“Hey,” he says, dipping his head to get my attention, his voice softening. “I know what I said earlier about not getting married so young, but I’m all bluster, because the truth is I wouldn’t change a damn thing. One amazing gift came out of my relationship with your mother.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” I ask, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.
He reaches across the table and taps my nose. “You, goofy gander.”
I give him a big, stupid smile because he’s such a softie. “Love you, Dad. You’re still my favorite guy.”
He clicks his tongue. “And you’re still my special French fry.” With a grumble, he points at my plate. “Now make your old man happy, and eat your breakfast. Then tell me about the assholes at that fancy party you went to last weekend. I’m sure there’s some juicy gossip in there somewhere that will give me a chortle.”
“A chortle?” I laugh, unable to contain my smile, everything feeling just a little lighter. I guess a girl sometimes just needs her dad.
15
Josh
“I don’t think they’re offering you the best price. You can get more. I’ve researched it, and there are other companies out there we can approach—”
I let out an annoyed breath. I’m sitting in a black swivel chair in a plain conference room in Evie’s office a week after she agreed to be my attorney, aka the same day she broke up with me—that is, if we were even together in the first place. Under the guise of needing to discuss my architecture firm, I made an appointment with Penny, her flighty secretary, to meet with Ms. Evelyn Mills, Esq., in person. Of course, in reality, architecture was the farthest thing from my mind. I had deadlines and needed to make a decision on these sex toy contracts—but I could hardly tell her secretary that was why I needed to come.
Besides working through the paperwork, I had another reason to stop by. Evie had emailed me, letting me know that she’d received product samples from Caligula, and asked if she should mail them to me or if I wanted to pick them up. I figured I’d be my own courier rather than risk someone opening the package.
And, of course, I wanted to see her. She’s drawn me in like an essential nutrient I didn’t know my body needed, and now that I’ve had it, I know what my body is missing.
I have to spend more time with her, even as friends.
Friends. Dammit, Evie.
All week, Drew had given me ever-loving shit about how upset I was. Finally, last Friday after a twelve-pack of Lucky Lab that turned into Jaegermeister shots, he slurred out that he was going to come up with a new bet to get me to stop moping. I sent his drunk ass home in an Uber after that comment.
Seeing her again was a bad idea because it reminds me how much this week sucked without her.
Now she sits at the head of the large, oblong table, pen poised in her slim fingers, telling me in her erotic voice why the contract I want to sign is a bad idea.
I don’t want it to be a bad idea. I just want to sign the damn thing.
But I can’t help staring at her.
Her black blazer has a single black plastic button. Nothing special. It’s about the size of a quarter. But it fascinates me. It’s positioned right below the swell of her tits, anchoring them in. I have to remember to look up, but then I catch her striking gray eyes, and I can’t look there either, because she’s too intense and they’re too beautiful. She’s wearing sober lawyer attire—a black pantsuit that emphasizes her legs and a cream blouse tied at the neck—and while she looks polished and professional, I notice the way her curves shape her clothes, making a standard business suit downright sexy.
And here’s the problem: I know what she looks like naked, and it’s glorious. She’s a curvy, soft, feminine fantasy come to life—all covered up. But I can’t think that way. I need to focus on her words, because I’m paying for them.
Boy, am I paying for them.
And I’ve never been more frustrated.
I adjust my pants. Subtly, I hope.
I’m sitting to her left, listening hard, and getting pissed. Not just because her legal advice is delivered by plump lips that will never again be wrapped around the dick we’re talking about replicating with a molding kit. No.
It’s because I want this to work, and she’s telling me all the reasons why it can’t.
Both the contract and the girl.
I adjust my tie, push up my glasses, and slouch. “That part sounds fair to me.”
“No offense, Josh, but I don’t think this offer is right for you as written.”
She’s killing me. She’s so goddamn professional that it’s pissing me off, because she’s not telling me what I want to hear. She’s telling me what I should hear.
I don’t like it at all, and somehow I love it, because finally someone has the fucking balls to stand up to a Cartwright.
I finger the contract. She leans over, her bangs falling over her face as she points to a clause, and I smell the sweet almond-honey scent of her hair. I grip the side of the conference table, hoping she doesn’t know that I’m white-knuckling the ride in a lawyer’s office.
My voice comes out raspy. “You really think you can broker a better royalty rate?”
“I do. At the very least, I think we should ask. I’ve done the research, and I can backup a significantly higher percentage. There’s no harm in asking.”
I can think of a lot of things that would be harmful for me to ask: Would you mind if I kissed you? Would you mind if I ripped your clothes off? Would it matter if we had sex in the conference room?
Would you go out with me? Maybe to dinner or a movie?
She makes notations on the contract, oblivious to my misery.
But there’s no point in trying to convince her when I know she’s trying to do the right thing, so I lean back in my chair. “Sweetheart, I trust you. I know you’ll look after my best interests.”
Especially since she already has. This whole setup is for my best interests, so that she can do her job well and I can be properly taken care of by an outstanding attorney.
She stiffens at the word “sweetheart.” But I don’t mean it in a sexist way. I mean it like, God, she makes my heart race, and it’s fucking bittersweet.
Somehow I make it through the rest of the contract discussion, mostly by concentrating on the words on the paper instead of her presence. That voice. Those lips. That hair. Fuck me.
After we go through the other clauses, and we agree on a game plan for the next round of negotiations, she gestures to a cardboard box big enough for a toddler to hide in. It must be lightweight, though, given the ease with which she shifts it over to me.
“Here’s the delivery I received on your behalf,” she says, punctuated with the click of a ballpoint pen cap. Her cheeks flush. “I opened it because it’s addressed to me, but it’s for you. Make sure they sent everything in case we need to request any replacements or return anything.”
She pushes the package toward me.
So now I’m amused. Are we really going to look at sex toys in a conservative lawyer’s office?