Walk of Shame
Page 17
“How are things with you?” Katherine said as she smoothed her skirt and stood. “I’m still jealous you got the Dotson case, by the way. Although it’s just as well. The lawyer in me salivates over the rumored lack of prenup, but the woman in me sort of hoped Liv and Chris were going to beat the odds and make it. They’re so dang likable.”
Andrew shrugged. “Famous people get divorced just as often as regular people.”
She tossed her long dark hair back and sighed. “I know. But sometimes I want to believe in the fairy tale. Don’t you?”
“You’re living it,” he said, picking up the pen he’d bought himself when he graduated from law school. “I’m not.”
“Not yet,” she teased. “And, I didn’t think it was going to happen for me either, but then . . . bam, forty-two rolled around and I met Jim. You’re only, what, twelve? You’ve got plenty of time.”
Andrew gave a grim smile. His age was a favorite joke around the office. He knew thirty was young to make partner, especially at a firm as large as this one. But then that had sort of been his life. He’d skipped a grade here, another one there. College in three years instead of four, and so on. As far as his professional life went, he’d always been ten steps ahead of his peers.
His personal life, though . . .
Andrew swallowed as once again his mind drifted to the very reason he was having such a hell of a time focusing today. It didn’t matter what he turned his attention to: email, client work, meetings, lunch, Twitter. Everywhere he looked, he saw only one thing . . . big brown eyes, brimming with tears.
Tears that he’d caused.
And as much as he wanted to brush her off as ridiculous, as much as he wanted to label the whole episode as female sentimentality and forget about it, the truth was . . .
He’d fucked up.
“You okay?” Katherine asked, tilting her head and giving him a curious look.
Andrew cleared his throat and looked back at her. “Yeah. Just mentally prepping for a thorny case later this afternoon.”
She held up her hands and took a step back. “Got it. I’ll let you get back to work.”
She gave him a little wave, and though he knew it was irrational, he felt a stab of regret that she hadn’t pressed him for more information—that it hadn’t even occurred to her that Andrew Mulroney might have something weighing on his mind other than work.
Not that he could blame her. Until recently, he hadn’t had anything weighing on his mind other than work. But he suspected that was a particular gift that Georgiana Watkins had—flouncing her way into the consciousness of people who had no use for her.
Andrew vaguely registered Katherine exiting his office and shutting the door behind her, and he gave in to the urge to prop his elbows on his desk and rest his face in his hands, just for a minute.
This wouldn’t do. He hadn’t gotten a single bit of work done all day. He couldn’t think about anything except the horrible moment when he’d thought he was making a joke, only to realize the second it left his mouth that it had been downright cruel.
Andrew had never been good with women.
But damn it, he was better than this. Smarter than to tell a woman she was essentially brainless.
The real kicker was, Georgiana was far from brainless. Ridiculous, yes, but to his way of thinking, there were few markers more telling of intelligence than a quick wit and a sharp tongue, and Georgiana had both in spades.
And even if she’d been as empty-headed as a balloon, his manners weren’t so off-kilter as to imply a woman had no brain.
He hadn’t meant anything by it; he’d just grown so accustomed to attempting to keep up with her, trying to stay one step ahead of her barbs.
And yet . . . there were barbs, and then there was just mean.
He dragged his fingers over his face, letting his hands fall with a thump to the mahogany desk.
What did a man do when he’d inadvertently called a woman an idiot simply because he’d wanted to hold her attention, to keep the conversation going so she didn’t tire of him?
It was schoolyard nonsense.
Andrew drummed his fingers on the desk, staring straight ahead at the bland, abstract painting that the firm’s interior designer had hung on his wall and which he’d never bothered to notice.
He could call her.
And say what?
Hell, forget that. He didn’t even have the woman’s phone number.
His eyes narrowed as he remembered that he did have her friend’s phone number . . . the sweet but forgettable Hailey. But somehow he didn’t think telling Georgiana that he’d contacted her friend to get her number would help his cause.
He could forget the whole thing. Let it blow over, then go back to their usual bickering tomorrow morning.
But what if she didn’t show tomorrow morning? What if she avoided him every morning from now on?
The thought caused more regret than he cared to admit, even to himself.
He drummed his fingers more rapidly, his brain running through the options before finally settling on one. It was a cliché. He’d hardly get points for creativity. But he needed to do something to ease the weird throb in his chest, or he’d never get any work done.
In the end he opted to text Hailey after all.
Then Andrew started to reach for his desk phone to call his assistant, but at the last second opened his laptop instead.
He might not know much about women like Georgiana, but even he knew that there were some things that you were better off doing yourself.
Georgie
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, LATER After the snub from Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, Asshole of the First Degree, I’ve spent most of the day trying to lose myself in a breast-cancer fundraising brunch I volunteered to help plan.
I know a lot of people think that women who work on fundraisers are just women trying really hard to make it look like they’re “working,” but the truth is, it is work.
Just try it. Go ahead and try to find an available venue on a Sunday afternoon in Manhattan that fits five hundred people, allows outside caterers, and has plenty of natural light, or at least is old and established enough that people forgive the lack of windows.
