Page 4 of The Law of Attraction

‘Our man was as guilty as sin, and Wickman had one hell of a witness. He definitely started in poll position.’

I can’t help feeling smug. ‘Too bad he got caught out doing shady shit to get his witness.’ I won the case on a technicality that meant Wickman’s key witness testimony was inadmissible. That’s the only part about the win that sucks. I would have liked to kick his ass in a real dogfight.

As if his thoughts mirror my own, Marty tells me, ‘A win on technicality is still a win, buddy. What are you eating?’

There’s no need for me to open the black, leather-bound menu on the table in front of me. We’ve been celebrating big wins at this same place for years. It’s the city’s finest French restaurant and there’s only one thing for a win like today’s…steak au poivre.

Despite being a big, modern space, the restaurant is packed, and the atmosphere is buzzing. The only nights this place isn’t teeming with people are Sundays and Mondays, and that’s because it’s closed. But the crowds never affect the quality of the food. Edmond Devereux is a five-star head chef, and I know personally that he is all about his standards. He employs only the best.

It’s a good thing really, since his poker skills are awful, at best, and he does like a poker night with the boys.

Our order is taken by a waitress. I watch through the window to the open kitchen as she hands the ticket to Edmond. When he reads it, he seeks out Marty and me and holds up a hand in greeting.

‘I don’t need to tell you, Drew, this case won’t hurt your chances of taking a named spot next to me.’ Marty leans in and lowers his voice. ‘I didn’t tell you, obviously, but Turner is on his way out. He’s talking about giving notice of his retirement soon. Very soon.’

Outwardly, I remain cool as I sip from my crystal glass. Inside, I’m buzzing. I was the youngest junior partner ever at Statham Turner. I busted a gut to make it to senior partner two years ago, when I was only thirty-two. If I made named partner by thirty-five… Shit.

I’m about to respond to Marty when a loud clatter pulls my attention to the service counter in the kitchen. Three staff bend to the ground to pick up whatever just spilled. One head pops up before the others. Blondie. She’s apologizing profusely to Edmond who, oddly for him, seems to be taking it well.

‘New girl,’ Marty says. I imagine he’s rolling his eyes and shaking his head, but my focus is on the petite blonde. She glances around the restaurant, her eyes full of apology. The fire I saw this morning is lost behind something… embarrassment, maybe. Her hair is tied back from her face, and her cheeks flush pink. Even that’s a good look on her.

‘You know her?’ Marty asks.

I tear my gaze from Blondie, confused. I thought she made cupcakes. Well, okay I thought she made some kind of cakes. What is she doing in Edmond’s restaurant?

‘Not exactly. I bought her breakfast this morning.’

‘She’s the one you picked up last night?’

I can’t resist another glance, but when I look at the station, the mess has been cleared and Blondie is nowhere to be seen.

‘Ah, no. She was at Fabio’s truck this morning. Long story. I ended up paying for her breakfast, that’s all.’

He whistles through his teeth and leans back, jiggling his tie for effect. ‘Didn’t hook up with her and you still got stung for breakfast. Some might say you’re losing your touch, Drew.’

It irks me that he’s talking about the woman as a lay, and I have no idea why. Brushing off that alien feeling, I tell him, ‘No chance, Marty. You’re way off base. I’ll keep smooth talking my way to the best picks, and you can take what’s left in the draft.’

We eat steak and drink wine, moving from talking NFL references to talking about the Yankees’ upcoming game against the Red Sox. More than once, my attention drifts as I search the visible kitchen area for Blondie.

Our plates are cleared, and I’m looking for her again. ‘Drew, what’s up with you tonight?’

I finish the wine in my glass – specially paired to the steak – and play ignorant. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve had half an ear at this table all night.’

‘Sorry, man. I guess it’s been a long day.’

Marty sits back in his chair and accepts a dessert menu handed to him by a waiter in a vest. ‘Nothing to do with the fact you’ve been looking around the place like a hungry tiger?’

A tiger. That’s right. That’s who I am. Aggressive. Always on the prowl. King of the circuit. Not a guy who wants to know more about the petite, yet perfectly curved, indecisive Brit with the most incredible smile I’ve ever seen.

Clearing my throat, I drag my head back in the game. ‘You haven’t moaned like a fly hitting a windshield over the Giants’ draft this week. You finally made peace with the selections?’

‘Fuck no.’ And we’re back. Marty spends the next ten minutes crying like a little girl with pigtails and a pretty pink dress over the shit storm he predicts in the next NFL season.

I’m leaning back, laughing at Marty, because he’s now so worked up, he’s pulling his hair out. I’m not even speaking figuratively. His knuckles are white as he tugs on his roots.

‘You need to calm down, Marty. I think I see you thinning on top.’

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