She knows.
Someone can see me and know who I am, besides Drew, who doesn’t really count. I feel so relieved I smile and continue. “Great. So it sounds like you had a chance to review the website?”
“Thoroughly.” She blushes again. It’s cute.
“Is there anything else you need from me to pitch to the partners?”
“No, I have a lot to work with.” She shakes her head with an awkward laugh, most likely realizing the double-entendre.
There is a lot to work with.
She brushes away her long bangs, and a few freckles high on her cheekbones catch my attention. It’s a focal point on a pretty face, which makes her seem innocent and very girl-next-door.
What a difference from the women I’m normally around. Her hair isn’t overdone. It’s simple and attractive, tucked behind one ear. Her skin isn’t airbrushed so that it looks good on camera. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t even wear makeup, but her skin glows—especially when she’s embarrassed. She has a manner about her that is confident, but a little unsure at the same time, which I’m finding I like. Unlike the women in my social circles who have a stylist telling them what to wear and a PR person telling them what to say and how to say it.
I take a sip of my coffee and push up my glasses, leaning back in the booth and gazing at her. “So what next, Counselor?”
“Josh, I’m comfortable moving forward. Can you tell me more about the type of work that you’ll be needing from my firm?”
She chews on her bottom lip, and I remind myself to focus. Having a gorgeous attorney might test me.
But I’m always up for a good challenge.
5
Evie
Does this guy ever take a bad photo?
Image after image on Google seems to indicate that Josh Cartwright is, in fact, perfection. I’m talking with his clothes on.
And he’s not just a pretty face.
I skim the Wikipedia article at record speed.
He’s twenty-eight, attended Harvard for undergrad and Yale for grad school, and then returned to his hometown to start an insanely successful sustainable architecture firm.
Be still, my nerdy-girl heart.
I click on a few more images until my vision clouds with lust. You usually hear how a photo never does a person justice. Nope. Not in this case. I can personally testify that he is just as hot in a pic as he is in person. Add the images he posts on his blog, and I can barely keep from squeezing my thighs together.
Although in person he’s practically combustible.
When we shook hands, I got a whiff of his cologne, which was crisp and clean and a little dizzying. And then he ran his hands through his thick, black hair, leaving it stylishly finger-fucked. I made the mistake of taking a long look into those hazel eyes and realized they were the color of whiskey, the kind you want to slam back until you’re drunk.
I’m not sure how long I stared, quite honestly.
Until I heard that voice.
Deep. Commanding. Confident.
How I managed to have coffee with him this morning and not drool all over the table is still a mystery.
Remembering his drop-dead-gorgeous smile sends goosebumps across my skin. He wore the sexiest suit, which probably cost more than my mortgage payment, but it fit him like a glove with long, hard lines that drew my eyes across the expanse of his broad chest and left me momentarily stunned.
But as sexy as he looked—like my own superhero in disguise—the clothes only hinted at the deliciousness underneath.
And when he showed me his beauty mark? You could’ve stuck a fork in me ‘cause I was done.
By the time he called me “lovely,” I was ready to send out our wedding invitations.
Generally, when clients call me “hon” or “sweetheart,” I want to smack them in the face. I suppose it has everything to do with who calls you a term of endearment. And I did not mind Josh’s nickname for me one bit. Although I clearly need to stop crushing on this guy.
Get a grip, Evelyn. He’s your freaking client, not a potential boyfriend.
I shake my head, needing to rein it in.
Except… I wonder if he’s single. I mean, as his attorney, I think I should know who I’m getting involved with. Due diligence and all that.
Half an hour later, all I can say is I’m not sure about his relationship status.
Until late last fall, he was consistently photographed with a petite blonde woman, some heiress named Tiffany. Always arm-in-arm at one fundraiser or another looking epically cool and perfectly styled.
But then about six months ago, several columns speculated that he and Tiffany broke up, and women should stay on the lookout for “Portland’s most eligible bachelor.”
Wrinkling my nose, I quit the browser. I’d hate to have my romances splashed across gossip blogs like this. Not that there’ve been many.
Guilt tugs at my conscience for delving too deeply into this guy’s business.
Closing the file I’ve prepared for him, I decide right here and now this is the only time I’ll indulge in lusting over this guy. It helps that he’s out of my league. Like, different planet out of my league.
I can represent this man and keep a safe distance. This morning, though, I felt blindsided. I didn’t expect the hot guy on the blog to be an actual hot guy. Because, come on, the internet lies. I’ve heard enough about online dating to know no one is as attractive in person as they are in cyberspace. Unless you’re Josh Cartwright.
Swear to God, I’ve never had the hots for a client before. They’re usually paunchy old guys with halitosis and coffee stains on their lapels.
Now that I know this guy is a walking, talking GQ ad, I’ll be better prepared.
Besides, I’m sure he has plenty of fangirls. What he needs is a great attorney. I can help him with that, even though I might die of embarrassment when I pitch this to my boss.
I keep reminding myself of the bottom line—the firm wants more “top-tier” clients, and I need to make partner. Because I’m tired of doing everyone else’s grunt work and getting the cases no one else wants. And since the one female partner is out on maternity leave, I know the old farts here really need to promote a woman.
My phone buzzes, and I answer on speakerphone when I see it’s Penny.
“You wanted to know when Malcolm had some time?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “He’s having lunch with Cruella de Vil. You might be able to sneak in before. He’s leaving in twenty.”
“Thanks, Penny. You’re the best.” I click off speakerphone, chuckling at her nickname for Angela, who is another reason for my do-or-die attitude.
Angela has been nothing but condescending and dismissive of me since we both started here three years ago. Seeing her make partner before me would be crushing, to say the least. No doubt she’d gloat every chance she got.
It’s May, and the firm will be promoting the new partners by the end of the summer, which means no matter how awkward it might be talking to Malcolm about Josh’s blog, I have to do it.