4. Sully
Sully
“ D o you need help, Mr. Murphy?”
Shite. I was two steps from freedom. Two steps from the door that leads to the parking lot, where I could have slipped safely into my Beemer.
I’ve already loaded up everything I need, including the basket of stuff I spent the last eighteen hours tracking down.
If only I’d remembered to slip my mobile into my pocket before I snuck Sloane’s stuff out.
Because of my distraction—all my wife’s fault; it’s hard to think about anything but her—I’m forced to deal with Amy, our intern, before I can make my escape.
It was Cal’s brilliant idea to bring on the twenty-two-year-old intern, and though she’s terrible at just about everything she does, having her here frees Lo up a bit.
And we’re unlikely to find a better alternative, since the trust, a.k.a.
the bane of our existence, made it clear we could only bring one paid member of our staff with us.
Lo is incredible at what she does. The best paralegal the firm has.
But even she doesn’t have the time to deal with all the work Brian, Cal and I need from her.
I understand my arsehole brother’s reasoning for bringing in the space cadet, and I admire him for doing what he can to help the love of his life. However, Lo hates Amy with a passion. So he missed the mark completely with that gesture.
Lo can barely interact with our intern without losing her shite.
I have very little patience for incompetence, but Lo?
Hers is practically nonexistent. And Amy’s incompetence knows no bounds.
If she were really trying, maybe I’d have a little sympathy.
But she’s not. And every time she fucks something up, she just shrugs and says that’s so weird.
The phrase is like nails on a chalkboard.
“I’m heading out.” I point out the obvious.
With her head cocked to the side, she flashes me a smile. I fight the sigh working its way up my chest. She’s beautiful, with long dark hair, and two months ago, the tight outfits and flirty smiles made Lo jealous as hell. But my brother and I can agree on one thing: young and dumb is not our type.
I have one type. Sloane Murphy. And I’m wasting time I could be spending with my wife while I stand here waiting for Amy to explain why she stopped me.
Instead, she looks at me expectantly, as if she’s the one waiting for a response.
“Do you need something?” I ask, trying to keep my tone subdued.
“I mean.” She shrugs. “I think you should call them back.”
I blink. “Who?”
“Oh.” Giggling, she holds up a Post-it. “I can never remember what I’ve said aloud.”
For fuck’s sake. Whoever it is will be getting a call from the car.
For the next thirty seconds, she continues the bloody giggling. And when my blood pressure rises enough to send smoke billowing from my ears, I finally growl her name.
“Here.” She thrusts the Post-it at me. “He called earlier, but I couldn’t find you.”
“He who?” I squint at the mobile number on the yellow square. She’s scribbled ten numbers on it, and that’s it .
“Hmm.” She tips her head again. “Kevin…Keith…Ken, maybe? It started with the K sound.”
Right. Names aren’t her thing. She can’t keep them straight.
Rather than waste my time trying to get accurate information from her, I flip through a mental list of clients and then my adversaries.
Maybe Ken White. But he doesn’t have a 551 area code.
The man is in Manhattan. I can’t think of another person with a K name who would be calling me.
Though I suppose it could be a Chris or a Chuck.
Hell, I wouldn’t be shocked if it was a woman. I’ll figure it out when I call.
“Is this a five?” I point to the fourth number.
She peers at the Post-it and shakes her head. “How would I know?”
“Because you wrote it,” I grit out. “I can’t tell what it says.”
“I hate it when that happens.” With a sigh, she spins and sashays back into the conference room. No apology, no attempt to help me. And I’m once again cursing my sod of a brother for bringing her in to help.
Crumpling the Post-it in my hand, I stomp for the door.Whoever called to speak to me will just have to do it again. And I’ll have to bring up terminating Amy at our next partner meeting.
“Sully,” Cal calls from the doorway where Amy just disappeared.
Annoyance zaps through me. Once again, I was so close.
“Yes,” I snap without turning.
“We need to talk about Sloaney and the plan to get her to move in. I have an idea?—”
“No.” I have a plan. I do not need help. I will win my wife back.
“No?” Cal’s tone is full of confusion.
I refuse to turn around. I don’t need to see him to know exactly what expression he’s wearing. Part of me wants to be a wanker and remind him about the forehead lines he’s always warning me about, but that would just lead to more talking. That’s the last thing I want.
