Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
That is not what I expected her to say. A laugh spills from my lips. It eases the tension in my chest.
We're not here to fuck.
We're here as old friends.
A little teasing banter is as far as it goes.
"And you're not?" I ask.
"My parents are rich, yes." She motions to the general direction of her parents' house, the one a good twenty minutes away. "Grandma handed down her old BMW, yes. They buy me expensive presents and help with my rent. They pay my tuition. I'm extremely lucky. I'm very privileged. But I am not rich. You—" She takes a step toward me. Then another.
Until she's in my space.
Until her fingers brush my hand.
The hand I used to fuck myself ten minutes ago.
Keep it in your fucking pants.
Unaware of my dirty thoughts, she draws a line to my watch. The one my boss and mentor bought for me. The guy who holds my fate in his hands. Either I make partner this year, or I leave. That's how it works at these old law firms. Up or out.
There are only two spots for five associates.
The odds aren't on my side. Even with the timepiece.
"It was a gift," I say.
"A work bonus," she says. "I remember. You always insist the ten-thousand-dollar watch isn't a reflection of your values or class."
"It isn't." It's also not a ten-thousand-dollar watch. It's a sixty-five-hundred-dollar watch. But offering the exact value doesn't help my case.
"Then explain this." She motions to the framed abstract painting by the dining table. The one with bright reds and oranges.
It looks like a sunset. A new beginning. A supernova, maybe.
"Was that also a gift?" she asks.
"An investment in an up-and-coming artist." An ex-girlfriend suggested it. She worked at a gallery. She knew art. It sounded good: the lawyer and the gallerist, the guy with rules and the girl with beauty. That's the dynamic people expect, even now. A beautiful woman with a rich man.
Only now, the trophy wife has a post-graduate degree of her own.
That's what she said when she ended things. I'm not going to be your trophy wife. I want a life with someone, and you're not ready to be a partner.
But I didn't understand it.
I never saw her that way.
"What did it cost?" Daphne asks.
"Less than it's worth now." The ex was right. The artist took off. I tried to convince her to take the painting with her, but she didn't want it.
"How much?" she asks again.
"Two thousand dollars." A drop in the bucket in the art world, but a lot for a lot of people.
"And how many suits are in your closet?" she asks.
"What do you wear to work?" I ask.
"Scrubs," she says.
"How many pairs in your closet?" I ask.
"Too many to count," she says. "And all under a hundred dollars a pair. Whereas the suits…" She raises a brow. "I bet we can add a zero to that."
And multiply it by five. But this isn't a trial. There's no rule of evidence forcing me to dig myself a deeper hole. "Law is a formal field. I have to wear a suit."
"Uh-huh." Her eyes pass over me slowly, noting my linen shirt and slacks, my leather loafers, my hips, my waist, my shoulders.
I'm not imagining it.
She's checking me out.
But why? Daphne can have any guy she wants. And Cassie is everything to Daphne. She'd never even consider crossing that line.
Even though, well—
It's fair.
Since Cassie is now dating Daphne's brother.
But that's different. Damon is, well, he's the kind of guy people don't want dating their sister or their best friend.
I don't want to be that guy.
I won't be that guy.
Don't think about elephants.
I force my eyes to the counter. The French press. "Coffee?"
She doesn't take the bait. "You have to wear linen on the weekends?"
"It breathes," I say.
"And the mortgage on this place? What is it? Fifteen grand." She looks around with those same wide eyes. "Or is this another of your parents' properties?"
"It's mine," I say.
"And the mortgage?"
"Is this how doctors talk?"
"No." She shakes her head and stretches her arms over her head. "Doctors are terrible with money. We never talk about it. We don't understand it."
"Why is that?"
"We spent all our twenties obsessed with pre-med, then med school, then residency. Our relationship to money is massive loans that lead to the goal we've been working toward our entire life. It's like Monopoly money to us. We just… don't get it."
"You seem to get it." It comes out harsher than I mean it.
But she doesn't shrink back from the tone. She stands straighter. She likes the harshness in my voice. "Am I being nosy?"
"Yes." I say it plainly.
She likes that too. She smiles and lets her shoulders fall. "Sorry. That's another doctor thing. No manners."
"Too busy studying to learn?"
She nods. "It's true with sex and love too." She blushes at the word sex, but she doesn't pull it back. She leaves it there, in the air. "I guess lawyers aren't like that."