TWO WRONGS: Curvy Age Gap Grumpy Sunshine Romance

Chapter 1

Tor

Two things in this world excite me.

Winning.

And not losing.

I’m a single-minded predator who takes no prisoners. I’m not there to bring people together. I’m there to bulldoze proceedings, blow up precedent, and exploit every fucking weakness.

I come at every divorce case like an angry grizzly bear.

The job itself sucks. But the winning? Does not.

I’m driven to right the wrongs of the past, without caring who gets destroyed in the process.

Ninety-nine percent of my clients are women, by my own choice. I like women. And I like fucking over the men who made their lives hell. That’s not to say some of my female clients aren’t equal contributing factors in the demise of their marriages. I’ve just spun my business model in their direction, so they tend to be the ones that seek me out.

I’m a pain in the ass to work with. I know that.

My insane drive to come out on top has made me a shitty colleague. I see it on the faces of the paralegals, assistants, interns, opposing counsel, admins. Fear, mostly.

As managing partner of Hicks, Saman and Blunt, I’m supposed to be setting an example, but turns out I suck at setting examples, except when it comes to my case record. There, I’m on top. Always.

But as for the rest of it? The protocols and politeness and all that shit?

Let’s just say, there have been… complaints. A lot of them. HR hates my guts. And now, after the fifth anonymous complaint called in to our bullshit “Speak Up” program, some cream-centered staff member is fucking with my time.

I’m stuck wasting half my day tomorrow sitting in on an Intensive Anger Management Training session.

Fuckers.

I agreed, in order to appease the HR gods at their altar of three-ring binders. I agreed to avoid a potential lawsuit, and trouble with the bar association should things get worse. I agreed to the lesser pain to avoid the bigger one.

But it’s gonna be such bullshit.

Tomorrow, my anger will be managed. Or elevated.

I’m betting on the latter.

Because, in order to appease another God, named Gran, I agreed to go on a blind date tonight.

More bullshit.

I’m in a genuinely shitty mood as I bring the white porcelain cup of steaming Turkish coffee to my lips and glance at the wall where an image of a pepperoni pizza doubles as a clock.

At least I made the date at my sister’s restaurant, so I know the food will be good.

The sous chef chopping on the stainless-steel counter sounds like the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun.

“This is a fucking waste of time,” I mutter as I stare at the clock hands, willing them to go faster. The sooner the time comes, the sooner I can duck out and get back to my life.

How many grandsons have given up a perfectly good evening alone to go on a blind date, just because their grandmother is a master manipulator?

If she thinks there’s any chance I’ll find a wife in the deal, she’s all wrong. She thinks at thirty-six years old, I should have this marriage and family deal worked out, but it’s never been my focus and I doubt it ever will be.

“Tor!” My brother’s voice mixes with the sounds of the busy kitchen.

Cyrus is two years younger and practically my twin, except he got my dad’s dark, soulless eyes while I lucked out with my mother’s. He wins the height contest by just an inch at 6’6”, but I’ve got him on weight by about twenty pounds. And I’m marginally, fractionally prettier, which isn’t saying much because we’re both sporting ill-healed broken noses from our teen years and Cro-Magnon foreheads.

You won’t see us on the cover of GQ, that’s for sure.

I shoot him a glare as I set down my coffee. He throws up his hands, coming through the kitchen with an exasperated smirk.

“Do me a favor. Go start a grease fire. Then I could get out of this motherfucking date.”

He chuckles with a merciless twinkle in his eyes. He’s been busting my balls since the first day he could talk. “Gran would never forgive you. Besides, better you than me, bro. You’re the oldest, so you’re up first.”

“Fuck.” I run a hand over my head to the back of my neck and grip the rock-hard muscle, trying to unknot the tension. “She serves up guilt like Mike Tyson’s left hook.”

He screws up his face, turning over one hand as if to say, ‘Yeah, so? What’s new?’.

“Don’t be so mean, you two. She just wants you to be happy.” My sister Sophia’s sarcastic contribution chimes from over my shoulder.

“I am fucking happy,” I grouse, wondering why everyone is so goddamn interested in my happiness when I am fucking, goddamn happy.

Sophia marches our way from behind the pass, slipping a pen into the sleeve pocket of her chef’s jacket, her ink-black hair piled on top of her head in a chaotic disaster of a bun.

She sidesteps around us, leaning over a steaming pot of soup, grabs a tasting spoon and dunks it in, then blows and slurps it between her lips just the way Mom does.

