Loyal Lawyer by Lauren Runow
Chapter Three
Whenever I go to my office, I feel like I’m going on a covert mission. There’s a nondescript door in a dark back alley that leads directly into my kitchen, or you can access it through Ben Franklin Gym, Where Real Men Go to Work Out—their slogan, not mine.
Ben Franklin Gym and Amy Morgana Chocolatier are cotenants in an old brick building that used to house a restaurant that closed down. The building’s owner now rents the front half of the building to the gym while I get the back half, which is where the actual kitchen used to be.
The space I rent is not ideal. Some might even call it a shithole. Doesn’t matter to me. It has a commercial-grade kitchen and decent-sized office, and it’s all mine.
When I started this business, I was on a less than shoestring budget, and it was all I could afford. If and when my loan gets approved, I’ll be able to move into a large space that doesn’t smell like moldy, sweaty socks.
During gym hours, I use the main entrance because it’s way easier to access than the alley. As I make my way through the weights section, I head toward the dumbbell rack, where there’s a door covered in mirrors. The gym owner purposely put the mirrors up, so people wouldn’t know there was a door here. I constantly get guys staring at me, wondering why I’m walking to the wall until they see I can indeed pull on the side of it and slide it open. That, of course, opens up all kinds of different questions about what’s behind there and what kind of secret lair I have uncovered.
I don’t bother telling them it’s the entrance to my dream, the business I created from the ground up. Most of the time, I just smile and act like I didn’t hear them as I walk by.
When I enter my portion of the building, I hear blaring rap music coming from the kitchen. I walk down the hallway to see Shawn, my one and only employee, putting together gift boxes and bobbing his head to the beat.
“I’m back!” I shout.
He doesn’t hear me, so I walk up to the speaker sitting off to the side and lower the volume. His voice continues rapping the song even though it isn’t playing anymore, and I have to stifle a laugh.
“What the—” He doesn’t finish his sentence when he sees me standing here with my eyebrows raised in question, making him change his tone. “You came back fast.”
“There was no line at the post office,” I say as I turn the radio back up but keep it down a few—or ten—notches. “Loud much?”
“I had to drown out the gym rats.” He points to the wall. “Some dude kept grunting. That is not a sound I need to hear.”
Shawn is a no-bullshit kind of guy. He says it like it is and doesn’t beat around the bush for anything. He’s still in school at the Institute of Culinary Arts, and he works for me part-time, which is why I can afford him. When this loan comes through, I’m going to snatch him up full-time before someone else does.
Shawn is a chocolate dream. He’s always on time, he’s incredibly neat, and he follows each recipe to the utmost precision. He says working with chocolate gives him peace in his messed up head that’s always thinking a mile a minute. All I know is, he brings Zen to my world by getting his work done without having to be told twice.
“You know how the afternoon crowd gets. All testosterone, all the time. They’re here to get shredded.”
“Like the guy who screams out like a crow when he squats.” Shawn rolls his head back and mimics, “Cawww!”
“I was getting my mail the other day when I heard these two guys talking, saying, ‘Bro, you’re looking good,’ followed by, ‘Nah, man, you’re the best-looking guy in the gym.’ I turned around, and they were identical twins!”
Shawn laughs. “I’d ask what the hell you were thinking, renting a kitchen at this place, but I know your situation. Soon though, you’ll be out of here and soaring.”
“Your lips to God’s ears, my friend.” I walk into my office. “Have you seen a UPS box anywhere? I’m expecting a new roll of stickers.”
I glance over and see I left my bra hanging on the side of the futon from when I took it off last night. It’s lacy and black and definitely not something you want your employee to see. I quickly pick it up and tuck it in my suitcase, which doubles as a closet.
“Yep, it came while you were out. I placed it on your desk,” Shawn calls. “It’s across from that sexy-ass bra you have lying around in there.”
Damn it, of course he saw it.
I lean out my door to eye him, and he holds his hands up in defense.
“I’m a hot-blooded American male. I saw lingerie, so of course, I was going to look. Sue me.”
The words sue me ring in my ears. Hearing him mentioning a legal action puts unease in my stomach.
