Page 9 of The Law of Attraction

Amusement is splayed all over Beatrice's face as she tucks her auburn hair behind her ear and stands to walk over to me. ‘That sounds like Becky. She’s been here nine months.’

‘Nine months? I’ve never seen her before.’ God knows I’d remember.

‘Mm-hm, nine months. She’s always tucked away in the kitchen, I guess. Do you want me to grab her for you?’

‘She’s here?’ My words come out too high-pitched, as if someone just grabbed my balls and squeezed. My heart starts thumping in my chest. I think I might be having some kind of medical condition here. I press the side of my fist to my chest. What the actual…?

Edmond moves over from the table. ‘She’s not here. She finished her morning shift early, and I sent her home. She’ll be back in for tonight’s service.’

My breathing calms. ‘Right. Would you just give her this note for me? She, ah, asked for my feedback on one of…’ I give up because the look on both Beatrice and Edmond’s faces tells me they see right through my façade. ‘Could you just give this to her? She’ll know who it’s from.’

Beatrice grins. ‘Sure will.’

I make some kind of frustrated grumbling noise and rub my fingers along my jaw. ‘Thanks. Edmond, we still on for poker Saturday, my place?’

‘I’ll be there as soon as service is finished.’

I bolt from the place faster than lightning: idiotic, caught in the act, not fooling anyone. I head to the sanctity of the Drew I was before tasting those damn cakes. The Drew who kicks ass. The Drew who keeps women around long enough in the morning for seconds of the meal he had the night before, and no more. I head back to the office to prepare for my ten-thirty.

4

DREW

I’m sitting at the head of the oval board table, just off center. Marty and Richard Turner are in the chief seats. Opposite me is Patrick James: the joker who thinks he’ll be my competition for named partner. No chance. I mean the guy has two first names. Come on.

The other Statham Turner partners fill the sixteen seats at the table. Other attorneys stand or perch on the window ledges. Some are dialed in and viewing the monthly partners’ meeting via videocon. We’ve covered most items on the agenda, but we’re running over.

A tentative knock on the door tells us breakfast has arrived. Marty flicks a finger, beckoning the kitchen staff to come in.

‘Put it in the middle,’ he tells the woman whose name I do not know, despite her working here for years. ‘All right, everyone, let’s grab a bite and we’ll finish up,’ he tells the rest of us. He glances at his watch. ‘I appreciate some of you have places to be. For those of you who don’t, you ought to.’

Like me, Marty can be a class A jerk to work with. We know it but that’s part of what makes us good lawyers. But it wasn’t his arrogance that helped get him named partner at thirty-six. What did help was that his father was the Statham predecessor. I don’t mean Marty didn’t deserve it on merit, but on personality alone, he might not have won the vote of all the partners.

The server leans between Marty and me, putting down two plates. She’s a middle-aged woman. Kind of plump with a bad perm. She mustn’t have got the memo that the eighties are over.

One of the plates is stacked with turkey bacon bagels; I can take a good guess at who ordered those. The other hosts a selection of French pastries. As I consider the French pastries, I suddenly feel like the arrogant ass I am.

This woman has served me for the better part of a decade, as a junior and a partner, and I’ve never given her the courtesy of asking her name. In fact, I’ve possibly never even thanked her for her service. She comes and goes largely under the radar. She probably gets a train from some working-class suburb and puts up with the commute and minimum wage to feed and clothe a family.

I look at her, then the plates, and this time I don’t just see food; I see bread that someone has baked this morning because Statham Turner considers itself too highbrow to order in. Maybe this lady even baked as well as serving. I reach out for a bagel and find my lips curling.Shove that in your bagel and eat it. I can’t stop the pfft of amusement that breaks my lips.

I rub my mouth quickly and clear my throat, disguising the humor and regaining my composure.

‘A plate, Mr Harrington?’ The server holds out a side plate. I take it and, for the first time ever, I say, ‘Thank you, ah…?’

The fact that she looks startled makes me feel like an even bigger ass. Then, as if one ‘thank you’ can make up for the countless times I haven’t thanked her, she beams. ‘Tricia.’

I nod. ‘Thank you, Tricia.’

‘You’re welcome, Mr Harrington.’

‘Drew.’

She presses her lips together with two quick nods, but her eyes continue to smile. And I feel… good?

I take a bite, then set down the bagel in front of me. My mind goes right back to the bagel truck and, I’ve now decided, the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen hot women. I’ve had hot women. But Blondie… she’s hot in a different way. Like the kind of beautiful you want to keep in your bed not just all night but all the next day too, even when the makeup has come off and the mini-dress and heels are on the floor. She’s natural, fresh. The kind of mesmerizing you don’t just see in a club but the kind you want to take to the Hamptons and roll around in the sand with for an entire weekend.

What the heck am I thinking?

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