24. Reid
Reid
I would absolutely be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit on edge about this next wedding.
For one, I have a lot of loose ends flying about on the work front for a casual trip south for a wedding for a man whom I just met.
Unfortunately, networking comes with the territory in this industry.
Same firm or not, anyone who is not your friend is your competition.
And while I am not intimidated by anyone else (no clients have ever chosen me second) the rumor mill is a busy one, and I can’t have people talking shit about me behind my back.
Especially in a world where most people dislike you.
All of that said, the wedding is mandatory, and so is this trip, inconvenient or not.
Still, it doesn’t stop me from staying in touch with my clients.
Michael Overholt specifically. And not just because he can actually afford me (a task that is not a small one).
But because his wife’s lawyer is one of my biggest rivals.
And because his mouth has a way of making him look very stupid, which can make me look stupid if this case doesn’t go seamlessly in my favor.
So I use the five minutes my driver is stuck in airport traffic to call Michael.
“Reid. Hello. I was actually going to call you today. Have you left for the Carolinas yet? I hear the weather down there is amazing right now. And here we are about to get hit but a storm,” he chuckles.
He’s talking too much.
Rambling.
And in my experience, rambling can only mean one thing. Something is up. Something that, if I had to guess by the nervousness in his tone, is not good. Not for me, or the case, or my mood.
“Where are we on the therapy thing, Michael?” I ask, cutting right to the chase. “She’s not going to budge on it, and unless you want this divorce to cost you a third mortgage, I suggest we make it as short as possible.”
I put emphasis on the word third. Because I’m still not cool with the fact that he didn’t mention the vacation home, a distant and yet very important asset in a messy divorce. Hidden assets make lawyers look like asses. And nobody is going to make me look like an ass.
“It’s funny you should mention that,” he chuckles. With every word, I dislike the direction of this conversation more and more. “We went to our first therapy session last night.”
“OK… And?” no I can definitely tell where this is going, and I absolutely do not like it.
There is an optimism in his voice that wasn’t there before, an optimism that never works to my benefit as a divorce lawyer.
Because optimism usually means hope. And hope means that he is second-guessing things.
“And I guess I’m surprised how well it went,” Michael tells me. And my jaw clenches even tighter than it was before. “I always thought that therapy, specifically couples therapy, was just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo.”
“That’s because it is,” I tell him flatly.
“But now that I’ve gone to one of the sessions with Ashley, I’m kind of having second thoughts.”
And there it is. The bomb that I hadn’t thought about detonating. My worst fear. That my client would actually listen to the therapist and his wife and come to his senses, as I’m sure they put it. In reality, the most sensible thing he possibly could’ve done was walking in my office to start with.
Of course, at this point, he’s been brainwashed enough not to believe that anymore.
“You know they’re fucking with you?” I ask, and I know that isn’t the most professional way to talk to a client. I don’t wanna go as far as to say that I’m desperate, but there’s no way I can win a case if my client is on the same side as the opposing client.
“What do you mean?” Michael asks, and I let out a heavy sigh. I make no point of hiding it. I’m finding that with this particular person; I have to talk the way I would talk to a teenage boy.
“That was Bowen’s plan all along. It was your wife’s plan all along.
She’s pissed off about the vacation home and the fact that if I have it my way, and mind you, I usually do have it my way, she will get a lot less out of the divorce than she wants to.
Because I do think we have a strong case if we play our cards right.
And at this point, I’m not convinced that you’re even playing the same tune as me at all. ”
Are my words manipulative? You could say that, but also the man is switching teams right in the middle of the game.
A game that I refused to lose. Not just because I believe that these two should not be together and that they are barely towards a divorce at some point, whether it’s now or in the future.
But because I never, and I mean never, raise a white flag in a courtroom with Grant Bowen.
That doesn’t mean that I have never lost a case against him.
He is skilled enough that I can’t make that claim. But I have never surrendered.
“I don’t know,” Michael says, and I can tell that he is rubbing his temples and frustration. “There was something about this therapist. About the entire program. It just made me think that maybe divorce isn’t the answer.”
“Of course divorce is the answer!” I boom as my driver slams on his brakes. Airport traffic really is a nightmare, especially in the overcrowded, overpopulated fine state of New York. “They are brainwashing you. The therapist, your wife, and her lawyer.”
“What is it with you and that lawyer?” He questions. “There definitely seemed like there was some beef between the two of you in the conference room the other day.”
I grit my teeth. “Of course there was beef between the two of us,” I tell him impatiently. “He’s the opposing lawyer.”
“I don’t think it’s just that. I get the feeling that there’s a rivalry between the two of you that has nothing to do with me and Ashley.”
Michael is not a smart man, but he is figuring things out. And that’s another thing that I will not tolerate.
“I need you to focus. I need you to ignore the tactics that this therapist learned in college. If I had to guess, psychology wasn’t even her first pick.
Either that, or she’s got problems of her own, but instead of facing them, she untangles other people’s issues for money.
Michael, I need you to focus on what we are trying to do here.
This woman was with you for 16 years, has a job that wouldn’t even be considered lucrative on Etsy, but thinks that she can take more than half of everything you’ve worked for.
