On that fateful day, I was prepping to meet with my next client when Leslie walked in with a man. It turned out to be him, and I felt his presence long before I looked up from my computer.
As soon as he walked into the room, he commanded it.
Demanded it, even.
It wasn’t because he was tall or movie-star handsome or because he spoke in sharp staccato taps, enunciating every word.
I would learn it was because he knew how to work a room in a tailored suit molded to his body, complete with a three-day scruff of beard that had more gray than black.
His eyes were not green or hazel but an olive color that would change based on his moods. Darkening when he was pensive, subdued when he was carefree, which was rare.
At six feet, Leslie, standing taller than this man, seemed bowled over by him, his existence enough to overcome her height. “Sibley, this is Mr. Nico Marcona.”
I stood, wobbly in my nude pumps, my insides twisting, though I was unclear from what at the time—desire, intrigue, maybe a combination of both.
“Hi, Mr. Marcona.” I stepped around my desk to shake his hand. My handshake is firm, reliable. Just like my reputation. “Sibley Bradford. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Our hands stayed entwined, pumping in the air.
“Mr. Mar—”
“Please! It’s Nico.”
“Nico, then. Please have a seat.” I gave Leslie a megawatt smile. “Thanks, Leslie.”
Taking a seat behind my desk, I watched while Nico sank down in one of my two chestnut-colored Italian leather chairs.
Leslie mouthed something totally unprofessional over Nico’s head at me. Out loud, she said, “Do you need me to stay and take notes?”
I didn’t blame her; she was dying for a chance to breathe the same air as this man. He was a magnet.
“Actually . . .” He twisted his body to consider Leslie. “I’d prefer it was just her and me.” The way he delivered the news wasn’t condescending but rather apologetic.
“Of course.” She gave him a pleasant smile and nodded to me. “I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”
While she was exiting, he rested his palms on the smooth leather armrests. “These are really something. Let me guess, Restoration Hardware?”
“Close, but no.”
“I’m guessing not a secondhand store.”
“I cannot give Goodwill credit.”
“Custom?”
“If you must know”—I laughed—“yes.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not complaining about the exorbitant fees you charge to have this kind of furniture.”
“If you were concerned with my retainer, you wouldn’t be here.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Then it would be about cost, not outcome.” I considered the notepad on my desk. “Plus, it looks like you are a referral. Bill McElroy.”
“Your name wasn’t just on the tip of his tongue. I’ve had a couple friends refer you. Say you’re one hell of a bulldog.”
“I like that, as long as they didn’t tell you I resemble one.”
“No. They said you were pretty.” Nico pauses. “But that word seems paltry, doesn’t do you justice.”
With a reserved smile, I didn’t respond to his compliment. I wanted Mr. Marcona to hire me for my intelligence.
For my ability to win. My record.
I could give him the best possible outcome for his contentious divorce.
“Let’s begin,” I offered. “I’ll take notes the good old-fashioned way.” Moving my Montblanc to my notepad, I wrote the date, and when I glanced up, his eyes were locked on my left hand. Specifically, my ring finger.
“Wow.” He whistled. “A divorce attorney still married?”
“I’d be more concerned if I were divorced. Meant I hadn’t learned my lesson.”
“Which is?” He raised a brow at me.
“It’s cheaper to stay together.” I smirked. “And I kind of like him still.”
“How long?”
“Married for over ten.”
“No seven-year itch?”
I met his eyes head on; a storm was brewing behind them. “I don’t believe in that sentiment.”
Nico responded with how I must have been different from most people or had married someone I was better suited to.
Clients tell divorce attorneys every infraction their spouse has committed over the last decade, including burning dinner or leaving dirty dishes in the sink, like those are worthy of the death penalty.
When Nico went into a diatribe explaining how his wife, Christine, didn’t want a divorce, I cut him off. “Everyone wants a therapist. I can only offer my services as they pertain to the law,” I said. “Vent to girls you meet on dating apps. Or your family and friends.”
His jaw hit the floor like a caricature, and a tense silence lingered between us.
As he crossed his arms over his chest, I could tell by Nico’s surly demeanor he was shocked at my interruption. People didn’t typically barge into his speech. It probably reminded him of Catholic school, and I was the nun chastising him with a ruler across his knuckles.
His hand tugged on his ear, which I would learn was a nervous habit.
“Nico”—he went to protest, but I held up a hand—“I’m going to represent your best interests. I can be your sounding board, but as you pointed out, we’re on an expensive clock.”
He was taken aback, his eyes becoming putrid green slits as he decided if I was a pretentious bitch or a cutthroat attorney.
I could be both.
If a man said this, he’d be thrilled. They love dick-measuring contests.
But I had tits—great tits, but tits nonetheless.
And Mr. Marcona hadn’t bought into my legacy quite yet.
“I can refer you to a great therapist, but all I want are facts about your divorce. Not any marital-dissatisfaction-survey answers.”
Those eyes fixed me with a steely gaze. I didn’t think it was possible, but they flickered a shade darker as they pinned me to my chair. “Fair enough.”
“Let’s talk about the law. Assets. Division of both. The nitty gritty.”
“Okay.” When he steepled his fingers, his jacket sleeve revealed his expensive watch. “I’ll let you dominate the conversation.”
“Thank you.” I tried for stoic.
He must have been placated, because his eyes started to soften, returning to jade green.
“For me to offer the best defense, I need
