Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 3

  “And you won’t let him walk all over you, will you?” She squints at me. “You don’t strike me as the type.”

  “Definitely not,” I reassure her. “But it's probably still best if one of us withdraws.”

  Caroline purses her lips. “If you say so. Make sure it's him, though. Johanna couldn't praise you highly enough, and I really don't want to go looking for another lawyer. I want to get the ball rolling on this, and I want it done quickly.”

  “All right,” I say, watching Logan still standing out there by his PA’s desk, now looking down and tapping away on his phone. “I'll go talk to him. Excuse me.”

  I’m pretty sure I’m not imagining the hush that ripples through the office space outside the conference room. It’s been eight years since I worked here, but there are still plenty of familiar faces, people who returned my greetings with a smile when I walked in earlier.

  As I stride toward him in my three-inch Jimmy Choos—painfully aware they’re shoes I couldn’t have afforded when I bought them three years ago if it weren’t for him and his successful career—I can feel everyone watching me. Even the new people here know I’m married to one of the equity partners in their firm and that we’re separated.

  But if they’re expecting drama, they’ll be disappointed.

  “Can we talk?” I ask quietly as I reach him. “In private?”

  He looks up from his phone, and his eyes bore into me. Eyes that have seen all of me, have seen me at my best and at my worst. Eyes that I used to think would be watching me from the other side of the bed every morning for the rest of my life.

  “After you.” He gestures toward his office.

  I’m conscious of his presence behind me as I lead the way. What is he thinking? Is he checking me out? In the past, I wouldn’t have needed to wonder. Knowing he’d be staring at my ass, I’d sway my hips with each step, and if I threw him a teasing glance over my shoulder, I’d find him leering at me, a predator eyeing his prey.

  Splitting up is probably easier for women who find their husbands repulsive.

  In his office, I struggle to strike a pose that’s not awkward or defensive. Body language is important around Logan. He’s got sniffing out and exploiting weakness down to an art form. It’s his job.

  So when the door shuts behind him, I keep my shoulders squared, my arms uncrossed, and my tone calm as I say, “You need to hand this case over to someone else.”

  “Sorry.” He shoves his hands into his pants pockets. “Can't do that.”

  “Why?” I ask, tension squeezing me.

  Logan shrugs. “Stu wants me to represent him, and Hammer pretty much ordered me to do it.”

  “Hammerness is not your boss anymore, and I'm sure Garnett can be convinced he's better off with someone from family law.”

  “And risk him deciding he's better off with someone from another firm instead?” he asks with arched eyebrows. “Nope.”

  I clench my hands. Is he trying to make me beg? I don’t do that, and he knows it. “I don't have the option to give this to a colleague, but you do.”

  “Two commas,” he says, holding up two fingers as if I need that visual to help me understand. “That's how much Stu’s business is worth to us in annual billable hours.”

  My pulse jumps and quickens. “I need Caroline Carne a lot more than your firm needs Stu. I'm trying to get my practice off the ground.”

  “Why?” His eyes flash darkly. “What expenses do you have that I'm not already paying for?”

  It’s like a bubble bursts in my chest, sending sparks of hot and burning fury through me. So much for keeping things professional.

  Yeah, I still rely on Logan financially. Since we’re just separated and nothing has been settled, it was easier for him to keep paying the bills instead of figuring out a child support arrangement. But there’s a reason I still need that from him. He knows it, knows he’s being an asshole for ignoring it, and he doesn’t care.

  “Oh, excuse me for putting my career on hold for you,” I snap, even though I know I shouldn’t rise to his bait. “I’d be where you're at now if I hadn't been too busy raising your kids.”

  “Well, let's be honest,” he says with a sneer. “You wouldn't actually be where I'm at.”

  “Yeah, you're probably right,” I retort. “My nose isn't nearly brown enough.”

