Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“He never was,” I answer bluntly. I don’t need Oliver’s opinion on Jesse and me. I send a heart and a fire emoji back and slip my phone into my purse. “Let’s get to the divorce decree?”
“Oh, would you like to look at the menu first?”
I push at the leather-bound book in front of me. “No need. Bernard said he’d do a chef’s choice for us if that’s okay?”
He blinks, obviously surprised. “It seems you’re more of a regular here than I am.”
I shrug. “Once upon a time. The decree?”
Oliver picks up a manila folder from the table and hands it over to me. While I open it and begin to read, he simply watches me.
At first, it seems like a pretty standard intro, lots of first party this and second party that. I skip down to the part pertaining to Ford Construction Company to make sure that what we’ve been planning for Township is feasible and correct, and find it pretty straightforward.
“The division of the company looks good, all things considered,” I tell Oliver.
He nods and picks up his wine. Against the glass, he murmurs, “Check out page fifteen,” and then takes a sip.
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. This must be what he wants me to see about the decree. I flip to page fifteen and start to scan.
It’s a list of properties held by Jed and Chrissy Ford, and their dispersions under the settlement. The primary one that I care about is the land under development at Township, but there are several others. I scroll through them, seeing that Oliver and Robert have allocated some properties for each of their clients.
“How did you decide which properties Chrissy would keep versus Jed?” I ask, still reading the list that continues onto page sixteen.
“Negotiated individually, one by one, based on property values and equity,” he answers tiredly.
“I can imagine what a long, arduous process that must’ve been. Actually, I can’t, nor do I want to,” I joke.
Bernard interrupts my reading to deliver two plates of filet mignon, baby red potatoes, and a creamed spinach that’s my absolute favorite. “I remember how much you enjoyed it,” he says, smiling when he sees my food happy dance. “The filet has a plum and pink peppercorn sauce, which we’ve paired with a Malbec wine I think you’ll enjoy.” He looks at Oliver’s glass. “Would the gentleman like the Malbec as well?”
“No, thank you. I’m good with the Cab,” Oliver answers.
Bernard inclines his chin, but looks at me with slight offense in his eyes like, Can you believe that? I suppress a giggle and tell Bernard thank you.
The decree is forgotten for a moment as we begin to eat the delicious dinner. “Bernard was the only chef here for a long time,” I explain to Oliver. “It was by reservation only, prix fixe menu, and you had to be prepared to wait for your meal. But several years ago, Bernard began loosening his grip on the kitchen. He’s mostly front of house now, but he still designs the menu, creates the recipes, and has his hand in the kitchen. He can’t let it go.”
Oliver tastes the sauce delicately and frowns in surprise. “That’s unexpectedly good.”
I swallow my own bite of filet and then take a sip of water, leaving the Malbec untouched. I won’t drink it, but I didn’t want to offend Bernard. “It’s not Tayvious’s chili nachos, but it’ll do.”
It’s barely a joke, but Oliver laughs fully. “I thought you were crazy, but those were so good. I’m going to dream about that chili-cheese combo when I’m gone.” I smile, glad that he tried them, because I’m still pretty sure nachos are not his style at all, but Tayvious can convert even the most high-strung into a cheese-guzzling whore with his nachos. Oliver isn’t done, though. “They’re not the only thing I’ll miss.”
The humor has left his voice, turning it smoky and deep, and his eyes stare into mine with heat. I’m 100 percent sure that works for him 99 percent of the time. Too bad for him, I’m the one-percenter.
I’ve known guys like Oliver. Hell, I’ve dated them. And while, on paper, we should be a good match, they’re not it for me. Guys like Oliver do nothing besides turn me into a frosty, strategic, analytical robot, which is great in a courtroom. Not so great in the bedroom or in a relationship. They’re the wrong man for me, no matter how much they wish they were the right one. And they usually assume they’re the catch I’ve been waiting my whole life for, as though law school was merely a way to narrow my dating pool.
“We should get back to the divorce decree,” I say flatly, letting my bitch face loose as I stare at him, devoid of all emotion. I don’t want to lead Oliver on, and I don’t feel like I have in any way. I’ve been honest that I have another person in my life, and I shouldn’t even have to do that, considering our relationship is predicated on a legal issue and related to a contract only. “Page sixteen.”