Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 22067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
"I'm not talking about your clothes," I say impatiently. "Why do you insist on wearing your ring when you're already divorced?"
"Oh. That." And then she shrugs and leaves it at that.
"You should get over that scum."
Shayla peers up at me. "I'm starting to feel concerned that you're concerned. Should I call for a doctor?"
"Shut up."
"And there's the boss I know—"
"But not love?"
The word hangs between us, strangely charged.
But my secretary doesn't even blink. "Love isn't real."
I grunt. I think the same. But it doesn't feel right that my secretary does, too.
Chapter Two
SHAYLA
I STAB AT MY SALAD like it personally offended me. The lunch crowd at Meyer's Deli ebbs and flows around my corner table, but I barely notice them. I'm too caught up replaying everything my boss has said this morning.
You should stop wearing that.
Thank you, but no.
You should get over that scum.
I twist the cheap gold band on my left ring finger. Nine years working for Adriano Kontides, and he's never shown this much interest in my personal life. Commenting on my fake wedding ring. Getting irritated about the bondsman at the courthouse.
It's like he suddenly noticed I exist beyond the borders of his calendar.
I spear a cherry tomato with unnecessary force. What would he say if he knew the truth? That there was never a husband. Never a divorce. Just a twenty-dollar ring from a pawn shop and a carefully crafted lie to keep men—and complications—at a distance.
The fork hovers halfway to my mouth. Would he fire me? Laugh at me? Or worse, look at me with that intensity that makes my stomach flip...
My phone vibrates against the table, saving me from that dangerous line of thought. An unknown number lights up the screen.
"Shayla Tolentino speaking."
"Shayla?" A woman's voice, warm and hesitant. "It's Hope. Hope Tiangco? Well, Soukoulis now."
I nearly drop my fork. "Hope? From St. Agnes Elementary?"
"Oh, thank goodness." A relieved laugh plays out from the other end. "I was worried you wouldn't remember me."
"Impossible." I mean this, too. Hope was the only one who shared her lunch with me when my mother forgot—again—to pack mine. The only one who didn't whisper about my secondhand uniform.
"How on earth did you find me?"
"LinkedIn," she admits. "I know this is completely out of the blue, but my husband and I are in New York for business, and I remembered you lived here. Would you want to meet up? Maybe dinner tonight?"
"Tonight?" I glance at my watch. Adriano has a dinner with Senator Holbrook. I've already prepped the talking points. Nothing requires my presence. "I'd love that."
"Great! How about Ryu at seven? It's this little Japanese place in Tribeca my husband loves."
"Perfect." I pause. "It's really good to hear from you, Hope."
"You too, Shayla. Can't wait to catch up!"
I end the call smiling. A genuine smile—not the professional mask I wear at the office. When was the last time I had dinner with a friend? Not a networking event. Not a client meeting. Just... people.
I can't remember.
My phone pings with a reminder. Fifteen minutes until the 2:00 PM meeting. I need to get back.
The elevator is packed when I return to Kontides & Partners. I squeeze in, clutching my portfolio against my chest as the doors close. Two junior associates from the tax department huddle near the front, whispering.
"Did you see him in court today?" The blonde one's voice carries despite her attempt at discretion. "I swear, Adriano Kontides in a suit should be illegal."
Her friend giggles. "I'd let him object to me anytime."
"I heard Melissa from Accounting tried to ask him out at the holiday party."
"And?"
"Shot down before she could finish her sentence."
"God, what I wouldn't give for just one night with him, though. Those hands. That mouth."
"That accent when he gets angry."
I grip my portfolio tighter while fighting to keep my face expressionless. They're talking about my boss like he's a piece of meat. Like he doesn't have more Yale Law Review citations than anyone in the firm's history. Like he hasn't argued before the Supreme Court twice. Like he isn't the most brilliant legal mind I've ever—
Whoa, self!
What am I doing?
Why am I so passionate about defending my boss?
Sure, he pays the bills, but this is also the same man who makes all our interns cry, to the point that nearly every law school on the East Coast warns their students about us. Apply at your own peril, stuff like that.
Whatever.
If they think he's such a catch, then go ahead.
Catch at your own peril, you poor unfortunate souls.
They just don't know what they're asking for. A night with Adriano would be like a night with a hurricane—thrilling until it destroys you.
Not that I've thought about it.
"I heard he doesn't date anyone from the firm," the blonde sighs.
"I'd change jobs in a heartbeat for a shot at that."
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. They could do better. Anyone could do better than a man who considers a fifteen-hour workday as "leaving early".