You try to find a bottle of champagne that’s impressive enough to move the richy-rich to open their wallets without being so expensive as to negate the entire purpose of a fundraiser in the first place.
Andrew shrugged. “Famous people get divorced just as often as regular people.”
She tossed her long dark hair back and sighed. “I know. But sometimes I want to believe in the fairy tale. Don’t you?”
“You’re living it,” he said, picking up the pen he’d bought himself when he graduated from law school. “I’m not.”
“Not yet,” she teased. “And, I didn’t think it was going to happen for me either, but then . . . bam, forty-two rolled around and I met Jim. You’re only, what, twelve? You’ve got plenty of time.”
Andrew gave a grim smile. His age was a favorite joke around the office. He knew thirty was young to make partner, especially at a firm as large as this one. But then that had sort of been his life. He’d skipped a grade here, another one there. College in three years instead of four, and so on. As far as his professional life went, he’d always been ten steps ahead of his peers.
His personal life, though . . .
Andrew swallowed as once again his mind drifted to the very reason he was having such a hell of a time focusing today. It didn’t matter what he turned his attention to: email, client work, meetings, lunch, Twitter. Everywhere he looked, he saw only one thing . . . big brown eyes, brimming with tears.
Tears that he’d caused.
And as much as he wanted to brush her off as ridiculous, as much as he wanted to label the whole episode as female sentimentality and forget about it, the truth was . . .
He’d fucked up.
“You okay?” Katherine asked, tilting her head and giving him a curious look.
Andrew cleared his throat and looked back at her. “Yeah. Just mentally prepping for a thorny case later this afternoon.”
She held up her hands and took a step back. “Got it. I’ll let you get back to work.”
She gave him a little wave, and though he knew it was irrational, he felt a stab of regret that she hadn’t pressed him for more information—that it hadn’t even occurred to her that Andrew Mulroney might have something weighing on his mind other than work.
Not that he could blame her. Until recently, he hadn’t had anything weighing on his mind other than work. But he suspected that was a particular gift that Georgiana Watkins had—flouncing her way into the consciousness of people who had no use for her.
Andrew vaguely registered Katherine exiting his office and shutting the door behind her, and he gave in to the urge to prop his elbows on his desk and rest his face in his hands, just for a minute.
This wouldn’t do. He hadn’t gotten a single bit of work done all day. He couldn’t think about anything except the horrible moment when he’d thought he was making a joke, only to realize the second it left his mouth that it had been downright cruel.
Andrew had never been good with women.
But damn it, he was better than this. Smarter than to tell a woman she was essentially brainless.
The real kicker was, Georgiana was far from brainless. Ridiculous, yes, but to his way of thinking, there were few markers more telling of intelligence than a quick wit and a sharp tongue, and Georgiana had both in spades.
And even if she’d been as empty-headed as a balloon, his manners weren’t so off-kilter as to imply a woman had no brain.
He hadn’t meant anything by it; he’d just grown so accustomed to attempting to keep up with her, trying to stay one step ahead of her barbs.
And yet . . . there were barbs, and then there was just mean.
He dragged his fingers over his face, letting his hands fall with a thump to the mahogany desk.
What did a man do when he’d inadvertently called a woman an idiot simply because he’d wanted to hold her attention, to keep the conversation going so she didn’t tire of him?
It was schoolyard nonsense.
Andrew drummed his fingers on the desk, staring straight ahead at the bland, abstract painting that the firm’s interior designer had hung on his wall and which he’d never bothered to notice.
He could call her.
And say what?
Hell, forget that. He didn’t even have the woman’s phone number.
His eyes narrowed as he remembered that he did have her friend’s phone number . . . the sweet but forgettable Hailey. But somehow he didn’t think telling Georgiana that he’d contacted her friend to get her number would help his cause.
He could forget the whole thing. Let it blow over, then go back to their usual bickering tomorrow morning.
But what if she didn’t show tomorrow morning? What if she avoided him every morning from now on?
The thought caused more regret than he cared to admit, even to himself.
He drummed his fingers more rapidly, his brain running through the options before finally settling on one. It was a cliché. He’d hardly get points for creativity. But he needed to do something to ease the weird throb in his chest, or he’d never get any work done.
In the end he opted to text Hailey after all.
Then Andrew started to reach for his desk phone to call his assistant, but at the last second opened his laptop instead.
He might not know much about women like Georgiana, but even he knew that there were some things that you were better off doing yourself.
Georgie
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, LATER After the snub from Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, Asshole of the First Degree, I’ve spent most of the day trying to lose myself in a breast-cancer fundraising brunch I volunteered to help plan.
I know a lot of people think that women who work on fundraisers are just women trying really hard to make it look like they’re “working,” but the truth is, it is work.
Just try it. Go ahead and try to find an available venue on a Sunday afternoon in Manhattan that fits five hundred people, allows outside caterers, and has plenty of natural light, or at least is old and established enough that people forgive the lack of windows.
You try to find a bottle of champagne that’s impressive enough to move the richy-rich to open their wallets without being so expensive as to negate the entire purpose of a fundraiser in the first place.
