Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Dylan
I spent most of the morning with a client who is nearing the finish line on his seventh divorce.
I sat in his office uptown and listened when he went on about the unflattering traits of his estranged wife. I didn’t interrupt him when he repeatedly brought up the names of his fifth and sixth ex-wives.
He needs a chart just to keep track of what he doesn’t like about the women he once loved enough to marry.
After two hours of that, I cut in to tell him that I had all the information I needed.
What I really had was zero patience left.
I’m good at what I do, but some cases wear on me.
That’s one of them.
He’ll never take my advice not to get married again. I’m here the next time he needs me. I’m betting that will be within the next eighteen months.
“Mr. Colt,” Gunner says my name just as he raps his knuckles against the doorframe of my office.
I didn’t jump this time because I heard him coming down the corridor. I threatened to buy bells for his shoelaces if he didn’t start warning me of his impending arrival.
Since then, he’s become heavy-footed; stomping out his steps to alert me that he’s on his way to interrupt my day.
“What is it?” I ask back in a clipped tone.
“Is something bothering you, sir?”
Someone is bothering me. On any other day, Gunner would be that someone, but today the title belongs to Chet Richmond.
I Googled the hell out of him last night.
I was up to the wee hours, reading everything I could find on the model-turned lawyer.
Who gives up a career modeling next to some of the world’s most beautiful women to go to law school?
Chet Richmond does.
He also volunteers at a soup kitchen in Buffalo, runs marathons, and builds birdhouses in his spare time.
I made up that last one, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an image online of him with a hammer in his hand.
There are thousands of images of Chet for public consumption.
Long-haired Chet. Short-haired Chet. Chet in a speedo. Chet in a thousand dollar suit.
Misery loves company when you’re drunk on beer and staring at the guy who has been rolling in and out of bed with the woman you can’t stop thinking about.
Gunner steps into my office, closing the door behind him. “Mr. Colt? Sir? I can help.”
I highly doubt that.
“Is it about Ms. Conrad?” Gunner oversteps that boundary with ease.
“It’s none of your business.” I halt him in place with a hand in the air.
He stops. “You’ve been ignoring your calls since you got back from your meeting. You haven’t read any of your emails this morning. If you need to talk, I have two ears.”
“I appreciate the effort, Gunner, but we’ll never be friends.”
The corners of his mouth dip into a frown. I almost feel bad, but that passes within a half a second. I pay him too well to feel sorry for him.
He clears his throat. “Talking always beats sulking.”
“Firing your assistant beats listening to him quote bullshit.”
He laughs. “Mrs. Alcester needs a word, sir. She’s called twice already today.”
Of course, she needs a word. We’re due back in court days from now.
“Get her on the phone.” I point at my office door. “Do it from your desk.”
“Will do.”
I wait for him to take a step, but he stays in place, a grin plastered on his mouth.
“Now would be the time to get it done, Gunner.”
“Are you busy later?” He shuffles his feet on the floor. “I thought maybe we could go for pizza. My treat.”
I created a monster with a couple of slices of pepperoni and a cheap bottle of beer.
I offer him a compromise. “We’ll do lunch. One hour. Your treat and no beer.”
“I’ll meet you at the elevator at noon sharp.”
“I’ll get there when I get there,” I counter. “Go call Mrs. Alcester, and if Ms. Conrad calls…”
“I’ll put her right through, sir.” He smiles. “That goes without saying.”
The pizza was delicious. The company was bearable.
I sent Gunner back to the office ten minutes ago to handle an email from a client that requires an immediate response.
I took care of lunch because it’s a business expense. Gunner saw fit to view it through a friendship lens, but that’s on him.
I’m outside the restaurant now under the warming early afternoon sun.
Going back to the office is a must, but I take a second to do something before I hit the pavement for the walk back.
I scoop the silver hoop earring out of my pocket, place it my palm, and snap a quick picture of it.
Attaching it to a text, I send it to Eden with a short message.
Dylan: Look what I have.
I start down the sidewalk, hoping she’ll respond soon.
I look down when my phone pings in my hand.
Eden: Yay! I love that earring.
Walking and texting is a dangerous endeavor in Manhattan, but a man has to live on the edge sometimes.
Dylan: It’s available for pick-up at my place tonight.
Her response arrives just as I’m crossing the street.
Eden: Perfect! I’ll bring that something special from high school I told you about.
Dylan: You’re the only something special from high school I care about.
My thumb hovers over the send button, but Eden beats me to the punch.
Eden: I’m running into a meeting. I’ll see you at eight!
I delete every word of the message I was going to send her before I pocket my phone.
The expiry date we put on this is inching ever closer. My time is running out, and I’m not ready for that. I need to make a move before it’s too late.