CHAPTER 1
Olivia
"You need a husband."
"I need a husband like I need hemorrhoids," I shot back at my executive assistant Trevor, who was supposed to be going over my schedule in our daily morning meeting but was instead trying to insert himself as my life coach, which he also claimed to be.
"Are hemorrhoids going to help you make partner?" Trevor's perfectly arched left brow rose in a very disapproving parent-like way as he reemphasized, "You need a husband."
"Is that a proposal?" I was only half-joking.
Trevor Antonio Harrison was a sexy, driven, brilliant, hilarious, dark-complected man with a body that rivaled the Hemsworth brothers.
His immaculate style was rivaled only by his flawless bone structure and mega-watt smile.
He was often told he looked like a cross between Taye Diggs and Shemar Moore, which he did.
He was the only man in my life that I trusted. He was also one hundred percent gay.
His sexual preference wasn’t a dealbreaker for me if it wasn’t for him.
"I'm not saying I wouldn't make a fabulous wife, but Vi, I don't think you could handle me."
He wasn't wrong. I conceded with a dip of my chin.
"Olivia Grace Bradshaw, I'm serious. You are going to get passed up. Again."
In the past five years, two positions for partner had become available.
Both times I was passed over. Andrew Cline and Peter Katz, two men whose billable hours and client retention paled in comparison to mine.
I’d proven my worth, and although I had a corner office with a breathtaking view, my name was not on the letterhead, which read Walters, Chen, Katz, Cline & Associates.
I sighed, unwilling to face the truth. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes,” Trevor stated flatly. “Unfortunately, I do.”
“I have more billable hours than any other associate in the firm.” I began to list my résumé in frustration. “My clients are A-list. I have more referrals and repeat clientele than anyone in the firm—”
“You’re a divorce lawyer. Are you sure you want to be bragging about repeat clientele?”
“You know what I mean. I deserve to be a partner.”
“Yes, you do.” Trevor nodded. “And I deserve for people not to judge me on the fact that I’m brown and gay, but guess what, lovely, we live in what’s called the real world.”
I glanced to my left and looked out over San Francisco Bay.
Sunlight danced off the surface of the water as boats dotted the horizon.
Below me, the city was filled with people who were living lives that weren’t fair.
People who had struggles much worse than mine.
I was sitting on the forty-second floor of a high-rise building in a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows.
I had a full-time assistant and two paralegals at my disposal.
This job might not be everything I wanted it to be, but my life could definitely be worse.
If I were to take a fearless inventory, the truth was, I knew Trevor was right, even if I didn’t want to admit it. There was no way I was ever going to make partner unless I had a partner. It was antiquated, misogynistic, and downright ludicrous, but it was also a fact.
I leaned forward on my desk, resting my forearms on the mahogany surface. “For argument’s sake, let’s say you’re right. How do you suggest I go about acquiring a husband?”
“Well, for one thing, don’t use the term acquire. This is a person. A relationship.”
“How do you suggest I go about finding a husband?” I rephrased.
A wide smile spread on his face. “I thought you’d never ask. Now, you know I’m all about knowing your worth and not settling, but—"
“But what?” If Trevor thought I was going to settle for someone just because I needed them, he gravely underestimated me. I may not have the leverage here, but that did not mean that settling was an option.
“But… I think you might need to lower your standards. Just a tinge.” He held his finger and thumb together.
“What standard, exactly, do you think I should lower? My bar is not that high.”
His head fell back as he roared with laughter. “Really, Maneater?”
“Do not call me that.” Most people were intimidated by my firm, take-no-prisoners voice. Trevor wasn’t ‘most people’ and was nonplussed by my tone.
I hated that moniker. It had started in college when my roommate talked me into doing a dance routine to the song for a talent night at the dorm.
The next night, a few guys who were in a fraternity saw me and called me Maneater, because I’d done the dance.
Then, after a few of them hit on me and I turned them down, it stuck.
The truth was, I’d started college when I was sixteen, and although I projected the demeanor of a mature adult, I was a scared shitless kid.
Those guys had intimidated me, not the other way around.
But for some reason, they bought my ice queen persona.
Somehow the name stuck through college, followed me to law school, and was still how people referred to me two decades after its inception.
In fairness, I was fully aware that my cold, detached, aloof exterior perpetuated the image of the Maneater.
But it worked for me professionally, so I went with it.
In the boys’ club, that was this firm, I liked that most of the men who worked here were a little scared of me.
It saved me a lot of time in HR filing reports.
“The problem is,” Trevor began, then paused for what I was sure was supposed to be for dramatic effect before continuing, “you can have any man you want—”
“That’s not true.”
Trevor tilted his head to the side. “Name one man you’ve been interested in who hasn’t been interested in you.”
My left shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I haven’t been interested in that many men.”
“As I was saying, look at you.” He waved his hand up and down. “You, Lawyer Barbie, you can have any man that you want.”
I hated Lawyer Barbie almost more than Maneater.
My appearance was not something I enjoyed people commenting on.
I’d been blessed with my mother’s genetics.
Bianca Bradshaw was a self-proclaimed modern-day Marilyn Monroe.
In fairness she did look like the Golden Age of Hollywood star.
