I grunt again.
“Right. So, you were just auditioning for garbage man of the year, and I’m supposed to say thank you for your services? Anything else, or are we done here?”
I don’t answer immediately because I still need to process but she turns away and walks off. I follow.
“Wait!” I shout. She freezes.
The streetlight hits her hair; it glows orange like a sunset.
“I really need your help.”
“You don’t understand the word no, do you?” she says, turning around to face me again. “I told you I don’t have time for your case. I’m not the only lawyer in New York.”
“Thirty minutes,” I try again. “Give me thirty minutes to show you we’re worth it.” She’s silent for a second, so I add, “Please.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever begged like this. For my daughter, I’d do anything—even get on my knees in front of this woman.
She exhales slowly, like I’m already wearing her patience thin just by standing there. Opens her mouth. Closes it again.
“Please,” I say.
“Fine.” She lifts both hands in surrender. “Thirty minutes.”
“Right now? At your place?”
She stares at me like I’ve just suggested something criminal. “Are you insane? I’m not letting a stalker into my apartment.”
“Sorry—just checking—the guy from earlier passed your screening, but I didn’t?”
“Colton. Stop talking.”
I almost smile.
“One,” she says, pointing at me like she’s issuing warnings in court. “I remember exactly what you were like in high school. And two. My private life is none of your damn business. Got it?”
I hold her stare for a beat, then cross my arms.
Yeah. She’s not wrong about that but over my dead body am I saying it out loud. “Tomorrow, 10 a.m. in my office. I want a matcha latte. You have thirty minutes. Not one second more,” she says.
“What’s a matcha latte?”
“Do I look like Google?”
That fucking bitch.
FOUR
Jenna
BEFORE
Iglance at the clock. Ten-oh-one. Perfect.
So, that’s it then. I don’t take on clients who are late. No discussion. No exceptions. My red-painted fingernails clamp briefly on Colton’s file—I’m about to toss it in the bin under my desk.
Then the door SLAMS open.
No polite knock, no gentle entrance. No, it bursts open like a hurricane ripping through my office. Colton stands there, balancing a cardboard holder with four paper coffee cups. His face is blazing red, as if he’d just played an hour of hockey. Beads of sweat roll down his forehead, his short hair sticks to his scalp, and the cardboard holder already looks like it’s sacrificed way too much coffee. I squint. Above all, I wanted matcha. Matcha is green. Not brown.