  Logan falls silent with a scowl on his face. The jab is partially true—I’ve always figured his success is seventy-five percent talent and hard work, twenty-five percent his willingness to dance to Charlton Hammerness’s tune—but it still leaves a nasty taste in my mouth.

  My hands are shaking. I hate these arguments, the ones we’ve had so many times already that by now I feel like I’m just playing a part, my free will gone, trying to navigate a maze where all paths lead to a dead end.

  “No, Paige,” he says at last. “I’m just a better attorney than you.”

  I snort. “Better at defending murderers and rapists, sure, and I still don't get why that's anything to brag about. Better in a divorce case? I don’t think so.”

  “Unfortunately for you, I'm a quick study.” His gaze hardens as he adds, “And I've got some experience with not letting a woman screw you over.”

  I clamp my mouth shut. I want to point out that he’s actually not doing so great in that respect, but I don’t, because that would be unbelievably dumb.

  Honestly, I have no idea if he realizes the position he’s put himself in over the past year. Knowing him, he probably is aware and thinks it won’t matter, because he’s Logan McKinley, and Logan McKinley doesn’t lose. At anything.

  “If you’re so worried about your money,” I say as soon as I feel sure my voice won’t crack, “then let's get this show on the road. I'm ready to file when you are.”

  And let me show you just how badly a woman can screw you over.

  His self-satisfied facade slips, and for a second, I see the real Logan. I see the pain that glitters in his eyes, can detect his anger in the tight line of his lips, and can guess at the words he’s holding back by the way his Adam’s apple bobs.

  I know him. He knows me. That’s why we’re so good at hurting each other.

  “I don't give a shit about the money,” he says at last, a low growl. “Nothing’s changed. You're not taking my kids and moving to San Francisco.”

  “Why not? You could still see them every other weekend.” I widen my eyes at him. “Or have you changed your mind? You want split custody? You want to have them fifty percent of the time? Hire a nanny to take care of them while you're at work—and maybe a few days a week you’d manage to get home in time to tuck them in?”

  His nose flares. He’s in the maze, too, and he has no more clue how to escape it than I do. “You're not taking them away.”

  And there it is: our stalemate, as unyielding as ever. What else is there to say?

  Logan jerks into motion, and I twist and follow him with my eyes as he rounds his desk and throws himself down in his chair. He leans back, doing a pretty good job looking casual and unconcerned. But he can’t fool me. I can tell by the way he picks up a pen and starts tapping it on the desktop. He’s pissed as hell and struggling to contain it.

  “I'm not dropping this case,” I tell him. “Caroline wants me.”

  “Then there's no problem.” His words come out staccato, rushed. “Unless Stu objects, we can move forward.”

  A sigh sinks through me, resignation creeping in. Having Logan as opposing counsel in such a crucial case is a frustration I don’t need right now. But I hope he’s prepared to be on the losing side.

  A knock comes on the door, and Jewell’s head pops in. “I finally got ahold of Mr. Garnett. He says he's not coming.”

  My jaw drops. “What do you mean, he's not coming?”

  Jewell looks past me to Logan, because of course she needs his permission to reveal that information. I always liked her. A few years younger than me, she’s just the kind of PA Logan needs: practical, organized, and an antidote t
o drama. She’s so good at keeping his ego in check, I want her to give me lessons.

  She waits until Logan gives her a nod before she answers me. “He said it’s because he loves his wife, doesn’t want a divorce, and she's going to have to drag him to court kicking and screaming.”

  I let out a huff as Jewell leaves us. Okay, then. There goes any last hope of an easy, amicable divorce.

  I turn back to Logan. “You should probably meet with your client and explain a few things to him.”

  “You worry about yours, I'll worry about mine,” is his nonchalant reply, but I can tell from his shuttered expression that he’s annoyed.

  I start toward the door, then stop as I grab the handle. “When are you picking the kids up on Friday?”

  “Five at the latest. Hopefully closer to four.” He’s still tapping that pen on the desk.

  “See you then, I guess.”

