I’m going to be sick. It’s official.
I hear the receptionist say something. I assume she’s talking to Brad because, with a nod, he turns and walks to the other side of the room, pulling my sister with him. Her eyes never leave mine, but he completely ignores me.
No shocker there.
It’s been years since Brad has been able to stand to look at me.
After ten terribly nauseating minutes of studying my hands to avoid looking at Brad and Ivy, our attorneys step out. Mine, the first Buchanan in Buchanan and Buchanan, walks over with a sympathetic smile and offers his hand. Randy was an old college friend of my mother’s, so when I needed an attorney in a rush, I didn’t falter in contacting him, even if I can just barely afford his rates. But, true to my unlucky nature, his brother just so happens to have connections with Brad’s family and didn’t have any issues being his counsel, even if family law isn’t his focus.
Rushing to stand, I fumble with my heavy purse, but in my haste to keep my eyes away from the duo of doom, I gravely miscalculate every inch in my rush to stand. Mutely, I watch in horror as the strap to my purse snaps. The heavy bag drops in an embarrassingly slow-motion display, and with a slap against the marble floor, every content inside my overstuffed bag spills and scatters around me.
Lip gloss, pens, notepad, cell phone, wallet, probably every spare coin ever made and—oh, God—tampons and maxi pads. Because, naturally, it’s completely normal for someone to be a walking dispenser for any menstrual issue needs.
“Oh, God,” I gasp and twist to bend so that I can collect all my spilled crap. But before I even have a chance to blink, I’m flat on my back when my ankle gives out and twists on whatever I manage to hook on my stupid granny heel.
This day couldn’t get any worse than right here at this moment as I lay sprawled out on the floor with my personal belongings scattered around me. What did I say? Just like checkers, the final piece—me—has finally fallen.
I can’t breathe, and it has nothing to do with the fact I’m pretty sure all air I had in my lungs just got knocked straight out of my body with the force of my landing. This would have been embarrassing enough without anyone to witness it, but knowing the two people who would love nothing more than to see me stoned got a front row seat.
Yeah, I’m going to vomit.
“What a mess, Brad. Aren’t you thrilled you’re finally going to be rid of … well, that?” My sister’s hurtful words bring a heated blush to my face and my nose pricks with tears. Tears that I’m determined not to shed while they can see me. Tonight, alone in my small apartment, I’ll drown in them, but here … no.
“Willow? Are you okay?” I hear at the same time as the receptionist calls out my attorney’s name and frantically waves at the phone.
“It’s Mr. Logan with the Logan Agency. He says it’s imperative he speaks to you before your meeting with the Tates.”
“Kill me now,” I wheeze when I hear my father’s name. Rolling to my side, I make the always-awkward attempt to climb to my feet. It feels like every eye in the room is watching me. Judging me.
“I’m sorry, Willow. I have to take this,” Randy explains and moves to help me stand.
“Allow me,” I hear spoken from my other side, stopping me before I can move from my position seated on my bottom with my hands ready to push off the ground. The smooth rasp of his voice wraps around me. Those two words were said low, but with sympathy, and cause me to snap my eyes from the horrified ones of Mr. Buchanan and over to where that sinfully deep voice came from.
I hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room, let alone someone who must have been sitting just a few chairs down from where I had been before my crash to rock bottom. Literally. He moves to stand before I can see his face, but his denim-clad legs hit my vision. All I can see is two muscular thighs molded in dark-wash denim as if they were made for the man. As he moves closer to my body, I feel something like electricity lightly zapping my skin.
If his face matches what I can see, I can only imagine how good looking he is. God, I really am surrounded by perfect people. Even Randy Buchanan at his ripe age of sixty-two has a body I’m sure he spends hours a day in the gym to keep looking that way. I don’t even need to see this stranger’s face; with a body like that, he could be a troll and still be closer to perfection than I’ll ever see in myself. Is it too much to ask to see someone, anyone, who doesn’t look like they were made from a mold?
Great, just what I need; another witness to this repulsive scene my checkers of a day fated to suck created.