And I was her spitting image, whether I wanted to be or not.
All her life she’d cashed in on the fact that she was a blonde bombshell.
A petite girl next door with sexy curves.
She’d never worked a day in her life and had always relied on men to support her.
Growing up I’d witnessed her use her sex appeal and charm to get homes, cars, and even earned the title of Duchess after marrying her tenth husband who happened to be a Duke.
I vowed at a very young age that I would be nothing like her. Being attractive wasn’t something I valued. I valued my intellect. My work ethic. My ingenuity. Not my blonde hair, and double Ds.
“You are spoiled for choice. The men at your feet are an embarrassment of riches and it has made you too picky.”
“I’m not too picky,” I countered.
He tilted his head to the side. “Okay, then, what happened with Brian?”
I searched my brain to remember who Brian was and came up empty. I had zero clue.
“The stockbroker,” Trevor prompted.
Still nothing.
“You went on three dates.”
That narrowed it down, but only slightly.
My limit was three dates. If any red flag came up before then, I was out.
Only three percent of men I dated made it past the third date.
Out of that three percent, only one made it to a relationship stage.
But that said more about the quality of men I encountered than it did about my selectiveness.
“He was tall,” Trevor used another tactic to refresh my memory and it came back.
“Oh, right. He was too tall.”
“He was six-four. Six-four is not too tall.”
“I’m five-two. Yes, it is. I don’t want to have to get a crick in my neck every time we kiss.”
“He was gorgeous. Funny. Smart. Loyal. Successful. Age-appropriate. With a near-perfect credit score. No baby mamas. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. And he was too tall?”
“Yes,” I maintained, holding my ground.
Trevor carried on, undeterred. “Fine. What about Christopher?”
Again, I was drawing a blank.
“The race car driver.”
It still wasn’t ringing any bells. Trevor rolled his eyes and typed into the tablet on his lap. A second later, a photo popped up on my screen. Dark eyes, blond hair, and a scar just above his right eye. It was the scar that rang the bell.
“Oh right, he was the breather.”
Trevor stared at me. “You discarded a man who was so hot I was convinced I was pregnant after seeing him because he breathed.”
“He exhaled loudly after every sentence,” I clarified before demonstrating. “You look so beautiful tonight.” Loud exhale. “Where do you want to go to dinner?” Audible breath.
“Okay, I get it.” Trevor lifted his hand to shut me up before clicking on his device again. “Fine. What about Mark?”
Another photo appeared of a dark-haired man with blue eyes.
“He said ‘like’ at the beginning of every sentence.”
“And Dylan.”
A blond with a strong jaw appeared on my screen.
“Where are you getting these pictures.”
“Social media.”
“You follow the men I’ve dated on social media?” I asked.
“No!” he quickly shot back as if that would be insane. “Before you go on a date, I do my due diligence—"
“You mean internet stalk them?”
“Yes,” he stated unapologetically. “And I screenshot top talent for posterity.”
“Posterity?”
He nodded. “So, what was wrong with Dylan?”
“He had small thumbs.” They were tiny. It was distracting.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes.” I still didn’t see the problem. Why would I settle? If something bothered me about someone, I wasn’t going to ignore it. Every day I witnessed people that had done just that and then they ended up in my office.
“You have discarded more quality dick than any person I know.”
“Quality is in the eye of the beholder.”
“No. It’s not.”
There was a knock on my door, Trevor rose and answered it.
George Walters Jr., who had inherited this firm from his father, George Walters Sr., poked his balding head in. “Hey, I just wanted to stop by and see if you’ve heard back from Simpson. I was at the club today and heard he’s getting cold feet.”
Tom Simpson was one of the wealthiest men in Tiburon, a small community filled with affluent people about twenty miles north of San Francisco.
He’d been married five times, and I’d handled the last three divorces.
His first occurred when I was in high school, and the second was while I was in college.
Walters was right. Tom had had a change of heart about calling it quits with wife number five.
But after a brief FaceTime with me this morning, he’d decided to pull the plug.
I would never, and had never, encouraged someone who was in a happy marriage to leave.
But Tom and Remy were both screwing half their household staff.
Which again, no judgment. If everyone was happily turning a blind eye, hey, to each their own.
But I’d been tipped off by Gloria, the head of the household staff, that Remy had decided to get pregnant so she’d have a meal ticket for eighteen years.
There was no way in hell I was going to sit back and let a child be used as a pawn. I’d lived that life, and it wasn’t a childhood I would wish on anyone.
“We filed this morning,” I relayed.
“Yes.” Walters pointed at me. “That’s my girl!”
Girl? I was a thirty-five-year-old woman…but, yeah, cool.
Walters clapped his thick, pudgy hands together. “I told ’em, we can always count on the Maneater.”
I pasted on my fakest smile as Walters slammed the door behind him, not even acknowledging that Trevor was in the room. He was such a self-absorbed prick.
“Why do you work for those slimy pieces of shit?”
I had been wondering the same thing lately. But I’d come too far, sacrificed too much to walk away now. I deserved partner, and I would do anything to get what I deserved.
“I have my reasons,” I answered coyly.
Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “Always the woman of mystery. I love it.”
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LOVE IN FINE PRINT