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“We’ll just come there at seven thirty. This won’t take long. I’ll bring booze.”
“Booze? What is going on?”
“See you then, little sis.” He hangs up.
I glance at the clock. It’s three thirty. Reese’s meeting is at four, and he must be preparing for it.
I opt to text, not call. I need to meet you at the restaurant. I’ve had something come up.
He calls me. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know. Two of my brothers want to stop by tonight. Gabe says it’s something to do with my father’s business, which is their business, too. It might make the press.”
“What are you thinking?”
“A buyout or merger, but I’m not sure why they think I need to know in advance. They won’t tell me anything else.”
“Sounds odd. Why don’t I just pick you up there?”
“Being honest here—I don’t want you to come face to face with my brothers right now.”
“Why, Cat?”
“Again being honest: They want me paired with a powerful attorney. That’s what they loved about Mitch. They want someone they can align with and who they see pulling me back into that family circle. They will lean on us, and I’d rather do us as us, not us and them. At least until we know how we define us.”
“I want to have a conversation about defining us anyway, but I agree. We need to have that conversation before we step into the mix of our families. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.” He hangs up.
He wants to define us before family is involved.
I’m not going to read into that in a good or bad way.
But between my brothers and Reese, this afternoon is going to be slow, and tonight eventful.
Chapter thirty-two
Reese
My office is off Central Park with a view to kill for. I glance out the window, taking in the view and wonder how many times I am here and actually see it even when I look at it. I wonder what Cat would think of the view. That’s what she does for me. She makes me see things with fresh eyes.
Someone clears their throat, and I turn to find my junior partner, Nate Douglas, in the doorway. He’s young, in jeans today like myself, and looking ten shades of hung over. “You’re late,” I say. “You were supposed to be here at two thirty. It’s three thirty.”
“Sorry, boss,” he says, crossing to sit in front of my desk in a high-backed leather chair, the wood finish is a mahogany that matches my desk. “I have the flu.”
“So you thought you’d tell me that now as you sit across from me, making me fucking sick. That seems like a good lie to you?”
He pales. “I’m hung over.”
“You’re a junior partner. You don’t get hung over and come in late.”
“You’re right. It won’t happen again.”
“Do you have my file?”
He hands me the file I saw in his hand upon entry. “Here you go.”
I glance at it and then him. His dark hair is newly buzzed and his expression is awkward, and it should be. “What am I looking at?”
“We notified the Feds that you represented the client.”
