In any case, I wouldn’t expect my dad to know a law firm from a donut shop. He’s just trying to needle me. “Later.” I hang up and head out in search of that cup of coffee before he has a chance to put me in a bad mood. He’s the only person capable of doing that.
The Warner office itself is a mix of new and old—modern light gray walls, mahogany wall-to-wall bookshelves and desks, open-concept desks in the center of the room, fishbowl offices lining the outskirts. It’s as if someone decided to redecorate but ran out of either money or creativity. Jack did mention something about renovating in the winter. The place seems fine to me, but I’m a twenty-five-year-old who lives with five other guys and would come to work in board shorts if he could.
The office isn’t huge or complicated and it takes no time to find the break room, though I play the “first day” card and let an adorable law clerk lead me there, smiling and blushing at me the entire way as I watch her curvy ass sway. I have an appreciation for the many shapes and sizes of the female form. The old me—as in two days ago—would probably have her number by now. The new me is trying something different. Specifically, he’s trying not to hit on every female he finds attractive.
Heading back to my office—a coffee mug in one hand and someone’s homemade muffin in the other—I survey the desks out in the open where the administrative staff sits. From the looks of the pictures and knickknacks, it’s mostly women. Mostly married with kids. Many in their forties or beyond. Man, what a different world this is from Penny’s, where I was taunted by bare tits and ass from every angle! At least that makes it easier to keep my pants on around here and try to act like a responsible adult.
Because that’s what I am. Ben Morris, Esquire. Well, almost. Either way, I like the sound of that.
Passing by a small office almost directly across from mine, a picture on the wall catches my attention. My feet falter as I smile fondly at the framed Pearl Jam album cover, thinking back to that crazy purple-haired fake marine biologist, Jill.
Damn, that girl was something else.
After stripping off my puke-covered clothes and tossing them over the balcony, I stretched out on the bed and waited for her to emerge from the bathroom, dying for a shower. I even considered going over to Kent’s room, but I didn’t want to leave her alone in there. I guess I passed out because the next thing I knew, the sun was beating down on my face through the window and Jill was gone.
Not even a note.
At least she didn’t rob me. Or kill me.
I tried finding her, but after charming one of the front desk girls into searching the hotel guest list, no one by the name of Jill came up. It was obviously registered to one of her friends and I didn’t remember their names. The resort was too damn big to go searching, especially when I had to rush to repack everything she had scattered before catching my plane home.
I’m not gonna lie—for a couple of weeks after, I searched for a purple-haired girl named Jill on Facebook. Partly because I wanted to say sorry for laughing. Mostly because she was a lot of fun and I wouldn’t have minded hooking up with her again. Minus the puke. I didn’t tell the guys what really happened. As far as they know, it was balls-deep as usual for me that night.
The cotton-candy-pink sweater hanging over the back of the chair makes me think this is a female’s office, but everything else disputes that. Folders sit in piles on the desk, on the floor, on boxes, on the spare chair. Where there aren’t folders, there’s scattered mail and junk. Multiple Starbucks paper cups sit by the desk phone, next to an open box of Oreo cookies and a bag of beef jerky. A crumpled bag of chips and crushed cans of Red Bull surround the trash bin.
A computer monitor—decorated in no less than a hundred multicolored Post-it notes—is on and displaying a screensaver of a rusty old blue truck in a field.
I’m intrigued, to say the least. I can’t imagine what kind of female this sty could possibly belong to, and part of me is afraid to find out. It’s not dirty, per se. It’s just messy beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I step forward and begin scanning her desk, looking for a nameplate or something to identify her.
And that’s exactly what I’m doing when she walks in.
“Is there a reason that you’re snooping through my things?” a crisp voice calls out.
Pulling on a smile that usually takes the edge off even the moodiest of women, I turn around. A blond in a short green dress and cowboy boots stands in the doorway, a tall coffee cup in her hand and a deep scowl furrowing her forehead.
I open my mouth to introduce myself but falter as panic flashes in those eyes.
Those caramel-colored eyes.
“Holy shit!” I don’t believe it. There’s really nothing I can think of to say except, “You owe me a new shirt!”