“Sam.”
He held up the card. “Hope to do it again soon.”
The launch party was the last moment of respite from the investigation for the next two weeks. I woke up every morning with a dull headache, exhausted from pushing aside everything except what was necessary to stay afloat. We were working fifteen-hour days to finish the report on time. I got home after 2 a.m. and still couldn’t fall asleep. If I wasn’t working, my mind was on Charlie, wondering how he was and how his mom was.
By the last day of the investigation, I felt like a shell of a human. I sat motionless in the conference room until five o’clock when the last IT person carted away my monitor and keyboard.
I didn’t know where to go or what to do. Emilie was presumably still in London and hadn’t responded to any of my texts. Caroline’s head would explode if I told her what had happened with Leo in Montana. Connor was spending the month working remotely from Edinburgh.
I’d never felt more alone.
I stuffed my laptop in my bag, swapped my heels for flats, and just started walking.
Half an hour later, I wandered into a small wine bar in Hell’s Kitchen, a neighborhood too far west to run into anyone I knew from work.
I settled onto a stool at the back corner of the bar, hooking my bag underneath.
“Happy Friday! You looking for wines by the glass? Maybe a menu?”
The bartender’s chipper demeanor clashed with his black nail polish, heavily tattooed arms, and spacer earrings.
“What kind of bottles do you have on special?”
“I’ve got this great French blend. Want to try it first?”
“That’s okay. I’ll just take a bottle of that.”
He set down two wine glasses.
“It’s just me,” I said, sounding as miserable as I felt.
He poured a sip into the glass in front of me.
“I don’t need to taste it. I trust you.”
“Understood.” He gave a generous pour. “I’m Pete. If you need anything, just holler.”
Something about him made me miss Virginia in a way I never had.
For the first time in over a month, no one cared where I was. I could let myself spiral. I could become one of those first-year associates who crumbles under the stress of the job. Maybe they’d write about me on the soapy legal-gossip blogAbove the Law.
“Sparkling or tap? Maybe something to eat? We make a mean romesco and mozzarella panini,” Pete offered, momentarily rescuing me from my internal free fall.
“Can I stay if I don’t order food?”
“Of course. Just figured you might need a little sustenance.”
“That would be the mature thing to do.”
“What type of reading you got there?”
I’d set an old issue ofThe Hollywood Reporternext to me. My casual companion whenever I was falling apart. “Just a trade publication. Movie stuff.”
He looked interested. “Do you work in movies?”
“Not really. Kind of. I’m a lawyer.”
“Movie lawyer?”
