A solution in the form of...
I ran an assessing gaze down the stranger’s tall frame. He wore all black—the t-shirt, casual pants, and shoes; no jacket despite there still being some chill in the air this time of year. With a bald head and a tattoo that circled his neck and covered his entire right arm, he looked more like a biker on steroids than an employee of a charter company.
“What’s your name?” I asked cautiously, adjusting my gray pantsuit jacket over my white silk blouse.
“Leslo.”
“Is that your first or last name?”
“First,” he said.
“What’s your last name then?”
“Ghata.” He lowered his voice for some reason.
Leslo Ghata? That was a rather unusual name.
“Do you have an ID?” I demanded.
“Sure.” He pulled out a worn leather wallet from the back pocket of his pants, then flipped it open to show his driver’s license to me.
My phone vibrated with a call.
“Give me a minute,” I said to Leslo then lifted my finger in warning. “Don’t you go anywhere. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave me a crooked grin, leaning a brawny shoulder against the wall of the terminal building.
I kept my eye on him, making sure he stayed put while I accepted Aisha’s call.
“Maren, I’m so sorry,” she said apologetically. “I couldn’t find a single seat anywhere. The earliest I can get you on an airplane is at three o’clock this afternoon. Maybe if they postponed the hearing...”
They wouldn’t postpone anything for me, especially when the rest of our team was already there and ready to take over in my absence. Liam would be happy to handle it, using my notes on this case. Then, he would speak to the press that waited outside the courthouse. His picture would appear in all the reports, right next to the client’s, and his name would be forever attached to the case. He’d be credited for winning it too, no matter how much work I’d put into it either before or after this hearing. His name would be listed as the client’s defense attorney in the press, and I would remain nameless, hidden in the non-descriptive afterthought expressed as “and his team.” The firm wouldn't bother to demand corrections because “we all represent Brooks and Sons anyway.”
How did I know this would happen? Because it’d happened before, on more than one occasion, and not just with Liam. I was so sick and tired of being sidestepped by the men in my firm, by them being praised and celebrated simply because they “looked competent in their suits,” as a reporter had put it when I’d called to demand a correction to a caption under a photo posted on their website.
“Should I forward your notes to Liam Beckett for you? So he can go ahead without you?” Aisha inquired.
Oh, Liam most certainly would go ahead without me. Our intimate relationship didn’t minimize our professional competitiveness.
Unless...
I glanced back at Leslo, who waited for me with a vacant expression while twirling the welcome sign in his big hand.
Well, solutions came in all forms and sizes. Why not in the bulky shape of this dude?
“No,” I said to Aisha. “Don’t send those files yet. I have it all on my laptop, and I may make it to LA on time after all.”
I disconnected the call and marched over to my oversized “solution” by the wall. I rolled my carry-on between us before stopping it with the nose of my pump.
“Will your charter get me there by two o’clock this afternoon?” I inquired, business-like.
Leslo peeled his back away from the wall, straightening up.
“Earlier than that,” he said, shoving his cardboard sign into a trash bin.
That meant I might even have enough time to take a shower and freshen up in the hotel before the hearing.
“Do we have a deal?” He stared at me, visibly calm, waiting for me to make a decision.