“Who was the last person to season this soup?” She screws up her face, turning to look over her shoulder. “Too much fucking salt! If anyone touches this again, you are not only fired, I’m coming for you. Don’t touch my fucking soup! Everyone hear me?”

She wields the spoon in a half-circle like a bloodied sword.

Sophia curses better than either of us, and truth, even at five foot nothing and maybe a buck-five, she’s one of the few people in the world that scare me.

There’s a chorus of “Yes, Chef” from around the kitchen, but no one stops working. It’s heads and eyes down, lest they draw more wrath from the raven-haired pixie with the Gordon Ramsay temper.

“Fucking idiots.” She blows out a long breath, then gives me a wink on a crooked grin. “If one of us doesn’t get married soon, Grandma said she’s going to die of a broken heart.”

“Jesus.” Cyrus shakes his head, raising his eyebrows. “I thought Mom was bad. She said if she has to go one more Christmas without grandchildren, she’s a failure as a mother. Why can’t any of my children settle down? God is punishing me, I know it.” He mimics Mom’s thick Italian accent.

I stretch out my left arm with a wince, gritting my teeth when the burning stab of pain shoots through the muscle of my shoulder, a reminder that ex-husbands don’t like losing either.

“Still hurts like a motherfucker, huh?” Cyrus watches me as I flex my arm then settle it back at my side. “No progress on the fire either?”

“Nope. Insurance still investigating. I’m pretty fucking sure it wasn’t some electrical malfunction.”

He shakes his head. “Thank fuck for good sprinkler systems.”

“Yeah. That’s just stuff, this…” I point to my arm. “Some things you can’t just rebuild or re-buy.”

Luckily Cyrus was with me that day, otherwise the knife probably would have ended up in my aorta. We were on the elevator on our way to the gym on the first floor of my building, when two-hundred and eighty pounds of angry ex-husband launched through the opening door with a hunting knife.

I landed a hard left hook to the side of his head before security barreled in and fucked it all up, preventing me from killing the asshole. They couldn’t even hang onto him. Ended up trading my workout time for a police report and ten stitches for my trouble.

Fucker wore a mask, too, so even with the security footage, we couldn’t ID him. I doubt he’ll come at me again. It’s not the first time a spouse on the other side of one of my cases has taken their best shot, and it won’t be the last. Divorce is fucking dirty.

I’m not so sure marriage is any better. Not from what I’ve seen, at least. Thank God I’ll never know for sure because I’ve taken my own vows.

I’ve vowed to never put a ring on anyone else’s finger or let one be put on mine.

“Well, you know what Mom always says.” Sophia gives me a sisterly stare. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“That hasn’t always been my experience,” I counter, sliding my hand over my mouth and squeezing the hard bone in my jaw.

“Whatever, big brother.” She looks at the huge clock on the wall, then points her spoon my way. “Don’t be late. Being late for a blind date is tacky.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger.” Cyrus gives my sore shoulder a half-hearted punch.

I cock back, but a throwdown in the middle of the kitchen isn’t on my agenda. Besides, I know he’s got his own shit going on, and it’s okay to distract yourself fucking with your brother’s problems that might seem bigger than your own.

He’s up to his balls in gambling troubles, and not the kind you might think. Cyrus doesn’t lose, but he doesn’t make a lot of friends either.

“You both are next.” I point at my brother and sister. “I mean it. Why do I have to take one for the team?”

“You’re the oldest,” they say in unison, then nod and give each other a self-satisfied fist bump.

“Your time is coming. Both of you.”

I smooth my hands down the front of my white shirt, button my black suit coat, and second guess not wearing a tie.

It’s dinner, asshole, not a deposition.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my phone. Tapping the screen, I find 16 new voicemails and 10 new text messages since I came into the restaurant fifteen minutes ago. My clients are nothing if not needy. Charging by the five-minute increment helps.

I pull up my notes app and refresh my memory on the bullet points from my grandmother about tonight.

Caroline Duval, daughter of Richard Duval, CEO of the Northfield Group, and Gran’s bridge partner’s granddaughter

27 years old, divorced, twice

Unemployed, last job three years ago as a receptionist in a plastic surgeon’s office

Dark hair, will be wearing a red dress, will meet you in the bar

A bit high-strung but just needs to meet the right man who knows how to handle her

I blow out a breath, close my eyes, and shove my phone back into my pocket, cursing my gran under my breath.

An unemployed, high-strung, trust fund baby with two marriages and two divorces on her resume

Just my type.