“Assign another attorney in the firm,” I challenge her.
“No can do, nephew,” she says with a sweet smile. “They’re all too busy.”
“You have almost seventy attorneys,” I say in exasperation.
“And all of them are just so very busy,” she coos at me.
“You’re a pain in my ass,” I mutter, but secretly inside… I’m glad she’s cutting me off.
That means I have to find a new attorney to help me, and it appears I know of one such other person who could be right for the job.
CHAPTER 28
Emma
My eyes skim over the paragraph entitled Interpretation and Enforcement Notices. I blink hard to keep my vision from going hazy.
I yawn.
Completely and utterly bored with what I’m doing.
With a sigh, I push the document away from me and slouch down in my chair.
I hate my job with a passion that creates a fiery burn in my belly.
Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.
Oh, the people here are nice enough. The firm is well respected, and this is earning quite a feather in my cap. The city of Asheville is lovely and progressive. The scenery is stunning. The food is good. The air smells sweet.
And I hate it.
A timid knock on my door arouses me from my dark thoughts, and I mutter, “Come in.”
The door slides open and Ben Cambridge stands there, looking hesitant but determined. “Hey. Got a minute?”
Not really.
“Sure,” I say halfheartedly.
“So, there’s a jazz festival this weekend and I was wondering if you’d like to go,” he says hopefully.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from grimacing. To all outward appearances, Ben is exactly the type of guy I always saw myself settling down with. He’s five years older than me, does quite well for himself here at this firm, and he told me at lunch the other day he wanted three kids and possibly a cat.
He’s also been hinting around at wanting to ask me out, and I’ve done everything to discourage it. I’ve been polite but businesslike with him, trying to focus conversation on this case I’m helping him with. I’ve refrained from asking him personal questions, and I’ve brushed off his compliments.
Apparently, he’s not been taking the hint.
Another sigh, this time internal, but I give Ben a warm smile and tell him the God’s honest truth. “I’m sorry, Ben. But I’m fresh off a bad break up, and I’m just not ready—”
“Well, we could go just as friends,” he provides helpfully.
Shaking my head, I tell him, “That’s a really nice offer, but I think I’m going to go back to Raleigh and see my dad for the weekend.”
I truly hadn’t been considering doing that, because I know my dad will take one look at my face and know I hate my job and my life here, and I’m not ready to have the “I told you so” speech.
Ben opens his mouth, to say what I don’t know, but my phone chimes and the receptionist says, “Miss Peterson… your two o’clock is here to see you.”
I glance down at the day planner I keep on my desk. This law firm has a very sophisticated digital calendaring system, which I do use, but I also like my handwritten planner. It’s old school, and that’s still a very big part of me deep down.
No clue what this appointment is about as the only thing I was provided on my digital calendar, that I dutifully transferred to my handwritten one, was that my client’s name was Horace Wigglesworth and that he owned a large construction company that was interested in buying up several local companies.
This didn’t intrigue me and the only thing that has my attention in the slightest is the fact that this man had parents who apparently hated him because that’s the most God-awful name I’d ever heard.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell the receptionist, then I hit the disconnect button.
Standing from my chair, I give Ben another polite smile. “Again, thank you for the offer, but it’s just not a good time for me and besides… going home this weekend and all.”
“Sure,” Ben says, giving me almost a tiny bow as he backs out of my office, but there’s no mistaking the disappointment in his eyes.
Smoothing down my skirt, I nab a yellow pad off my desk along with a pen and make my way up to the reception area. This firm is only about a quarter of the size of Knight & Payne, and it’s decorated in a more traditional style. The firm itself is in a converted historic home. Heavy cherry furniture with brocade fabrics, emerald green carpeting and dark paneled walls. It’s exactly the type of environment I’d once longed for, and yet I find myself missing the noise of The Pit or the rumble of the highway underneath a tour bus while I worked on my laptop.
When I step out into the lobby, I immediately focus on the receptionist as she hands me a clipboard with an informational sheet attached to the top that Mr. Wigglesworth—internal giggle because seriously, so stupid—filled out. I give it a brief scan, not really taking in any of the background information.