Chapter 4
Four
Connected
Spencer
I’m halfway through reviewing a merger agreement on my phone when the cute twink behind the counter at Tom’s Diner catches my eye as he gives a white takeout bag a little shake.
I look up from my phone and he grins. “Egg white and turkey sausage on an everything bagel, and a black coffee.”
Tucking my phone into the pocket of my suit jacket, I step up to the counter. “That’s me.”
He leans forward, forearms on the counter, chin tipped slightly down so he has to look up at me through his lashes. It’s practiced. Almost impressive.
“I know. You get the same thing every day,” he teases. “Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Stark?” he finishes, suggestively.
I roll my eyes on a polite laugh and grab the bag, then the coffee. “No, I’m quite good. Thanks, Aspen.”
His smile turns pouty.
You couldn’t handle me, kid. I would break you.
I turn before he can try again, sliding my Gucci sunglasses from my head and settling them on my face as I push out into the Phoenix morning.
The sun hits hard, bouncing off glass and pavement.
The walk back to the office is a short three blocks, but it’s enough time to clear my head before diving back into billable hours.
I pull out my phone again. There are documents I’m waiting on—final redlines before signature—and I want them in my inbox before I step into the office.
Before I can check, the phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Unknown number.
I stop at the corner, jaw tightening.
Damn it, Sophie.
She’s supposed to save all client numbers with notes. Industry. Case. Red flags. I don’t like guessing games.
Granted, she’s newer to my desk. Sophie’s the sixth assistant I’ve had in as many months. They never stay.
Swiping open the message, the sender is about as helpful as Sophie.
Unknown: Hey Spence.
Two words. That’s it. I sigh slowly as my thumbs move over keys. I hate inefficiency.
Me: This is Spencer Stark. How can I help you?
Typing bubbles bounce along the bottom of the screen.
Unknown: Wow. So formal. I’m swooning.
I come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone bumps my shoulder and mutters something under their breath. Waving them off with my own grumble, I step aside, pressing back against the reflective window of an office building.
Scrunching my forehead, I type back.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Guess.
Me: Are you a client?
Unkown: No. Do you want me to be?
I exhale sharply through my nose.
Me: I don’t have time for this. Spit it out or move along.
For half a second, I wonder if one of my recent hookups managed to swipe my number when I wasn’t looking. It wouldn’t be the first time someone decided they couldn’t stick to my one and done rule. Then again, it could just be one of those stupid scams. How do people fall for that shit?
The phone vibrates again. This time, it’s just three laughing emojis.
I see red.
And then…
Unknown: Fine. Relax, bro. It’s Butters.
I blink at the screen. Butters? My head tips back, thunking lightly against the cool glass behind me.
Ryan.
What in the ever-living fuck?
My thumbs fly.
Me:
A.) Never call me bro again.
B.) I’m not calling you Butters, RYAN.
C.) What do you want?
The bubbles come back to my dismay.
Then a drooling emoji.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath, already adding his contact so I know not to answer this man-child.
Another message comes through.
Jackass QB1: Are those all your exhibits, Counselor? Because I think you forgot the D. [wink emoji]
I close my eyes briefly.
He’s insufferable.
Me: Look, straighty, I have to get back to the office. What do you want? How did you even get my number?
Pushing off the building, I start walking, working my way through foot traffic toward my firm.
Jackass QB1: I got it from Anthony. Told him I needed some legal advice.
Another text lands before I can respond.
Jackass QB1: And that I was afraid to ask Jen
I slow, because now he’s speaking my language.
Landing the hottest quarterback in the country as a client would make the partners salivate.
God, I should not be entertaining this.
Me: Why didn’t you just say so. What advice do you need?
The bubbles rise. Disappear. Rise again.
My jaw ticks. I don’t like to be kept waiting.
Jackass QB1: Will you work out with me?
I stop foot traffic again, people weaving around me.
Me: What?
Jackass QB1: I like to get in extra workouts outside our team routine. I can’t get anyone to meet me at the gym downtown where I live.
Me: Immediately no.
A frown emoji pops up.
Jackass QB1: Come on, bro. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s get all sweaty and talk about mergers and assquisitions.
I shake my head and start walking again.
Me: Go away, Ryan. And don’t call me bro.
Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I stride toward the office building, jaw set. I am not getting dragged into his games. If he’s serious about retaining the firm, he can make an appointment like everyone else.
Hoping I didn’t just blow up my career by telling “America’s Quarterback” to go away, I push through the street level doors of Bowen, Saxon & Finley.