More than half of everything that belonged to you in the first place. ”
I will admit that the last sentence is not necessarily true.
Saying those words actually goes slightly against my normal morals.
But for whatever reason, this case has struck a nerve.
There’s something about this couple, something about the fact that he is giving in, something I see is weakness and not intelligence, that makes me wanna win it all the more.
Whether it’s for me or him, I don’t know.
But I don’t have time to figure that out.
As we approach the airport, I need to focus on the wedding.
I need to focus on walking through those doors and dealing with a woman who has the capacity to unravel me simply by wearing a low-cut dress.
I need to focus on making it through this flight, even if it is a private one.
If anything, the fact that it’s a private jet with only me and her and one hired tourist and two pilots is actually going to make it even more difficult to remember the rules that we just recently reinforced.
* * *
“This is nice,” Quinn says if she buckles herself in. “I’ve never been on a private jet before.”
“Most people haven’t,” I tell her, and while I’m not usually one for small talk, I’m still reeling from the conversation I just had in the car. Honestly, I would prefer we didn’t speak at all, but I doubt I can be so lucky, especially with Quinn.
“How long has your pilot been a pilot?” She asks, and I am about to snap at her.
If she’s going to ask pointless questions, I’d prefer we flew in silence.
But as I glance over at her, I noticed that her light blue eyes are wide and quiet with anxiety.
Her hands are clasped together in her lap. She’s afraid to fly.
“Orlando has been my pilot for over 10 years. He is very skilled. The flights are much smoother than continental ones. You’ll see.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Quinn’s soft hands, growing even more tense. “I’ve never flown before.”
“You’ve never flown before?” I ask her. “That surprises me.”
“Does it?” she asks, finally turning her attention to me instead of staring blankly at the window.
“Sure, you said that your dad is a lawyer. The last time I checked, lawyers made pretty good money. Money that could be used to buy vacations.”
“We used to go on vacation,” she says almost robotically. “Before my mom died.”
Fuck. I forgot about that. not that I could’ve known it would tie into this conversation, but it still makes me feel like shit. Especially since the anxiety over flying has her usual spicy tongue down to a kid-level mild.
“After that,” she goes on, “my dad kind of just threw himself into work. One of those things where anything that reminded him of her hurt too much. Of course, eventually he realized how much I reminded him of her, and he couldn’t avoid me.
But by that time, I was already doing my own things, and he was becoming more successful in his career and had less free time on his hands.
So, now here I am in my mid-20s, and I’ve never been on a plane. ”
Speaking of planes. The captain is now taxiing across the runway, and Quinn lets out an audible gasp. Her hands clench and she grabs the handles of the chair. Instinctively, I placed one of mine on top of one of hers and keep the conversation going.
“So these trips you took with your mom…you didn’t fly for those?”
Quinn shakes her head. “My mom likes road trips. She preferred being able to see the country, not just fly over it. We went all the way to the Grand Canyon one time.”
My eyes widen at that. “You drove from New York to the Grand Canyon? In a car? With your parents?”
Quinn nods with a small smile, and I’m happy to see it. Of course it fades once we pick up speed. I tug her hand off the handle and clasp it in mine. Our fingers intertwine, and she nearly cuts off the circulation as the wheels of the plane lift off the ground.
“Fuck,” she lets out half scream and half squeak. Her eyes are still clamped shut. Then, to my surprise, she says. “I never minded being in the car with my parents. They let me have the entire backseat, snacks, and books.”
“Let me guess. Harlequins?” I said, and she smiles.
“Nicholas Sparks,” she says. “I’m classy like that.”
It earns a laugh from me. And I find that both of us are relaxing more. She’s no longer in danger of cutting off the blood supply to my fingers. And my mood is actually softening a little.
Then suddenly her eyes pop open. “That reminds me! How long is this flight?”
“A couple hours; two tops. Just depends on the route we take based on the flight of other planes. Why do you ask?”
“That is just enough time,” Quinn says, reaching for her backpack and pulling out a tablet.
“Are you actually going to work on the plane?” I ask. Not that I didn’t plan to do the same.
“Nope,” Quinn says with a smile, and the next thing I know she’s logging into her Netflix account. I give her a curious look. “You’ll see.”
And I do see. I see the word Bridgerton pop up on the screen and immediately say, “You do you.” I reach for my backpack, but Quinn grabs my arm and pulls me back against the seat.
“You’re going to watch this with me,” she insists.
“I most certainly am not. I’ve never watched a romance in my life, and I’m not going to start now.”
“Yes, you are,” she says. But it’s not her typical arguing voice. There’s teasing in it. Excitement. Something I have a hard time saying no to. “We are on our way to a wedding on the beach. I think it’s the perfect time to introduce you to romance. And I know exactly the couple to do it.”
Quinn doesn’t give me a choice. Instead, she hits play and shoves an AirPod into one ear before handing me the other.
I guess we are doing this. We are watching Bridgerton Season One, Episode One on the way to a wedding that she never had to go to, contractually. And even though it is not my thing, Regé-Jean Page is pretty impressive, and the Duke is slick.