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“No. It was one woman.” He holds up a hand as if staving off my next question. “And before you go to the trouble of pretending you’re interested in my love life, it was one and done, and I’m probably never going to see her again.”
“I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
“What?”
“That thing that I do. Where I’m an annoying asshole without realizing it.”
He makes a show of glancing at his watch. “Well, you’ve only been here for 10 minutes so far and you already realized it, so maybe we’re making progress.”
“You know,” I grumble. “You’re not such a joy to be around yourself.”
“Nonsense. I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.”
I just raise an eyebrow at this because I’m not sure whether he’s joking. And if he’s not, would it be polite for me to correct him?
I mean, I suspect he is joking, but I don’t know for sure.
“You going to tell me why you’re here?” he asks.
I prop my leg up on my opposite knee, feeling it bounce as I clench and unclench the arms on the chair. It’s a wooden chair. The kind they used to have in libraries all over the country. It’s no frills, just sturdy oak. I like that it feels solid beneath me. That it’s no-nonsense. Like Martin.
Although I like his office, I like Martin, and being here is no more unpleasant than being anywhere else, I’m still not exactly comfortable.
“If you don’t wanna talk about it–”
“I met Savannah.”
“Oh. I see.” He leaves it at that.
I suspect the fact that he doesn’t follow up with any of his usual bullshit is a sign that he hears all kinds of implications in my tone that I wish he didn’t.
But, I guess if I didn’t want him to know that meeting her in person was a big deal, I probably shouldn’t have insisted on driving into Austin on a Sunday and dragging his ass out of bed.
He says nothing, but waits patiently for me to continue.
Eventually, I do. “You should’ve told me how beautiful she is.”
“Honestly?” He leans forward, propping his elbows on his desk, and gives me a look I can’t quite read. Which is not fucking surprising, since I can never read anyone’s expression. “I didn’t know you would notice she’s beautiful.”
“She’s fucking gorgeous. Those eyes of hers…”
There’s an end to that sentence that I don’t finish. Something about how I could get lost in them. About how I want to stare into them for hours. Something poetic and well thought out that I don’t have the words for.
“Have you met her?” I ask, suddenly picturing Savannah as Martin’s hook up. I hate the thought almost as much as I hate the knot of something unpleasant that forms in my stomach as I imagine the two of them together.
“Yeah, I met her,” he says simply.
“How?”
“I heard about her situation from …” He trails off for a second, frowning like he’s searching for the right word. Which is odd, because Martin always has the right word. He clears his throat. “I heard about her from an acquaintance.”
“What’s her situation?”
“You know I can’t talk about my clients.”
“Is she your client?”
He shrugs, admitting that she’s not. “She was involved in a nasty lawsuit. It should’ve been an open and shut probate case. Her representation fucked things up. By the time she figured it out and fired the guy, she had a shit ton of legal bills. I figured hiring her as your personal chef would kill several birds with one stone.”
