“Morning, Matilda,” says Dad. “Could you get me a coffee from the place down the street? Our machine is broken again.”
“Will do,” I reply cheerily in an effort to block out the horrific memory that had just been flitting through my head. “How have you been sleeping?”
He grimaces and glances down. “I suppose you noticed the leg?”
“Yeah, you need to rest it more often,” I say, grabbing my handbag from under my desk.
“I was up half the night working on the O’Connell case,” he explains.
“Right, well, get an early night tonight, okay?” I urge, walking over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. He replies that he will, and I duck out of the office. I can be particularly protective of my dad’s health, because we’re really all the other has left in the world.
Making my way down the narrow staircase that leads out of the building and onto the street, I bump into a tall man with golden-brown hair. I wouldn’t normally notice a man’s hair so specifically, but this guy has some serious style going on. It’s cut tight at the sides and left long on the top, kind of like a sexy villain in a movie set in the 1920s. I stare up at him, wide-eyed. He’s wearing a very nice navy suit with a leather satchel bag slung over his shoulder. Even though it was the first thing I noticed, his hair pales in comparison to the wonder that is his face. I don’t think I’ve ever been up close to such a handsome example of the male species in my life.
Why can’t men like this write to me online? I ponder dejectedly.
Because men like this don’t even know the meaning of the term “socially awkward,” my brain answers.
My five-foot-something stares up at his six-foot-whatever, and I think to myself, what’s a prize like you doing in a dive like this? Actually, now that I’m looking at him, he does seem vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen him before.
Probably on the pages of a fashion magazine, if his looks are anything to go by.
If it hasn’t already been deduced from the fact that I can’t even find a date using the romantic connection slut that is the Internet, then I’ll spell it out. I’m useless with men, and I’m talking all men. Even the nice approachable fellows. And I’m not looking at a nice approachable fellow right now. I’m looking at a “chew you up and spit you out” tiger.
Rawr.
Since the entrance to the building is so narrow, we have to skirt around each other. I give him a hesitant smile and a shrug. His eyes sparkle with some kind of hidden knowledge as he lets me pass, like beautiful people know the meaning of the universe and are amused by us ordinary folks who have to bumble along in the dark.
I’m just about to step out the door when the tiger starts to speak. “I’m looking for Brandon Solicitors. Do you know if I have the right place?”
I step back inside.
He sounds like Mark Wahlberg when he’s letting his Southie roots all hang out. His deep American accent makes me want to close my eyes and savour the sound. But I don’t do that – because I’m not a complete psycho.
“Yeah, this is the place. I work here, actually. I’m the secretary slash receptionist slash general dogsbody. It’s my dad’s firm,” I reply. Too much information, Matilda. Too. Much. Information.
The tiger smiles, making him better-looking, if that’s even possible. And thankfully, he doesn’t comment on my fluster. “I have an appointment with Hugh Brandon at nine. I’m Jay,” he says, and takes a step closer to hold his hand out to me. My back hits the wall, his tall frame dwarfing mine. I don’t think he realises just how narrow this space is, and now I can smell his cologne. Wow, it’s not often that I get close enough to a man to smell him. And Jay Fields smells indecently good.
“Ah, right. Jay Fields. Yeah, I have you pencilled in. You can go on upstairs, and Dad will take care of you,” I reply, shaking his hand and letting go quickly so that he doesn’t notice my sweatacular palms. “I’ve got an errand to run.”
He stares at me for a long moment, like his eyes are trying to take in my every feature, but that can’t be right. When he finally responds, it’s a simple, “I won’t keep you, then, Matilda.”
God. Why does the way he says “keep you” in that deep voice have to make my heart flutter? It’s been literally thirty seconds, and I’m already well on my way to developing a crush.
He makes some keen eye contact with me, then turns and continues up the stairs to the office. I’m already on the street when I realise I hadn’t offered my name, and yet he knew it. Perhaps he’d been browsing our website. Our offices might be shoddy, but I always make sure to keep our online presence up to scratch. There’s a picture of me, Dad, and Will, the other solicitor who works for the practice, on the “About Us” page.
So if he knew who I was already, why did he ask if he had the right place?
Miracle of all miracles, was he actually, like, chatting me up or something? Be still my beating heart. Or is he just the friendly, chatty type? I consider these questions as I walk inside the café three buildings down from our office and order two lattes to go. I briefly think about ordering something for the tiger, aka Jay Fields, but he might be one of those picky coffee drinkers, so I don’t.
When I get back, I find Dad’s shut himself inside his office with Jay, and the next appointment is already waiting to be seen. She’s a middle-aged woman wearing a neck brace. I haven’t had the chance to look at her information, but I can imagine what she’s here for. Some sort of accident claim.
What I really want to know is what Jay’s here for. Yep, I’m already wondering about this man way too much. I remember him calling up last week to make the appointment, and somehow I neglected to ask him what kind of a claim he wanted to make. It’s weird, too, because I have my set spiel for appointments, and I never forget to ask for all the information I need. It’s almost like my subconscious knew I was speaking with a gorgeous man, thus rendering me double “F-ed”: frazzled and forgetful.
Knowing Dad will want his caffeine fix as soon as possible, I knock lightly on the door and wait to be let in. Dad calls for me to enter and I do, opening the door with the paper coffee cup in my hand. Jay’s sitting in the seat in front of Dad’s desk, his hands clasped together over his head as he lounges back, casual as you please. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk to Dad and give him his beverage. He seems a little out of sorts, so I put a hand on his shoulder and ask, “Everything okay?”
Dad looks lost in his own head for a minute, and I have to repeat the question a second time to get him to answer me.
“What? Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Thanks for the coffee, chicken,” he mutters.
“It might be me who’s the problem,” Jays puts in. “I just presented your old man with a case he’s not sure he wants to take.”
I look at Jay now, my brow furrowing. Who the hell is this guy? What he’s said has piqued my curiosity, though, so I close the door and fold my arms. Unless I’m needed to take notes, I don’t normally sit in on meetings with clients, but Dad’s demeanour has put me on edge, my protective instincts kicking into gear.
Jay grins in a way that makes me think he’s pleased with my attention. “Oh, now she’s curious.”
Okay, this man might be beautiful, but he’s also kind of strange.
“Did you want to make a claim against someone?” I ask, because Dad still isn’t talking. I suppose he’s still considering whatever Jay’s case is.
“Nope. I want to sue someone,” says Jay, all matter-of-fact.
“For what?”
“Defamation of character,” he answers before pulling a newspaper out of his bag. He flips through it, folds it open to the page he’s looking for, and hands it to me. I glance down at the tabloid, scanning the bold headline that reads, “Illusionist Jay Fields Causes Death of Volunteer.” I let my eyes drift briefly over the article, which features a promotional picture of Jay holding up a six of hearts card. Oh. Now I remember where I know him from.