Part 7 (1/2)

9.

Andi

His wife.

His wife.

Clare, I think he'd said her name was. Not that I remember a lot of the conversation besides the 'my wife' part. After we'd hung up, I tried to recall what I'd said, if anything. Gone. Nothing in my head but a blank screen with the words 'My wife' written in bold, 24pt font. Italicized with a lot of question marks around it.

It shouldn't have surprised me that he was married-rich, gorgeous, mature men didn't stay single for long. Although from what I've read, when rich, gorgeous, mature men flirt with their a.s.sistants, those conversations almost always end with her bent over his desk getting spanked. And then f.u.c.ked.

Oh man, was I f.u.c.ked...up in the head. And completely delusional. I shook it off, trying to get rid of the spike of annoyance, or resentment, or whatever it was that I was feeling. He hadn't wronged me or led me on. He wasn't actually flirting, and if he was, it was only because he didn't know me and could make up whatever fantasy he wanted about me. Like a phone s.e.x operator or something.

He was married. Okay. Not a problem. Actually, a good thing because now I knew nothing would ever, ever happen. Fairytale fantasies had all just gotten shot out of the window, because never, in any of them, did the prince dump the woman he'd married for his a.s.sistant.

Although, there was probably a bit of unhappily in their ever after. I mean, 'ever after' is a really long time.

”Shut it down, Andi.”

Hayden and I were never going to meet, but we could still work together and be friends. That'd be perfect. Perfectly perfect friends.

Yep, I was seriously f.u.c.ked up in the head.

When my phone rang, I checked the Caller ID-it was Sara. Due to the less than stellar work with the foot-fetis.h.i.+st and the complaint the guy's wife had made, Emilia had decided Sara's punishment would be to answer the phone and do other administrative tasks at the office. Any other employer would've canned her a.s.s, but Emilia knew that forcing her to come into work every day was the only way to keep tabs on her. And I knew that the only way I could keep tabs on her was to track her every movement with software I'd installed on her phone and her car. We can only help in the ways we know, right?

Back before I realized how much money and brain cells going out clubbing was costing me, Sara and I used to do a lot of our coping together. It was a beautifully symbiotic and dysfunctional relations.h.i.+p. We'd somehow come to an understanding to never talk about our issues. Plus, self-destructive behavior was always more fun when you did it with a friend. Then I realized that she took it way more seriously than I did and was a lot better at it. The more I slowed down, the more she sped up, until it was impossible to ignore the toll it was taking on her.

I tried talking to her about it-while she was drunk, obviously-but all she said was, 'Family issues,' before going back onto the dance floor and tossing herself at the first guy who approached her. Since then, she'd found new friends to party with, ones who were much shallower and didn't care how low Sara's spiral got, as long as she knew how to have fun.

”Hey!” I said, faking happiness. ”What's up?”

After a few minutes of playing life-catch-up, she said, ”So, the other day, a man called and asked for your cell number.”

Let the panic ensue. ”What man? Did you give it to him?”

”h.e.l.lo? Have we met? I don't even give my own number to guys I don't know.”

Right. Even after she'd slept with them. ”Did he say what he wanted?”

”Well, that's the weird thing. He finally told me who he was-Emilia's husband, Rob. That's weird, right? That he didn't just say that first or ask Emilia for your number.”

Yeah, that was weird.

Sara recited the number he'd left, which I already had in my contacts, along with his birthdate, email, and a bunch of other c.r.a.p Emilia had given me at some point.

”Maybe he wants to surprise her with something but doesn't know what to get. You know how men are with gifts.”

”Actually, I only know how to unwrap them.” She laughed. ”You're the one who gets asked to buy them.”

”Don't remind me.” Before Emilia had put a stop to the weird requests, I'd had to buy all sorts of birthday and anniversary gifts for wives, mothers, and female 'friends.' Friends. Yeah, right. I can honestly say that I've never bought lingerie, s.e.x toys, or reserved a hotel suite for a friend.

”You want to go out this weekend?” Sara asked. Before I had a chance to say no, she continued. ”Let me guess: You're working.”

”A girl's gotta eat.”

”And drink, which is why you should come out.”

”Next time. Okay?”

After I'd hung up with Sara, I speed-dialed Rob's direct line, feeling slightly smug that I had access to one of the best civil rights attorneys in the city. Ironic, considering I was breaking the rules of my agreement every day by working for his wife.

When they'd first started dating, Emilia had wanted me to ask him about the deal I'd signed, thinking he might be able to renegotiate the terms. But all I could think of was having to live through all that again, and how, once the can of worms was back open, all those worms would come wiggling out and make everything even worse.

So, because I'd sworn her to secrecy, Emilia never told him the specifics. And, out of respect for him and their relations.h.i.+p, I'd met them for coffee one day and let her hint a lot. Eventually, he'd stopped her and said that he didn't need to know because he wasn't marrying me. I kind of loved him for saying that. Plus, I'd paid for his cup of coffee, which he claimed put him on retainer. So, as my lawyer, he wasn't breaking any laws or ethical codes by not reporting me for something he knew nothing about. That made my daily dose of illegal activity over the past year much easier to rationalize, believe me.

Granted, he'd also rolled his eyes and vaguely wondered out loud why people signed things without a lawyer present. My excuse was that I'd been young and terrified and stupid. No better excuse than that, right?

”Hey,” he said with a sigh of relief as soon as he answered. ”Thanks for calling.”

”No problem. Sara said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

”Yeah...um...This is so hard for me to say.”

”Well, if it would make it any easier, you could try saying it in Spanish. But only if you don't care if I understand it or not.” Bad joke to cover my sudden anxiety-no good news had ever started with 'This is so hard to say.' Things like: 'I think we should see other people' start with 'This is so hard to say.' Obviously, he wasn't going to say that. Was he going to tell me that something horrific had happened to Emilia? Or that he was gay? Or pregnant? Thank G.o.d I didn't watch reality television-I didn't need more fodder for my imagination.

I cleared my throat. ”Try closing your eyes while you say it.” It always helped me.

”In my first year out of law school, I wanted to impress the firm's partners, show them I was worth my paycheck, so I....”

Is there anything worse than hearing someone struggle to tell you something? Keeping you waiting and giving you lots of time to guess what absolutely horrible thing they were about to admit? Flipping from one terrible reaction to another because they don't just- ”Spit it out, Rob!”

”The opposing side was lying-outright lying-and we all knew it. But there was no proof. Then someone who I thought was a friend came to me with some incriminating doc.u.ments. At the time, I was so happy to get them, it didn't even occur to me that they might have been forged.” He sighed. ”That's not true. It occurred to me, but I didn't want that to be the case, so I ignored it. I submitted the doc.u.ments as evidence, and we won the case. The guilty party paid for what they did, and justice was served. Except what I'd done was wrong. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway.”

Huh. The thing about someone beginning a confession with 'This is so hard to say,' is that once they actually admit what it is, it's always a letdown. Something I should remember the next time I do something tragically stupid.

But, at least, Rob hadn't ruined anyone's life or killed anyone. It was a surprise, obviously, because he was a great guy-honest, hard-working, thoughtful. But everyone could screw up-I was sadly-living proof of that.

”That wasn't too smart.”

”You think?” He sighed. ”It was idiotic, but it woke me up, made me realize that wasn't the way I wanted to live. Unfortunately, the past doesn't always stay in the past, and now I need your help.”