Vaughn and Andrew snort out soft laughs, which probably won’t help their cause in working on any future projects with David & Todd Inc.
“Happy Monday,” I say in a brusquely monotone voice as I continue on to my office.
It was a hollow win, and not just because Todd is such low hanging fruit.
Frankly, this kind of shit will do nothing to advance my career, and may even harm it.
There’s just something about that smarmy face of his that gives me satisfaction whenever I’m able to slap the smirk off it, even if only verbally.
I put him out of my mind to go through my email, which always piles up in the morning. My job requires about fifty different legal alerts, which are only compounded by notices from the firm.
I skim past the less important mail, including the RSVP notice for the ABC charity gala held in a few weeks. It’s mostly a way for the attorneys to dress up and hobnob with clients, who are wined and dined into some hopeful long-term contracts.
It seems I’ll once again be going solo, which probably doesn’t create the best impression. ABC likes for its partners to be married, or at least have been once upon a time.
I suppose if I “worked smarter, not harder” I’d have more of a social life. Now that I’m twenty-nine it’s becoming more and more concerning, especially if you ask my mother.
Dismissing that thought with a frown, I rush my way through the rest of the noise from my inbox.
I almost auto-delete one that fortunately catches my eye before I can: New Firm Hires. Usually, the list is comprised of non-attorney positions that have a higher turnover rate. Outside of the fall hires straight from law school, we rarely get new attorneys.
It seems today is an exception.
The subject specifically reads, “Welcome Our New Associates.”
“Great, more competition for partner,” I mutter to myself as I open the message to see just how many there are and for which department.
There are only two names listed, both in Administrative Law. That isn’t even remotely my area of expertise, so I have nothing to worry about as far as competition.
All the same, my emotions go for a quick little rollercoaster ride as I read on.
One of the names listed is Greta Davidson.
The other is Emily Becksworth.
It’s the latter one that catches my eye.
Most notably because she’s my ex-girlfriend.
Chapter Three Honey
This is it. The day. The day.
Why else would Francis have brought me to Le Coucou for lunch, knowing how much I love all things French? The name of the place has always tickled me, which he obviously remembered.
On top of that, it’s only two weeks before Valentine’s Day.
I’ve worn my favorite pink tulle skirt paired with a white cashmere sweater and white boots (oh, how apt!).
My nails are done in my signature Chanel 167 Ballerina.
And why not?
After all, Francis is the one to treat me to standing spa mani-pedis.
He also pays for the rent on my apartment at Norton Place.
Also, most of the clothes I own were purchased by him, at least the ones with labels that grace the stores along 5th Avenue.
Is it fortuitous that Francis Hickenbatter is easily worth a low nine figures, or he will be once he inherits his portion of the Hickenbatter Corporation?
Of course it is.
But there’s nothing wrong with a woman considering her future husband’s net worth.
Francis and I have been together for two years now. No other man has made me feel as special as he does when we’re together.
The important thing is I absolutely do love him.
I have the best of all worlds.
And it isn’t as though I haven’t been the perfect girlfriend for Francis in return.
I always dress up, but for him, I go the extra mile. I’m attentive to the point of coddling, all because I know that’s what his ego requires. He even loves the way I flirt with other men, always with the firm understanding that he’s my one and only.
As for image, that’s where I excel.
Long before I met Francis, I transformed myself into the current vision of pink perfection sitting right across from him this very moment. I’ve always been a voracious reader so I can run circles around almost anyone intellectually and verbally, should I choose to. I even dropped most of my Georgia accent, except on occasions where it oh so sweetly works in my favor.
And hell if I’m not damn good in bed!
What’s not to love?
I’ll make the perfect wife.
I’ve ordered a glass of champagne which sits on the table in front of me, ready to be lifted for a toast as soon as I say yes to his proposal.
Except…
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head as though loosening the filters blocking my ears. The filters that somehow relayed the message to my brain that Francis was…
“Are you breaking up with me?!”
Francis winces at my tone.
“I’m not breaking up with you, Honey,” he assures me, already fingering the side of his old fashioned, ready to hide behind it if I create too much of a scene.
In retrospect, I should have figured something was amiss when he didn’t join me in a glass of champagne.
“But you’re going to start dating someone else,” I confirm.
“Just for appearance’s sake. Think of it as nothing more than a business arrangement.”
“A business arrangement with another woman,” I say in a testy voice.
“Yes, all for the Hickenbatter corporation. Muffy’s family is the third-largest producer of rice in the world.”
As though that should mean something to me. What the hell does rice have to do with anything?
But I’m momentarily caught up on another part of what he’s said. “I’m sorry, did you say…Muffy?”
I’m the last person on earth who should be critiquing someone else’s name, but really? At least mine presents a more palatable mental image.
“Maude. Maude Sinclair Aston. Her close friends call her Muffy.”
“And I suppose she includes you among this close circle of friends,” I say, arching one challenging eyebrow.
“Well, we didn’t exactly grow up
