—1950’s, real Old Florida kind of vibe—over on Palmer, but it got sold in the divorce.”

As quickly as my heart sank at the wordwife, it peeks back out of hiding at the worddivorce. Get a grip, Emily. He’s your boss. You don’t need any distractions like that. Not now, and not for a long time to come. Get your life back in order before you think about adding someone else to it!

“Divorced? What happened?”

“Oh. Nothing much, so far as I can tell. Her name was Dorothy. Still is, I suppose.” Rita shrugs. “I sold the house. Whenever I had to meet with them… I think she still loved him, but she just wouldn’t settle. She didn’t want to come in second place to his career.” Rita pauses, mentally flicking through the file cabinet again. “She was sick of being an afterthought. That’s how she put it, I think. She moved away. Somewhere up north.”

“North, huh? That narrows it down. For you, anywhere past Vero Beach might as well be the icy wastelands of Siberia,” I tease, but then I sigh.

We both saw enough men like that when we were little girls. High powered attorneys and business owners, men who only bothered with wives and children because it was expected of them. Families were accessories, just as much as their golf club memberships and shiny convertibles.

I’d been lucky to have a loving, involved father. Rita? Not so much.

“Did I burst your bubble?” she asks, then laughs at my look of surprise. “Itoldyou. You’re so easy to read you might as well be a Golden Book.”

“Okay, fine,” I admit. “Yeah. You cut him right down to size.”

“Just wanted to make sure you understand he’s not husband material.”

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes at her. “Getting married is the absolute last thing on my mind, Rita. I just need to focus on work for a while. I need a paycheck so I can get some breathing room and figure out how to sort out my life.”

But still, it can’t hurt if my boss is easy to look at.

Can it?

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