Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Molly
M y phone beeps twice in rapid succession, breaking my focus.
I sit up straight and wince at the ache in my neck and back. Glancing at the clock on my desk, I realize it’s already six forty-five, which means I’ve been sitting hunched over my desk for four straight hours proofreading these partnership documents.
My friends always make fun of me for proofreading in hard copy like this, but I swear I catch more typos with pen and paper than I ever would on a computer screen. And with asshole Brad breathing down my neck, every single thing for Randall Harvey needs to be pristine.
Standing from my chair, I stretch my arms up and roll my neck, trying to loosen the tight muscles. Making a mental note to book a massage at my favorite spa, I grab my phone. A glance at my screen shows me text notifications from both Gabe and Allie.
I open Gabe’s first and laugh right out loud.
Gabe
[image attached]
How much pink is too much pink?
The picture is of some kind of mood board his assistant must have sent him. It’s full of pictures of pink carpet and pink furniture and assorted other décor, including a massive, glittering chandelier. It’s completely extra and so perfectly me.
When I told Gabe last week that I wanted to turn his spare bedroom into a closet, I was mostly joking, but he was not. He wasted exactly no time at all, contacting his assistant that very night to hire a designer and get the whole thing rolling.
This man, I swear.
Me
There is no amount of pink that would be too much pink. This is literally me in a mood board and I’m obsessed with it.
Gabe
I’m obsessed with you.
Just for that, I’m bringing you home a treat.
Just bring yourself home, Rory baby. That’s enough for me.
Okay, but can we order midnight pancakes? I feel like Guardians of the Galaxy 3 is a big moment and respect should be paid. With snacks.
I love the way you think. We’re getting milkshakes too.
Yes, oh my god. You really are the perfect man.
I’m picking Allie up at the hospital at seven-thirty—her car wouldn’t start this morning so I told her I would get her on the way to dinner. We have a bunch to go over, but I should be back by eleven-ish.
Take your time and have fun with Allie. Text me when you’re on the way home and I’ll place the order. Drive safe. Love you.
Always. Love you too.
Smiling at the promise of a movie night and the best midnight snack ever, I open Allie’s messages.
Allie
Hiiii, I just got called down to a consult in the ER, so want to pick me up down there instead of at the front?
Me
Sure, works for me. Does seven-thirty still work? Totally fine if you need some extra time.
Yep, still works. This shouldn’t take long at all.
Okay, see you soon.
I need, like, ten drinks and at least half an hour of venting before we discuss even one minute of work stuff. It’s been a DAY.
Girl, you have no idea. I just spent four hours proofreading corporate documents. My brain is leaking out of my ears.
Me. You. One hour from now. Many, many margaritas.
Love this for us.
I toss my phone down on my desk and start walking around my office, collecting everything I need to take home with me. Everything is everywhere, and by the time I’ve located my bag, keys, jacket, and the million other things I somehow managed to scatter around my office between the time I walked in this morning and now, I’ve made at least four vows to stop being so messy and just keep all my stuff in the same place every day. It’s not a vow I’ll keep, but making it is comforting. Like maybe, if I really wanted, I could be the kind of person who hangs up her jacket every day and can always find her car keys.
But I don’t want.
I’m just slipping my jacket on, congratulating myself for being fifteen minutes early when my office phone rings. Groaning to myself, I also wish I could be the kind of person who could ignore a ringing work line when I’m standing right next to it. Since I can’t be that person, I walk back around my desk and pick up the phone.
“Molly Jenkins,” I answer, holding the phone between my head and shoulder and double checking that I have everything in my bag because you just never know.
“Molly dear. It’s Harvey Randall.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to staunch my irritation at the “Molly dear” of it all. Fucking patronizing, patriarchal dickhead. I never used to mind Harvey all that much, but this business with Brad has pushed me right over the edge. Why even are men, honestly? I wonder idly whether I could get my friends to agree to only take on women as clients. Every law firm in the universe represents men. Maybe we should be the only one that doesn’t.
“Mr. Randall, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m back from my trip, and I would really like to see the new draft of my trust tonight. I understand there was a little misunderstanding, and you failed to give Brad the most up to date version for me to sign. That was very disappointing indeed, as is the fact that I will have to execute the trust a second time. Could you please send the draft my way as soon as possible?”
I internally groan at the same time as my anger rises, hot and fast. Of course, Brad threw me under the bus. Fucking asshole. I grit my teeth and respond.
“Of course, Mr. Randall, I would be happy to send you the drafts. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll email them right over.”
“Thank you very much. I’ll be keeping an eye out for them.”
He hangs up without saying goodbye and I slam the phone down, raking my hands through my hair and then cursing myself for fucking up my curl definition. Fucking men, ruining fucking everything.
I take another deep breath and think. It’s shitty luck that I made the changes to the trust by hand while I was proofreading and didn’t input them into the electronic version yet, but there aren’t that many changes. I can put them in quickly, send it off, and still make it to the hospital to pick up Allie on time. Running ahead of schedule was too much to hope for anyway.
That’s just not my brand.
I rake my gaze over my messy desk, looking for the marked-up draft. When I don’t immediately see it, I start rifling through the stacks of paper, cursing under my breath when it doesn’t appear.
“Fuck,” I mutter, glancing around my office, at the books and files and piles of paper. So many places for a trust to hide and I’m now remembering that I did some of the proofreading on my couch and some at the little table by the window, so the pages really could be anywhere. I have a brief moment of hesitation. A moment where I consider saying fuck it and waiting until morning. But it’s my biggest client, and I’m already in hot water. The conscientious lawyer in me just won’t let me do it.
It's hell when my conscientious side requires something my messy, chaotic side simply can’t deliver. Sometimes, containing multitudes is really fucking exhausting.
I heave a sigh, and starting at the couch, I tear through my office on a race against the clock in a battle I’m almost certain to lose.