Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Twenty-Six
A boycott on makeup seems like a not-so-great idea, I decide a few days later as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror—especially after another nearly sleepless night.
I didn’t get it. Early-morning wakeups notwithstanding, I’d been sleeping like a baby since I got here—despite the towering amount of crap I have to sort through, the repairs I have to get done, and the no-money situation. Something about being in this house just felt freeing and made me conk out as peacefully now as I did as a kid.
Until the last two nights, when I tossed and turned for hours.
Yeah, sexual frustration will do that to a girl.
“I was not sexually frustrated,” I say aloud and then slick a soft rose lip gloss on my lips. I mean, yeah, Nick and I almost kissed last night, but we didn’t. And when he pulled away, I didn’t care at all. Would I have done that if I were sexually frustrated?
Well, yes, if you are sexually frustrated and a chicken. What a catch.
Oh my God. I close my eyes and barely resist banging my head against the mirror. Inner voices are not supposed to have this much snark. There should be a rule.
I finish putting on my makeup, then dress in real clothes for the first time since my lunch date with Mikey. And unlike with Mikey, this time I bust out the real shoes—a pair of black heels that, when I combine them with my favorite black dress pants, make my legs look really long.
It isn’t that I’m trying to impress anyone. Law offices have a certain dress code. I can’t just show up at Nick’s place of work looking like a total slob, especially when he’s offered his firm up to do this whole thing pro bono for me—no, the squashed-up dollar and lawn I eventually have to mow anyway don’t count. I need to project the right attitude.
Half an hour later, I’m standing in the middle of the reception area at Holloway and Murphy, wondering why I even bothered. Nothing here is projecting professionalism, save the heavy desks and giant floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered with law books.
The only person I’ve seen so far is the receptionist, who has green-and-purple hair, an addiction to her AirPods, and absolutely no knowledge of how to deal with clients.
“Oh, right.” She gives me an enthusiastic nod that sets the fifty or so bells she has tied into various locks of her hair jangling. “You’re Nick’s eleven o’clock. I’ll take you right back.”
“He’s not with a client?” I ask, surprised. It’s only ten forty-five, and the whole reason I came early today is because Nick texted that he could squeeze me in around his other clients for the day at eleven; then I’d meet with his partner, Gina, who’d actually represent me. I didn’t want to keep him waiting when he was obviously doing me a favor.
Maybe his last appointment ended early. It’s possible. AirPod Girl escorts me down a long, lawyerly looking hallway with warm wood paneling, gorgeous landscape paintings of calm meadows, and bookshelves lined with more law books—and an abundance of plants, very similar to Nick’s house.
It’s not what I expect out of a law firm, but I like it. It has a warmer, more serious feel than Karl’s slick, flashy offices, and I can’t help feeling at home here. My shoulders, and the rest of me, relax amid the deliberately soothing decor.
We wind our way past a pretty impressive-looking conference room, as well as an office with what looks like a couple of paralegals in it. I grow more confident in Nick and his firm’s representation. Except for the less-than-with-it receptionist, everything else looks spot-on.
“Hey, Nick!” The receptionist throws his office door open with abandon. “Your eleven o’clock is here.”
Nick whips his head up from the document he was studying on his desk. A man in a crumpled suit across from him—obviously a client—shrinks back into his chair, his eyes wide and looking from one possible exit to the other.
“I’m so sorry.” I grab the doorknob and start to pull it closed.
The last thing I hear before I shut the door is the client complaining about a deadline being missed and the need for a restraining order. He looked completely worried and pissed off. The last thing Nick needs is for the two of us barging in on the obviously already tense meeting.
I turn to AirPod Girl with raised brows, but she is already bebopping her way down the hall.
“Is there a place to put together a cup of coffee here?” I ask her retreating form.
She shrugs and says over her shoulder without breaking her stride, “There’s an employee break room down the other hall.”
“Show me.”
Something in the iron tenor of my voice must get through, because she backpedals and walks me to the break room. In less than five minutes, I have a tray put together with a pot of coffee, some cream and sugar, and a small plate of what looks to be homemade peanut butter cookies. I do all this completely on my own, as AirPod Girl grows bored the second I reach for a coffee mug.
There are ten minutes left before my appointment when I knock on Nick’s door again.
“Come in,” comes his slightly aggrieved response.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say as I carry the tray in and place it on the top of Nick’s neat credenza. “I just wanted to offer you a cup of coffee. Light and sweet?” I ask the client.
“Just sweet,” he says, sounding a lot happier than a few minutes ago.
I fix him his coffee, set a couple of the cookies on a plate, and hand them both to him. “I’m so sorry for the interruption earlier. Usually the office runs like a well-oiled machine, but it’s been a busy morning.”
“We’re having a few hiccups,” Nick jumps in. “Our office manager went into labor last Friday—a few weeks early—and since Viola is indispensable around here, we’re all trying to play catch-up. But I can assure you, everything is under control, and we’ll have the final forms for you to sign next week.”
“We’ll courier them to your home or office, so you don’t need to come back,” I add as I walk toward the door. “Just let us know where you’d like them sent.”
Twenty minutes later, Nick walks his much happier client to the reception area. The man even grins at me on his way out the door.
Nick, on the other hand, looks positively frazzled now that his client is gone. “I’m sorry that took so long,” he says as he ushers me back to his office.
“Don’t worry about it. I was early,” I say, while most definitely not noticing how good he looks in his suit.
It’s charcoal gray, and he’s wearing it with a black shirt that really sets off his dark eyes. Plus, he smells fantastic—not that I’m sniffing him or anything, but still. He smells really, really good—like bergamot and everything crisp and sexy and male.
I ignore the thought, and his scent, and push both to the back of my head—which is easier said than done. “I’m sorry we interrupted when we did.”
“Not a problem.” He waves my concerns away with a grin. “Vic is just an old curmudgeon who likes to be pampered a little bit. Viola always got him coffee, too, and he seemed a little disconcerted that no one was around to do that for him today. I should have offered, but I didn’t think about it until you brought in the tray. Thank you for stepping up like that.”
“Of course. Anything I can do to help.” I wait until we’re back in his office with the door closed before I continue. “Speaking of which, no offense to your super-helpful receptionist, but you look like you could use some temporary help around here. Lucky for you, I know a very competent office manager looking for work.”