As we near the entrance to Sunshine Living, she says, “The best thing about being my age is I don’t have to worry about getting knocked up.” She eyes me up and down. “You, on the other hand . . .”
I hold up a stop-sign palm. If she only knew how dating and I have fared. “I’m not involved with anyone. Or dating, even.”
Her sharp gaze says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Are you sure you don’t have a date tonight? You look different. You’re wearing black. You never wear black. And a little more mascara. Do you have a swipe-right lined up?”
I laugh, shaking my head. Dating is the opposite of what I do with Oliver. “Nope. I’m just meeting a friend after work.”
Skeptically, she regards my skinny jeans, my black boots, and my sweater that . . . Fine, this one is my favorite, and since my blue shirt was unwearable, I had to go home and change after that troublemaker put his arms around me.
“I don’t buy that he’s just a friend,” Roxanne says.
I picture Oliver’s square jaw. His flop of hair. His daring grin. The way he drives me absolutely crazy.
With complete honesty, I answer, “I’ve known him since I was wearing braces. Since I was all elbows and knees, and understanding boys was like learning how to survive on Mars.”
“And now you’re all legs and sass and energy,” she says in a flirty tone.
I shake my head, adamant. “And he’s always dating someone else. Besides, he’s helping me with the paperwork I need for my new venture.”
Her face says she still doubts me. “Is he a dragon?”
That’s a dating term I haven’t heard. “Does that mean he has bad breath?”
She shimmies her hips. “It means he brings the fire in the bedroom.”
A blush creeps across my cheeks and my skin heats as the briefest image of what Oliver might be like in the bedroom flashes before my eyes.
But I give her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “I will never know, because he’s just a friend. And he’s my brother’s best friend at that. Ergo, nothing will happen.”
For so many reasons.
“If you say so . . .” Roxanne lets those words trail off into the evening as I say goodbye, heading across town to meet the off-limits dragon.
3OLIVER
My job boils down to three things: Reassuring. Fighting. Finagling.
I happen to be tops at all three.
Perhaps that sounds cocky.
But as my cousin Jason says, “You can’t be cocky if what you say is true.”
Fine, fine. There are about a million flaws in his logic, as I point out every time, but it’s become our joke.
Today, I’m completely confident as I reassure my newest client. “I’ve got this, Geneva. I’m going to take care of you. This is going to be the partnership you’ve always wanted.”
Seated across from me in my Park Avenue office thirty floors up, the nervous client breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you so much,” she says, her shoulders relaxing. “I had a feeling you would be the right one to call on this deal. And I’m not just saying that because we’re from the same side of the street.”
“Can’t beat Crystal Palace, even the dodgy end,” I say. I grew up in that London neighborhood, where I lived until I was thirteen, and my new client comes from there too.
I tap the top paper in the stack on my desk—a term sheet I’m working on for her. Her ad agency is partnering up with a smaller one for a number of media clients, and my firm is handling the legal issues of the new pairing. Untangling prior contracts, I’ve found a few particularly thorny ones with unfortunate terms. Her last attorney was a selfish prick, adding in layers of unnecessary loopholes that likely just padded his billables. He was also her ex. More proof that exes are douches. “We’ll get this all sorted out,” I tell her, keeping my opinion of her ex to myself.
“Thank you, Oliver.” She smooths a hand over her tight black bun. “It’s been a terrible year, and I want something to go well. I had a very public split recently.” She waves a hand to dismiss her words. “But you don’t need to hear about that.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had a rough go of it,” I say lightly. I did hear of her divorce. Or rather, my Aunt Jane did, and she told me before the appointment. Since I hired her a few months ago, Jane’s job has been not only to staff the reception desk and manage the office, but also to stay abreast of every iota of gossip.
“It’s better now. Or it will be soon,” Geneva says, stiff-upper-lipping it.
“It will be,” I reassure her. I don’t know all of her situation, but I do hope it improves.
“And on that cheery note, I’d better be off,” she says.
I rise, escorting her to the reception area, where Jane beams from her post at the desk. “You already look happier,” Jane tells Geneva. “Like I told you when you arrived, Ollie has a way of setting everyone at ease.”
“Oliver,” I say low, in a friendly warning.
Jane gives us an oops grin. “He’ll always be Ollie to me.”
“Ollie,” Geneva says, laughing. “It’s a very sweet name.”
Sweet.
An adjective no corporate attorney wants assigned to him.
“Would you like Jane to call you a Lyft?” I steer the conversation away from nicknames. “An UberX to whisk you home? Horse-drawn carriage, maybe? On the house.”
Geneva’s lips quirk at the over-the-top suggestion.