  I feel off-balance as I step out and head back to the conference room. It’s this place, probably. There are too many memories, most of them good, and I don’t want them in my head right now.

  Caroline takes the news with equanimity. I expected anger, but she only seems to stoically accept it, like she wasn’t really expecting her husband to show up, anyway. “So what happens next?”

  I pick my case documents up from the conference table and slide them into my briefcase. “I’ll file the divorce petition, and Stuart will be served. He’ll have thirty days to respond. If we can’t work out a settlement agreement, it’ll go to trial.”

  “I really would prefer to do this out of court,” she says as I hold open the door for her, and while we weave past the busy worker bees toward the front entrance, I chew on that in silence. Finalizing a divorce out of court when one party is refusing to cooperate is a no-go.

  Once we’re on the elevator and the doors slide shut, I ask her, “Can you think of any way we could get Stuart to cooperate? Because if he won't even sit down and talk, that doesn't give us much to work with.”

  Caroline’s face turns thoughtful. She’s the kind of middle-aged woman who seems barely that, having a naturally youthful beauty that gives her a soft and approachable look. It probably makes people underestimate her.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll give it some thought.” With a shake of her head, she muses, “I’m still stunned about Logan being your ex. Coincidences like that are so fascinating, don’t you think?”

  I breathe out a quiet laugh. “I’m actually more interested in statistical probabilities.”

  “How so?” Caroline gives me a quizzical look.

  “Well,” I reply as the elevator arrives on the ground floor and the door parts with a ding, “I’d rather try to figure out just how big of a coincidence it actually is. So I’d start with how many attorneys there are in this city, and then I’d look up the percentage of attorneys who are married to other attorneys…and so on.”

  As we cross the cavernous lobby, our heels clicking on the polished and gleaming tile floor, I give my client an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I have a thing for statistics.”

  “Don’t apologize.” She lets out a brief chuckle. “I’m starting to understand why Johanna likes you so much.”

  Well, that’s definitely gratifying to know. Aside from running into her at the city courthouse a couple of months ago, when we were both in a hurry and barely had time to say hi, I’ve had no contact with Johanna since I interned at her law firm the last summer before I finished law school. I vaguely recall that Carne Consulting was one of her clients even back then.

  That she’d recommend me is still a bit of a shock, though a happy one. I remember being somewhat overwhelmed with admiration and intimidation from day one of meeting Johanna. With long, sleek dark hair and a chic, expensive wardrobe, she’s a small woman whose presence still makes you feel dwarfed by her. She’s smart, driven, and calculating—a career woman with, as far as I know, no life outside of her job.

  Which I’ve always waffled between envying and regretting on her behalf.

  Caroline and I step through the door out into the parking garage and hand our tickets to the approaching valets, two strapping young men in dark uniforms who immediately hurry to their desk to grab our car keys before disappearing.

  “So,” Caroline comments while digging some crisp dollar bills out of her Burberry handbag, “Ms. Statistics Fanatic, do you know how many women are like us, keeping their maiden names when they get married?”

  Why, yes, it just so happens… “About eighteen percent,” I tell her. “Another ten percent hyphenate.” Which is what I did. Right after the separation, I changed it—a tough decision because I didn’t really want to have a different last name from my kids. In the end I realized I couldn’t stomach having Logan’s name anymore.

  And really, I should’ve just kept my own name in the first place, and to hell with anyone who wanted to use their antiquated and misogynistic opinions to judge me for it.

  Caroline’s eyebrows shoot up above her sunglasses. “You certainly knew that off the top of your head.”

  “Yeah. It was a topic of conversation when I married him.” I flash her a sheepish grin. “Statistics can be so useful when you’re trying to win an argument.”

  I’m treated to another burst of my client’s melodious laughter. Shaking her head, she asks, “How long have you been separated?”

  Again with the personal questions. It’s clear I’m going to have a hard time keeping boundaries with her, because I’d like to refuse to answer that…but I can’t risk offending her.

