Page 15 of Dial L for Lawyer
He pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at me. When he speaks, his voice has changed. Lower. More personal.
"We'll discuss my fees over dinner. Tonight. I'll pick you up at eight."
I stare, dumbfounded. "D-dinner?"
He doesn't answer, just flashes that irresistible half-smile and is gone before the conference room door closes behind him.
For one panic-drenched minute, I'm certain I misheard. Dinner? Like a date? Or dinner as in ‘I’m too busy to continue this conversation, so you’ll have to talk to me while I eat’? My brain, wired on sugar and anxiety, immediately envisions both: one involves PDFs and depositions, the other involves me in a little black dress, sweating through my most powerful antiperspirant while I try to chew food in front of someone whose face could sell aftershave.
My mother's voice immediately slices through my brain,"Men like him don't actually date women like you, sweetheart. They might fuck you in private, but a relationship? Please."
I push away from the table. I can't do this. I couldn't do it six months ago. And I certainly can't do it now.
Collecting myself, I dump the last of the snickerdoodles in the trash and sweep up my things. The mirrored elevator walls throw my reflection back at me—navy sheath dress, too-brightlipstick, impossibly high cheekbones courtesy of the contouring regimen I perfected for press launches. Add in the anxious overachiever edge and you have the devastatingly accurate picture of a woman about to spiral.
When the doors slide open, I don’t even register the lobby or the lines of glass offices beyond. I beeline for the parking garage, my heels slapping a frantic elegy for my sense of calm. By the time I make it to my car, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely press the ignition button.
Dinner?
I press my forehead to the steering wheel and force myself to breathe. Dinner is not a date. Or maybe it is. Or maybe it’s revenge. Maybe it’s?—
My phone buzzes with a text.
Audrey:
Tell me everything. Did he make you sign your soul away? Do you still think he's hot or did six months avoiding the guy fix your lusty thoughts?
A smile tugs at my mouth as I type back.
Me:
Still hot. More dangerous than ever.
Audrey:
Oh? Did he make you sign anything? If he did, I hope you read it. There are sex contracts, you know. Remember that scene in Fifty Shades…
I laugh, shaking my head at how her mind works.
Me:
No date contract, but he did say we'd discuss his fees over dinner. Tonight. At eight.
Audrey:
SERENA. This is either the best or worst thing that’s ever happened to you—no in-between.
Me:
I KNOW. I am spiraling.
Audrey:
You realize you have to show up this time? No overthinking and bailing.
She's already typing again before the first bubble clears.
Audrey:
