7. Reid #2
After that conversation, I find that I have a little too much adrenaline running through my veins to go home. I can thank my new court case and my old rival for that.
So I make a pit stop at Rydell’s, an upscale brewery and restaurant downtown. Don’t get me wrong, like any other man with good taste, I love whiskey. It’s my poison of choice. But at the same time, sometimes a good, ice cold, craft brew just hits. And this is one of those times.
I find a seat at the bar and order an East Coast double, salivating as I watch the pour. The honey-colored liquid bubbles over the edge of the chilled glass, and the bartender wipes it off before setting it on a coaster in front of me.
“Are we thinking food?” he asks.
“In a minute. Right now, this is all the sustenance I need.”
He grins. “Cheers.”
And cheers is right. Cheers to a good case closed. Cheers to prospective wins. Cheers to being the wealthiest, most successful, most–
“Is this seat taken?”
My hand jostles a little at the familiar voice, spilling at least an inch worth of the precious fluid onto the bar top and splashing on my shirt.
I turn to look at Quinn, clearly unamused.
“Yes,” I state.
And she sits down anyway. Why am I not surprised?
“Sorry about that, I’ll buy you another. But I need to talk to you,” she says, setting down no less than a mountain of belongings, including a giant, oversized purse (pink of course), a wallet (also pink), her phone, her keys, a sweater…
“Jesus Christ, move in, will ya?” I mutter.
“Listen, I don’t have time for small talk,” she says. “Hunting you down was no easy task.”
I am about to ask why. My name is literally plastered on the high-rise across the street. But then I realize she knows me as Reid and not August Remington, and I’d like to keep it that way, so I bite my tongue.
“Finally, I just decided to hit up every bar and grill within a mile of the courthouse, and low and behold, you’re here,” she says with an exhausting smile.
“You went barhopping to find me?” I ask. “And yet you accused me of being the stalker.”
“Actually, I got lucky on the first try. Talk about fate,” she says as she looks over the beer menu before flipping it over to the wine side. Of course.
“How about we just talk about why you’re here,” I say.
“Fair enough,” she says, setting the menu down. She orders a glass of merlot, the cheapest on the menu. But I intervene.
“Braxton Cellars,” I tell the bartender, vetoing her mass-produced order.
“Braxton–Reid, that’s a thirty-five-dollar glass of wine.”
“And?” I ask.
Her eyes study me. My eyes don’t waver. She figures out I am paying and accepts it. Again, she’s a smart girl.
“So…I feel like we got off on the wrong foot, you and I…” she says, playing with her coaster. I take a sip and bite my lips.
“Don’t beat around the bush,” I tell her.
“Right. I need your help,” she says quickly. And then she goes on before I can do anything other than raise a questioning eyebrow. “As you know, I run a nonprofit that matches married couples who are on the brink of divorce to counselors. Counselors they couldn’t otherwise afford. Call Hail Mary,”
“I prefer to call it a waste of money, but go on,” I tell her.
But unlike most women, or anyone who talks to me for that matter, Quinn is not discouraged. She holds tight to her case and runs with it.
It’s almost impressive. For someone who believes in the biggest lie of all time, that is.
“Well. We Still Do is facing some…financial obstacles.”
“Shocking.”
“We normally rely on government funding. Insurance of sorts.”
“I know how healthcare funding works,” I state flatly, while doing my best to enjoy my beer.
What’s left of it anyways. I am also doing my best to ignore the fact that she looks sexy as hell right now.
A fitted black dress that shows off her stellar body in all its glory. And her hair is down today.
With that, she cuts to the chase. Finally. “The funding has been cut. Other than a couple of private donors, we are…fundless.”
“Money in escrow?” I ask.
“Not enough to keep us going. Not with the number of clients we have in ongoing therapy.”
“So cut a few of them,” I say.
“Oh right. Let’s just play Russian Roulette with people’s lives. Why didn’t I think of that?” she mutters.
“You’re welcome,” I grin, and she rolls her eyes.
“That is not an option,” she states.
“So what is?” I ask, setting my glass down. Meanwhile, she picks hers up.
“I need to find a continuous donor…with a lot of money…to keep us going. At least until I can afford a…lawyer…to fight for us,” she says, clearly hating every word of that sentence.
What she doesn’t seem to hate, though, is the wine.
Because after her first sip, her eyes lit up pleasantly, and if I had to guess, I just ruined wine for her.
I smirk at that.
“In the words of you,” I start in, “This is my problem, how?”
“Don’t think of it as a problem. Think of it as an opportunity,” she says, and I spit out a laugh. It’s a cute attempt for sure. But I didn’t get to where I am by chewing on every bone thrown my way.
“So, just so I can make sure we are on the same page here,” I say, still smiling. “You need money for a marriage-saving nonprofit that is about to tank. And you’ve decided to ask a divorce lawyer for said money? Right?”
“I mean, of course it sounds crazy when you put it like that,” she mutters, taking another very small sip. She’s savoring it.
“It sounds crazy because it is crazy,” I scoff.
“Look,” she snaps over at me with newfound gusto. “I know you make a living off other people’s heartbreak, but I can assure you this wouldn’t be for nothing.”
“And what would I be getting out of it?” I ask, and a small smirk tugs at her perfect, full, pink lips.
“I would go to a lot of weddings…”
Well played…