“No talking.” I push the door open, bracing myself to be pelted with the bloody orange ball he’s always armed with. By some miracle, I make it out to the parking lot unscathed. I pick up my pace, heading straight for my black 7 Series.
The door to the building clunks open again, and I risk a glance over my shoulder, ready to curse at Cal. Instead, I find a pair of purple eyes watching me.
I whip around completely, smiling now. “Madame E.” Even to my own ears, my voice comes out like a song, bright and cheerful. I might not want my brother’s help, but this woman might have answers.
“Sullivan.” She nods, adjusting her bags.
I stride toward her, chewing up the distance in a heartbeat, and hold out my hands. “Let me.”
She cocks her head and that thick gray shock of hair catches my eye. It always stands out against the jet-black, but today, she’s dressed in flowing dark purple layers, making it even harder to ignore.
Forcing my focus back to her face, I flash her my most charming smile. “I insist.”
“Well, aren’t you the gentleman?” She passes over the three reusable bags.
As she releases them, gravity takes over, and my arm drops. Bloody hell, they’re heavy.
She waves a hand at the empty air beside her. “Sebastian and I are heading to a friend’s for a seance. Can’t lead one properly without my candles and these books.”
Yes, this woman spends a good part of her time with a ghost, and yes, I’m going to ask her for help. Don’t judge me, I’m desperate.
“Have you seen any more about Sloane?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes, her lips pursed like maybe she’s concentrating. Or annoyed. Hell, maybe she has gas.
After a moment, she straightens and breaks into a bright smile. “A bubbly dance.”
A bubbly what? Dance? My unhappy pregnant wife, who stomped out of here practically cursing my name, is doing a happy, bubbly dance today? What the fuck happened? Was it something at work?
Hurt and envy surge up inside me. I want the best for her, to celebrate every one of her successes, but I don’t want Will Bloody Higgins to be the one making her happy.
The wanker was in our class at Columbia, and he had his eye on my girl from day one. Sloane never gave me a reason to worry back then, but now? So much has fucking changed. She kicked me out, is moving on, and went to work for the tosser. Is there a chance she wants to be with him now?
In the last several years, she’s drifted away from me.
Our struggles with T.J.’s excessive energy and horrible ideas, and her desire for—and my apprehension about—another baby, put a wedge between us.
Not to mention all the time I had to put in to get where I am in my career.
Sometimes I’d fall asleep thinking I didn’t even know the person next to me anymore.
And in those moments, I missed Sloane desperately.
But I never knew how to explain any of it to her.
Maybe I should have just given in when she told me she wanted another child.
But at the time, we were barely hanging on with just T.J.
I didn’t see how we could handle another little one.
Especially after the scare we suffered during her first pregnancy.
Even now, when I think about how her placenta ruptured and I almost lost both her and T.J.
, that overwhelming grief threatens to take hold of me.
I fight the shudder.
We discussed it multiple times, and each time I was adamant that the timing wasn’t right. I never imagined that asking her to wait would mean losing her.
I should have paid more attention. I don’t know how to be me without her.
When we met, I was the get-by guy. My father owned a successful firm.
My position was all but guaranteed. All I had to do was make it through law school.
There was no pressure to live up to potential, because no one ever saw more in me.
Not my mother, who was too busy with her own life to remember I existed half the time, nor my father, who was building his empire.
As long as I wasn’t a problem, I was left to my own devices.
Until Sloane came along. She saw a kind of potential in me I didn’t know existed. She pushed me to be better.
I worked hard to prove I was worthy of her. She blew me away with her brains and her beauty and her excitement for all things in life.
Now that she doesn’t want me anymore, the world has lost its color.
I’m miserable without her. My life is nothing. But is it possible that she’s flourishing without me?
“Why is she happy?” I demand, my already demolished heart aching.
Madame E floats past me and opens the back of her green Mini Cooper. “Like I told your father and your brother, I only see what I see.”
I drop the bags into the cargo area with a bit more force than I intend, but I don’t apologize for it. I’m too frustrated to do anything but back away, hands balled into fists at my sides.
“Have a good night, Sullivan, and remember to smile.” She hops into her car with an exuberance a seventy-year-old should not possess.