Page 68 of The Wrong Guy
After arguing with Chrissy about the electrical lines for hours and getting that sorted, and then getting past the aesthetic changes she wanted to make, denying almost all of them, we finally got down to the nitty-gritty of the actual legal aspects of the contract, which left Chrissy bored and needing even the simplest of things explained. And to be honest, that’s Oliver’s job as her attorney, not mine.
At that point, Oliver suggested she stay away for the remainder of the contract discussion and let him work on her behalf. That was remarkably helpful because, since then, we’ve made major progress.
Thanks to Oliver’s bullheaded negotiations stopping me at every turn from adding clauses to financially favor the city, the contract is pretty evenly matched as far as favoring Chrissy or Cold Springs. I wouldn’t admit it aloud, but that part has been a tiny bit enjoyable, reminding me of strategy sessions and head-to-head debates in law school. What we’ve come up with is similar to the contract the city held with Jed, with a few changes to reflect that Chrissy’s new ownership is unproven, so she’ll be subject to frequent check-ins by city inspectors, multiphase deadlines, and meetings with the city development board.
But though the contract is rock-solid, it all centers on Chrissy making good business choices and correctly overseeing a huge build, things she has basically zero chance of doing. And that’s going to affect Township and Cold Springs.
Closing my eyes, I tilt my head to the right and left, stretching my neck after staring at my screen for so long. This conference room is starting to feel like my second home, and my body is paying the price of playing hostess to Oliver with ordered-in lunches, chairs that are fine for a meeting but not to sit in all day, and fluorescent lights that buzz with a low hum that started driving me crazy hours ago.
Suddenly, I feel hands on my shoulders, massaging the tight muscles, and Oliver rumbles quietly, right in my ear, “Tense?”
I jerk away in surprise as my eyes fly open. Stonily glaring at him, I say, “No. I’m fine.”
Oliver falls into the chair beside me, so close that his thigh touches mine. I shift, crossing my legs away from him. “Guess we should get to the two last clauses?”
That’s all we have left—review the final page, do our individual read-throughs, and pass the contract on for signatures. “Actually, I was hoping you’d allow me the pleasure of using your brain,” he says, turning the charm up to one hundred and smiling like my brain isn’t all he wants. “You know, for fun.”
As an attorney, I know better than to blindly agree to anything. Especially with another attorney. “What do you have in mind?”
He glances at the flashy watch on his wrist and says, “It’s late, and we’ve been at this for days. On top of that, I’ve been working on the divorce decree in the evenings. You could say I’m burning the Benjamins at both ends.” He chuckles at his own joke about his hourly rate, which I’m sure is astronomical. I can’t imagine how much he’s charging Chrissy for on-site, twenty-four-hour, personal attorney services. Whatever it is, there are probably extra line-item fees for hotel, food, and per diem too.
Considering I’m a salaried employee of the city, he’s making significantly more than I am just sitting here. Which I’m sure is why he does what he does, but money isn’t why I’m a lawyer. “Mm-hmm,” I answer, not cracking a smile.
“I was hoping you might give the decree a once-over for me? Confidentially of course, but strictly off the books. No responsibility, no blame, and no credit.” He winks like that’s somehow a favor ... to me. “I’ve been staring at it so long, I’d like to be sure I didn’t miss anything, especially given Jenkins’s reputation.”
Curiosity is the polite term for nosiness, so I’ll admit that I’m curious as hell about what’s in that divorce decree. But not enough to spend hours staring at a contract tonight, poring over it when I’ve already been doing that all day on another contract. Plus there’s the complication of Oliver himself. “I don’t think that’s va good idea,” I say gently.
Instead of taking the refusal politely, he doubles down, speaking more forcefully. “You’re not understanding. I would really appreciate it if you’d look this over. Make sure there’s nothing unexpected.”
Is he speaking in code or something? Given the pointed look in his eyes, I’d say so. “Just say what you want to say,” I tell him bluntly.
“Oh, it’s just that I find Cold Springs to be such a surprising town. I wasn’t sure I’d like it when I came here, but there are so many interesting properties and people.”
It feels like I’m translating Lassie’s barks. Is Timmy in the well? Rrruff, rrruff. Good girl.
Cold Springs. Interesting properties. People.
Oliver knows how to pique my interest by playing to the thing I care about most—this town. And Jed owns at least half of it—commercial buildings, undeveloped land, and Township. If there’s something I should know about so that I’m able to protect Cold Springs, I have to do whatever’s necessary to find out.
“Fine,” I say carefully, “but to be clear, this is a professional courtesy. Nothing more.”
He smirks doubtfully at my clarification, but nods in agreement. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. We can look at it over dinner? There’s a steakhouse downtown where I’ve been working every night. It’s delicious, has impeccable service, and dinner will be on me. Well, on Chrissy technically, I guess. I’ll meet you there at seven?”
It’s not what I wanted to do tonight, but I’ll do it for Cold Springs. Still, I remind myself to be careful. Don’t be the cat and get killed by your curiosity, professionally speaking of course.
I knew what steakhouse Oliver was talking about as soon as he said “downtown.” There are only two true steakhouses in town, one’s a chain out by the highway into town that serves charred leather most of the time, and the other one is Bernard’s Chophouse. It’s as close to white tablecloth service as you can get in Cold Springs.
It’s been a while since I’ve eaten here, but at one point, I was a regular. I’d sit and be quiet, remember my manners, and smile politely while Dad held dinner meetings as mayor. He’d discuss things that went way over my head or that I didn’t care about, but over time, I started to listen, started to care, and started to learn.
Coming in tonight reminds me that I should possibly treat myself to this place more often. “Wren Ford? Is that you? Goodness gracious, I haven’t seen you in ages.” Bernard’s greeting is exuberant and welcoming, complete with cheek kisses. “Rose, get Miss Ford a table!” he tells the hostess standing at the front podium. “The best we’ve got!”
She looks at me questioningly, and I hold up two fingers. “Table for two, but I’m not sure if he’s here already. Oliver Laurent?”
Rose’s face doesn’t move, but interest blooms in her eyes. “Oh, Oliver’s already here. He’s sitting at his usual table. This way.”
He’s been in town for a short time, but apparently has a “usual table”? I guess he really has been working here in the evenings.
Before Rose leads me away, Bernard says, “Will you allow me the honor of providing you and your guest with a chef’s choice tonight?”