Ahh. That made perfect sense. It was all about the bottom line. Now I understood.
“What contacts does Fleming have? And what about his backstory is appealing?”
Curious eyes met mine. “You don’t know?”
My mind was a blank when I searched my memory banks, and I shook my head. “We didn’t exactly run in the same circles in law school.”
“Not surprising. I didn’t think Senator Preston Lively would welcome a foster kid to his house for Christmas.”
Shock waves rippled through me. “Foster kid?” The news was stunning, to say the least. There’d never been a hint of Fleming’s background. He’d come and gone at the holidays like everyone else, but then, we’d never made small talk about presents received or trips taken. I sure as hell wasn’t going to spill the beans about my dear old dad and let everyone think my life as a senator’s son was anything short of glamorous. Aloof and quiet, Fleming hadn’t had many friends, aside from Bailey and a couple of library nerds. Most of his time had been spent trying to top me. “I-I had no idea. Like I said, we were more classmates than friends. Rivals, to tell the truth.”
A lineup of family photos sat on Daniel’s credenza. I’d met his wife, Rachel, and his oldest son, Lev, who worked in the real-estate division of the firm. They hosted monthly dinners in their Upper West Side apartment, with Daniel strongly encouraging attendance. For a large firm, it boasted a family atmosphere.
“There’s no room for that in the here and now.” Why did that simple statement sound like a reprimand? “Whatever was in the past between you two, it’s long ago. I’m sure if he does come on board, you’ll show him the ropes and work together amicably.”
“Of course. I’m all about being a team player.”
Rah fucking rah.
“I’ll keep you updated as to our search and its success.”
That was my cue for being dismissed, and I rose to leave, but couldn’t keep from asking, “So you’re ready to extend an offer to Fleming? And whomever else you’ve decided on?” Not that I cared about anyone other than Brenner.
“Close to it.”
Back in my office, I had to forgo my research project on Brenner Fleming to do my actual work. I reviewed two prenuptial agreements from my junior associates, three divorce decrees ready for filing, and instructed my paralegal, Delia, to set up mediation sessions. There were four new clients to meet and interoffice meetings with our real-estate and estates-and-trust divisions. Delia waited for my okay on the dates for all, and I watched my calendar fill up for the rest of the month.
“Jesus, I’m tired just looking at this schedule,” I grumbled, and from the doorway, Miranda Holt, a third-year associate, laughed.
“Come on, Weston. You’re sounding like an old man.” She licked her full, glossy lips. “And I know you’re anything but.”
My exterior remained calm, but inwardly I seethed. Miranda had been present that night when Brenner and I had hooked up—God, I hated that phrase—and had been at the bar when I’dreturned. She’d spent the rest of the evening questioning me on where I’d disappeared to, had asked if I’d wanted to leave for someplace quieter, and what I thought of interoffice romances.
“Can I help you with anything? I’m kind of busy.” I waved a legal pad at her. “Monday and all that.”
“I’m busy too. SEC filings to go overand all that,” she mimicked. “Just wondering if you’ve heard the rumors.”
“No, and I’m not interested. I deal in facts. And I would hope you and everyone else do as well.”
She made amoue. “Be nice. It’s just that if they bring in more partners, what does that say for us grunts working up the ladder, hoping to get an offer? It doesn’t seem fair.” Without an invitation, she entered my office and sat, her tight sheath dress hiking above the knees, revealing smooth, tanned thighs.
“I guess that’s a question you should be asking the senior partners. Now, please excuse me. I have a meeting to prepare for.”
She flounced away, giving me a view of a round butt that should have caused heart palpitations. Instead, all I wondered was how she breathed in something so tight.
“Maybe I really am getting old,” I mused and, shaking my head, went to work.
**
Friday evening, and there I sat at another boring bar dinner—no Brenner Fleming this time. I’d admit to looking. When Isobel Morton sat next to me, I’d hoped she’d relight my fire. We’d had a casual affair in Boston before she’d accepted a position at a firm out west. It had been fun and easy. No strings. Exactly whatI’d always liked. And Isobel had turned into someone more than a bed partner. She’d become a friend.
“Let’s blow this place. Come home with me? My bar is better,” I murmured, and she ran a foot up my leg.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We made out like kids in the back of the car, then entered my dark apartment, hands all over each other. I didn’t bother to turn on the lights as I led her to the sectional couch in my living room. Lips locked, we lowered ourselves to the cushions.
“Come on, West.” Isobel straddled me. Long, slender fingers glided down my tie and plucked open several shirt buttons before continuing their southern progress. “It’s been ages, and seeing you tonight…” Her tongue slipped out to lick a path across her lower lip, then dipped into my ear. “I haven’t forgotten how good it was the last time.”
