I stare into his eyes.What’s the difference between us?We’re identical twins. Raised by the same parents, influenced by the same relatives. Went to the same college and law school, evenshared an off-campus apartment for years before returning to L.A. to start our careers at Huxley & Webber.
“Not giving you my coffee, no matter how much you give me that longing look,” Bryce says, pulling his cup protectively toward him.
Thankfully, he doesn’t realize the real reason I’ve been staring. “Don’t want your coffee. I’m late because I had some things to do.”It took longer than usual to settle myself this morning.
His eyes glint. “Uh-huh. Was she your soul mate?”
I snort, but don’t want to tell him about my messy nightmare. I never told the entirety to my past therapists, either. “No.”
“Use your heart, Josh, use your heart,” Bryce intones, like he’s Yoda imparting some ancient wisdom. “Your dick can’t feel for you.”
“It feels plenty,” I shoot back before heading to my office. My brothers know about my sex life—and my policy of not sleeping with the same woman twice. It isn’t an official policy, but my brothers have assumed since I never repeat with the same woman. I claimed I’d know if someone was my soul mate once I became intimate with her. My family expects me to be normal—as normal as I can be, given who my mother is—and that includes acting like a typical guy and being seen with women.
Despite my reputation, I actually don’t sleep with all of them. But perception is more important than reality. And being regarded as a player is far better than living a monk’s life. Like Ares did until he met his wife, which caused the family enormous worry.
To avoid any concern, I try to select women pretty enough, with sufficient brainpower to hold a conversation for the duration of a dinner. But in the last two years or so, the percentage of women who make it from hello to dinnerhas decreased significantly. And from dinner to the bedroom? Hardly any now.
Perhaps I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel. But I feel guilty about approaching nice women, the kind you build a home and hearth with, as old-fashioned as that sounds. What if I hurt them the way Mom hurt the family?
I enter my office and flip the light switch. It’s economically arranged—a huge desk and a wheeled chair with superb ergonomic design. A couple of filing cabinets and bookshelves bursting with reference material I keep close for easy access. Two chairs for visitors—functional, but not exactly comfortable. It’s to discourage any overly long conversations, which is for their own good.
My specialty is entertainment and intellectual property law, and many of my clients tend to be needy, insecure types who seek validation from everyone around them. It’s my pleasure to help them with legal matters, but guiding them through emotional upheavals? They need a date with Jack Daniel’s—much more effective and economical than talking to a high-priced lawyer.
I start my laptop and pull up a contract to review for Ted Lasker’s company. Everything from the big-shot movie producer is “super urgent.” It’s gotten so ridiculous that the firm and I decided to charge him extra, but he doesn’t care as long as everything he sends ends up at the top of my priority list.
A couple of quiet knocks; the door opens, and Ailee Klein steps in. Standing at about five-six, she’s a bundle of sweet energy. As usual, my assistant is in a pretty dress—today it’s creamy beige with cosmos prints that flatter her curvaceous figure. Long, curly platinum hair frames her face. She has adorably soft cheeks that remind me of the sweet Fuji apples from Aomori I used to enjoy in Japan.
Klein’s violet eyes crinkle. I zero in on the generous lines of her lips, which I could stare at literally forever. They’re always soft, and usually curved into a sunny smile—like now—that never fails to brighten my mood.
And suddenly the ugly tension that’s been lingering since the nightmare dissipates.
“Good morning, Josh,” she says cheerfully. I smile back because it’s impossible not to when dealing with her.
“Morning, Klein.” I always try to use her last name. Don’t want to mess up and call her by the nickname I shouldn’t use.
“Here’s your coffee.” She places an iced latte—what I prefer in the morning—next to my laptop. “And your flowers.” She puts a vase full of pink echinaceas on my desk, next to the mini-clock. The office transforms from an efficient workplace to something more welcoming and soothing.
She hands me an expense report with receipts for flowers for the month, neatly organized chronologically. I told her it wasn’t necessary for purchases under fifty bucks. Each associate gets an annual use-it-or-lose-it budget for office décor and improvements, and the expenses for the flowers come out of that sum. But she said it didn’t feel right for her to spend my money without giving me all the receipts. More proof that I made the right decision three years ago.
I wasn’t sure about her in the beginning. Although I was inheriting her from another lawyer at the firm, she had only two months of relevant experience. I was going to decline without an interview, except her previous boss said he felt bad about her situation. He was quitting due to health issues, and she’d rejected a good offer to come to Huxley & Webber.
When she stopped by my office for a quick interview, I had plenty of pointed questions ready to go, determined to prove she really wasn’t the right fit for the position. But she greeted me with that sunny smile…and every nerve in my body relaxed, likeit was basking in a kind of honeyed warmth. I couldn’t think of a single reason to say no.
She turned out to be an excellent assistant. Hardworking and quick to learn new skills. I secretly think she’s more amazing than Bryce’s assistant Amélie, although he would disagree to his dying breath.
“You have two appointments, one with Georgia Noir at ten,” she says, naming a writer whose work is about to be turned into a Netflix show, “and the other with Ted Lasker at two.”Lasker. Probably has another “super-urgent” matter. “I sent a bouquet of white lilies to Sandra Dunn to express condolences on your behalf. Apparently, she’s heartbroken over losing Angel and can’t make it to the four o’clock to discuss the details of her new contract.”
I nod. Sandra is an up-and-coming starlet, and was obsessed with her angelfish. She won’t be any good for at least a month.
“She invited you to Angel’s wake next week, but I declined for you, citing family obligations you couldn’t back out of.”
“Thank you,” I say sincerely.
She nods. “Oh, and Coco wants to know when she can see you again.”
“Who?”
“Um. The model you had dinner with five weeks ago?”