I turn around and head toward my desk and start up my laptop, trying not to think about this debacle I’m in. Spreadsheet and invoices will certainly do the trick. Every day, we fulfill anywhere between twenty to thirty orders, and seeing our numbers standing steady always fills me with pride.
A loud bang on the alleyway door gets my attention.
As Shawn walks over to open it, he calls out, “Your girl is here.”
I laugh at how he knows without having to look at the security camera. Only my best friend, Charity, bangs on the door with her fist like she’s making a drug bust. She says it’s the sketchy path you have to walk to get to the alleyway door that makes it feel like she’s here on illegal business.
“What’s up, Charity?” Shawn says, letting her in. “Did you have a hot date last night?”
Charity pulls up a stool that we have dubbed Charity’s Spot because she stops by so often. The kitchen is on her way to the Garden Room, a lounge where she works as a server a few days a week. “Nah, had to work, and no cute prospects came in. You?”
The two of them are constantly comparing dating notes. I find it hilarious because Charity is searching for a guy who has a great work ethic, doesn’t take himself too seriously, and loves to dance, which is Shawn to a T. Shawn always finds the kind of girls who are exactly like Charity—beautiful, smart, spontaneous, and wants more out of a relationship than a few dates.
I keep pointing out the irony of it all, but they blow me off.
I stand from my desk, grab the order list from the printer, and walk out to the main kitchen area, where Shawn is finishing the last of the boxes so we can package an order that’s going out tomorrow morning.
“Met this hot chick named Ryanne online and took her out last night.”
“Rain, like the weather?” Charity asks.
“I think he meant Rae Anne,” I explain.
“No. I said Ryanne,” he dictates with emphasis before annunciating out the entire name. “Like rye bread. Rye-Anne.”
“Ohh,” Charity elongates the O sound. “Figures she has a Y in her name.”
“Shawn, what is it with you and girls who spell their names in the unconventional way?” I ponder.
“It’s like you look for it on those swiping dating apps,” she adds.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do,” we say in unison.
His mouth twists as he leans back and crosses his arms, daring us to explain.
I start, “Alyson, Londyn, Caryn,” counting them off on my fingers.
“Don’t forget about Jasmyn. That girl was cray. Actually, all the women you’ve dated with a Y in their name have been nothing but trouble.”
Shawn looks at us, bemused. “How do you know so much about the women I date?”
“You overshare,” she deadpans.
“It’s your best and worst quality.” I pat him on the shoulder as I place the order form on the counter in front of him.
His brows rise, and his head nods. “Huh. Never realized that before. What can I say? I have a type. When their name is unique, so are they.”
“You just watch out for Ryanne. If your track record is any indication, she’ll be going through your cell or combing your carpet for other women’s hair.” Charity sits up on her stool with a raised finger and excited expression. “Remember the girl who was always convinced you were cheating?”
He nods as he recalls. “Mylie. Shit. She had a Y in her name too. I do have a type.” The look of revelation on his face is comical. “I’m gonna do some research on this. You might say they’re crazy, but someone named Donna or Samantha is not going to be a freak in the sheets. I’ll have to put this to the test—in the name of science, of course.”
“Good luck with that. I swear, it’s a carousel of dud after dud in this city. Go to work, drinks at the bar, watch sports. That’s all guys in Philadelphia want to do because there is always a game on.” Charity rolls her eyes as she pops a chocolate morsel in her mouth.
He nods. “We do live in the best city for sports fans. Phillies, 76ers, Flyers, Eagles—”
“I can’t stand that fight song—‘Fly, Eagles Fly,’ ” she drones on. “I blame the sports. Men here think everything is a game.”
He leans over the counter. “Don’t hate the player—”
She throws a piece of chocolate at his nose, cutting him off. “Ugh. Why can’t men be smooth and sophisticated, like they are in the movies?”
The two continue their diatribe while my mind instantly roams to thoughts of a man who seems smooth and sophisticated. There was something about his hands and the way he touched his face as he spoke. It brought attention to his features as he moved them about, like a conductor eliciting a melody from an orchestra—fluid and soulful. An unexpected smile crosses my lips as I think about Sebastian. That handsome stranger certainly came into my world at the right time. It’s been days since we met for coffee, and I’ve thought about him more than once. His chivalry, the way he listened, his smile …
“What are you thinking about? You have this dreamy-schoolgirl stare,” Charity observes.