The thought rattles around my brain for the annoyingly long elevator ride. What if he’s serious?
Stepping out the second the doors open, I make haste past the bullpen of paralegals to my office at the back of the twelfth floor.
My eyes stay glued to my phone in a practiced effort to avoid small talk. I loathe small talk. That’s why I go out for coffee. Can’t do break rooms. Would rather peel my toenails off with pliers.
Nearing the bank of offices past the bullpen, I look up and stop short for the third time this morning.
A stranger sits in the desk in front of my office. The desk my assistant Sophie was sitting at when I left to get the coffee that is now cold in my hand.
Jesus. Another one?
Why can’t I keep an assistant?
I assess this new one as I get closer.
What has HR sent me? She’s wearing a black pleather looking top, a black beret, and a slim black choker adorns her neck.
Stopping in front of the desk, I take in her black lipstick, glossy black nail polish, and eyebrow piercing.
I don’t hate it. Hell, she’d probably be the person I’d choose to talk to in a room full of strangers. She has style. Not my particular taste, but she pays great attention to the details. It’s carefully curated. I respect that.
I just hope she can do her job.
“Who are you?” I prod, sternly.
The interesting creature stands, juts out her hand, and says, “My name is Dita. I’ll be your—”
“Assistant. I know,” I grumble.
Seemingly unaffected, she offers me a bright smile, and doesn’t hesitate her response. “Get back to your day, Mr. Stark. I will review your schedule for today and the rest of the week and slot myself in any openings you have so you can brief me on exactly how you like things done.”
I blink at her for a second before nodding and turning on my heel to step into my office. Hmm. Efficient. I like it.
“There’s just one thing, Mr. Stark,” she blurts out with a grimace.
I raise a brow.
“Ms. Clark is sitting in your office. I tried to tell her she needed an appointment.”
I bark a laugh, knowing exactly how well that went.
Dita frowns. “I’m sorry, Sir. But there was no stopping her.”
I tap a knuckle on her desk. “No, there isn’t. And it’s fine. Jen never needs an appointment.”
My newly Jen-initiated assistant nods and plops in her chair, immediately jotting down a note: Ms. Clark NAN
Yep, efficient.
I smooth my Brioni tie and push open my office door.
My colleague—and the closest thing I have to a friend—is perched in the chair across from my desk with her tablet open on her lap. Jen’s heel taps lightly against the floor as she scans a page while twirling the device pencil between her fingers.
She glances up. “You took an awful long time just to get coffee.”
“I also got breakfast,” I reply, setting the bag on my desk.
“That better be an everything bagel,” she chirps.
“It is. But it’s mine.”
“Rude.”
I shrug out of my jacket and hang it on the back of my chair. “You didn’t place an order.”
Jen rolls her eyes. “Still rude.”
I sit, unwrap the sandwich, and take a bite while she flips a page in the file.
“Toll and Fritz,” she says, tapping her tablet. “Or as I continue to maintain, Titz.”
I sigh. “You’re twelve.”
“You love it.”
“I do not.”
“You totally do.”
Jen leans forward slightly. “Anyway. I came to see if the redlines are ready so we can move this monstrosity forward.”
“I’m still waiting on those,” I say around another bite. “Parker was working through them with the paralegals last night. We should have them in short order.”
Jen nods, satisfied for the moment. Then she studies me, her eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”
I freeze mid-sip of coffee. “What?”
She tilts her head. “You look… distracted.”
“I am not distracted.”
“You’re distracted,” she insists.
“I’m waiting on redlines.”
“That’s not the distraction.”
I take another bite, ignoring her, but she watches me like a cat stalking prey. “There’s no distraction,” I huff.
She just hums, completely unconvinced.
“So,” I say, casually. “What’s Ryan’s deal?”
Jen blinks. “You mean Butters?”
“Ryan,” I shoot back. “I’m not calling him that.”
“What do you want to know?” she smirks. “He’s pretty, right?”
“No,” I huff. “I mean, yes, he is, but what I mean—”
She bursts out laughing, cutting me off. “You look a little flustered there, Spence. Does someone have a crush?”
I level her with a flat stare. “You know I don’t get those.”
“Mmhmm.”
“What I wanted to know,” I continue, ignoring her tone, “is does he have representation?”
Jen tilts her head. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” I say, gesturing with my coffee. “He’s got an agent, right? Do they have in-house counsel?”
“Oh,” Jen says, nodding. “Yes. He has an agent and they typically have in-house for endorsement contracts and matters related to their agency agreement. Some athletes keep outside counsel for other things.”