  “Too long. Almost a year now,” I confess. “We haven't managed to agree on a permanent custody arrangement for the kids. And since neither of us wants to turn it into a court case, we’ve been dragging our feet.”

  Caroline is silent for a moment, and then she observes pertly, “Hopefully you're more efficient in settling your clients’ divorces.”

  Only half an hour ago, that statement would’ve made me nervous, but I’m starting to get a handle on Caroline Carne. She obviously likes to keep people on their toes. But I’m pretty sure if she was genuinely unhappy with me, she wouldn’t be coy about it.

  “Yeah, don’t worry about that,” I tell her. “There's a lot of truth behind the saying, ‘Physician, heal thyself.’”

  “Hmm,” she says, looking slightly skeptical, and then a car pulls up—a blood-red sedan that looks expensive and fast, its engine rumbling and purring—and it’s obviously hers, because she inches forward even as she says, “Like I said, Johanna couldn't recommend you enough, and I don't trust anyone more than her. We’ve been friends since high school.”

  “She’s definitely one of a kind.”

  “That she is,” Caroline agrees with an almost wistful smile. The valet steps out, holding the door open for her, and she thanks him and hands over his tip before looking back at me. “I have to run. Meeting a friend for lunch.”

  I give a nod. “If you hear from your husband, I don't recommend talking to him too much without me present.”

  “I'll keep that in mind.” Caroline gets into her car with a wave, and the valet shuts her door.

  Taking a step back, I watch her drive off. I’m about to take out my phone to check for missed calls or messages when I catch sight of my black Cadillac Escalade, pulling around the corner. A few seconds later, I’m seated behind the wheel, ready to head back to my office to get some paperwork done before I have to pick up my kids from their nanny, Miranda—a retired preschool teacher who lives just a couple of blocks from our house. I got her name from a mom I met at the little neighborhood park a couple of weeks after we moved there, and the kids couldn’t love her more.

  As I cruise toward the exit of the parking structure, I’m suddenly picturing the old Toyota Corolla I drove when I started working in this building. That dependable little car lasted me all through college and law school with hardly any issues at all, and the smell of the citrusy air freshener I used and the feel of the worn leather on the back of my thighs below my skirt wil
l always remind me of freedom and youth and the exhilaration and nervousness of starting a new chapter in my life.

  Moving to San Diego to work at Stevens and Hammerness would be a big change; I knew that. I’d just had no idea how massive and earth-shattering it would actually be. Why would I? Never could I have imagined I’d meet a man like Logan, couldn’t have anticipated the intense and instant attraction, that sense of helplessness and inevitability.

  Maybe if I’d had more experience with something like that, I would’ve done a better job of heeding the instincts that were screaming at me to run, run, run like hell in the opposite direction.

  Because, from the moment I became aware of his existence, I knew in my gut that he could cause me grief.

  I was right.

  Chapter 3

  Paige

  Ten Years Ago

  “Hey, newb, there’s a meeting in the conference room,” says a throaty female voice from behind me.

  Frowning, I blink down at the deposition I’m reviewing, the words going out of focus. Is she talking to me?

  I twist in my chair, looking over my shoulder and finding her watching me expectantly. She’s a slender woman in a peach-pink skirt suit, her hair long and straight and glossy. Her sharp cheekbones and cat-like eyes are so startling I’m momentarily speechless.

  “Oh,” I say, hesitating, “I thought that was in twenty minutes.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Right, but Hammerness wants us all in there before he gets there. You know, so he can make a grand entrance, make sure he has our attention?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but she walks off before I can get a sound out.

  Wow. Sitting there stunned, I try to figure out if I’m being overly sensitive or if that was really as rude as it seemed. The snarky comment about Mr. Hammerness is the part that’s throwing me off, making me think maybe her abruptness had nothing to do with me.

  Throwing my pen down on my desk, I get up and head to the restroom, because I’m not attending my first staff meeting with anything but an empty bladder, thank you very much.