I clear my throat and grab a pen. “I was just thinking about a new recipe I want to try, using unsweetened Dutch-processed cocoa powder and espresso beans,” I say nonchalantly as I scroll down the printout of today’s web orders.
When I glance up at her from the paper, she’s eyeing me to see if I’m telling the truth. Thankfully, she knows new recipes to me are like sexy men to her, so I know I’ll get away with this one.
Yes, most would jump all over the chance to tell their best friend that the attorney who is assisting them is quite handsome, but I have to be careful with Charity. She’s a true romantic, always looking for the one, and any mention of meeting someone new instantly turns into a million questions, like: Is he single? Does he have children? Where does he live?
Questions I have zero answers for since he’s a stranger I met in the most peculiar way. Most importantly, he’s my lawyer. I shouldn’t be thinking of him and smiling like a goof. It’s unprofessional. Unethical.
I set my cup and my phone on the counter and grab an apron. The three of us chat about our weekend plans. Shawn cracks the funniest jokes, and Charity tells the best stories. I hum along as I listen to my friends.
I’m lifting a pot to heat heavy cream when my cell phone ringer goes off.
Charity picks it up, looking at the screen, and hands it to me as she questions, “Who’s Sebastian Blake?”
“My lawyer.” I feel my face flush as she pulls the phone back into her, keeping it from me.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not blushing.”
She holds my phone up and away. “You totally are. Did you see that, Shawn?”
My employee does nothing to help me dodge Charity’s inquisition.
I lean forward and grab it from her hand rather viciously. “He’s the attorney I told you about. The man who’s going to get my stuff back from Hardin.” My voice is a little bit of a huff when I swipe the call to answer. “Hello? This is Amy.”
“This is Amy,” they both singsong my words back, taunting me.
I hold my hand up to the mouthpiece to block them out as I jolt away from the counter, getting away from the two of them.
“Miss Morgana, it’s Sebastian. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
Charity rushes over to my side. “Is he cute?” she whispers rather loudly.
I shush her away and scurry toward my office, closing my office door in her face and resting my back against it. “Yeah. Now’s great. What’s up?”
“I’m looking over the file you gave me, and I’m going to do some digging. I have a cancellation tomorrow and want to set up a meeting with you before I book it up with something else.”
“You want to meet in person again?” I raise my hand to my heart and wonder why the heck it’s beating so fast. It must be his voice. It’s warm and inviting, spoken from his chest.
“We could do it over the phone if you can’t—”
“No. In person is fine. What time?”
“Well, I have to do all of my pro bono stuff after work hours. But we can still meet at my office.” He’s quick to say, which makes me smile. “Can you meet me at six? Here, at my office? I can text you the address.”
“Tomorrow at six is perfect. Thank you.”
“No problem. See you then.”
He hangs up, and I let out a huge puff. When I open the door, Shawn and Charity are as close to the threshold as possible, obviously eavesdropping, and they stare at me with smirks on their faces.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing. You don’t have to say anything. Your complexion says it all.” Charity points at my face, circling her finger as if it proves her point. “You said a lawyer was helping you. You didn’t say you had the hots for him.”
“I don’t!” I declare. “I just want to come off as professional as possible, and having my friends ask if he’s cute is not putting my best foot forward. Now, can we get back to work?” I point at Shawn with a stern expression.
He grins as he walks back to the workstation.
“And don’t you have a shift that starts soon?” I ask Charity, moving my eyes to the clock and back to her.
“Is it that time already?” She pouts as she grabs her bag. “This isn’t the end of this conversation. Shawn, see what you can find out from this one. Remember, she says nothing, but those cheeks of hers reveal everything. If anything with this attorney turns romantic, I want to be the first to know.” She blows air kisses to the two of us as she closes the door behind her, shouting, “Happy chocolatiering!”
I’m filling the pot with cream as Shawn changes the music to play jazz. Not only does it relax me, but it’s also the only music I’ll cook to. The fact that it’s the best way to get my mind steady before I meet with Mr. Blake tomorrow is a plus as well.