Page 70 of The Wrong Guy
I swallow my own bite of filet and then take a sip of water, leaving the Malbec untouched. I won’t drink it, but I didn’t want to offend Bernard. “It’s not Tayvious’s chili nachos, but it’ll do.”
It’s barely a joke, but Oliver laughs fully. “I thought you were crazy, but those were so good. I’m going to dream about that chili-cheese combo when I’m gone.” I smile, glad that he tried them, because I’m still pretty sure nachos are not his style at all, but Tayvious can convert even the most high-strung into a cheese-guzzling whore with his nachos. Oliver isn’t done, though. “They’re not the only thing I’ll miss.”
The humor has left his voice, turning it smoky and deep, and his eyes stare into mine with heat. I’m 100 percent sure that works for him 99 percent of the time. Too bad for him, I’m the one-percenter.
I’ve known guys like Oliver. Hell, I’ve dated them. And while, on paper, we should be a good match, they’re not it for me. Guys like Oliver do nothing besides turn me into a frosty, strategic, analytical robot, which is great in a courtroom. Not so great in the bedroom or in a relationship. They’re the wrong man for me, no matter how much they wish they were the right one. And they usually assume they’re the catch I’ve been waiting my whole life for, as though law school was merely a way to narrow my dating pool.
“We should get back to the divorce decree,” I say flatly, letting my bitch face loose as I stare at him, devoid of all emotion. I don’t want to lead Oliver on, and I don’t feel like I have in any way. I’ve been honest that I have another person in my life, and I shouldn’t even have to do that, considering our relationship is predicated on a legal issue and related to a contract only. “Page sixteen.”
I begin reading again, the paperwork in my left and my fork in my right as I multitask my way through a working dinner. As my eyes scan line by line, I’m surprised at the number of properties Jed owns. It seems like there are some missing? I pulled a list on my own weeks ago to facilitate the divorce process, and I glanced over it, but admittedly didn’t study it thoroughly. I didn’t think it would matter ... not like this.
“It says here that Jed is keeping the building at the corner of Main and Second Street?” Not able to see the paperwork, but probably having a significant portion memorized from the hours spent preparing it, he nods with certainty. “Right, but what about the building next to that? Where the antique store is?” I point out the window to the storefront whose sign is lit even though they closed hours ago.
Oliver looks where I’m pointing, but shrugs. “That’s everything in Jed and Chrissy’s names, both as co-owners or individually. Do you think there are properties missing?”
The answer is yes. Saying that aloud without proof is akin to slander. “I don’t know,” I venture. “When are Jed and Chrissy due to sign this?”
“We’ve got three days of review before the hearing with the judge. Why?”
I glance down at the page again, feeling a gnawing sense of concern in my gut. I remember the slick, wily, borderline illegal ways Jed tried to ramrod his previous development through approvals. With Township, he’s been better. Or has he?
What if that’s one instance of doing the right thing in an entire clusterfuck of wrongs? A way to visibly repair his reputation while continuing on with his bullshit behind the curtain?
“Can I keep this copy? I promise to keep it safe and confidential, but there’s something I’d like to look into if you don’t mind?”
Oliver has no reason to let me take this copy. It breaks several ethical codes, and puts both of us at risk with at least the state bar association. And though we’ve been working together well on Chrissy’s contract with Cold Springs, Jed is my uncle, after all. A shitty one who I hate, but my uncle nonetheless.
But after a quick consideration where Oliver scans my face with soft eyes, he agrees. “Safe and confidential.”
We finish our filets, and too excited to get to work on this new puzzle my brain is taking apart and examining, I barely take two bites of the chocolate mousse Bernard brings out.
“Shall we?” Oliver asks, holding out an arm as we leave the table to allow me to walk in front of him.
After a quick promise to Bernard to come back soon, I walk with Oliver into the cool night air. The downtown council has done a great job making the square a destination. There are small, warm lights crisscrossing the streets, benches line the cobblestone sidewalks, and large pottery displays filled with seasonal flowers are at every corner. There’s soft music playing from an ice-cream shop a few doors down and people walking hand in hand, enjoying the evening.
At my car, Oliver pauses and looks down at me. Usually, I hate being short because people think it makes me cute. I’ve literally been told I’m “fun-size” like a Halloween candy bar or “pocket-size” by people who think that’s a compliment somehow. Right this moment, I’m glad there are several inches between Oliver’s face and mine, because I’ve seen that look in his eyes.
He wants to kiss me.
I step back, adding more space between us. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll get back with you about the decree.”
Polite manners plus professional focus equal an all-business me that I hope he can respect. But he lifts his hand, gently brushing my hair behind my ear to whisper, “You are an amazing woman, Wren Ford.”
I flinch and push his hand away. “Oliver. Don’t.”
It’s the most forward he’s been, but also the bluntest I’ve been, and I feel like things have been building to this point for weeks.
He licks his lips, and I can almost see him erecting walls around himself, ones I welcome and appreciate because they belong there. I’ve certainly got mine up and fortified. “Sorry. I got carried away for a moment.”
“Apology accepted. This time only.” It’s a threat and a warning wrapped into one. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning to finish the Township contract.”
He nods silently, obviously upset—with himself? With me? I don’t care, I’ve got a dining table, a hot guy who is my type, and a property list I want to research waiting on me.
Minutes later, I’m pulling up to Jesse’s house, where the front porch light is on and through the blinds, I can see the flashing lights of the television. Jesse must’ve been watching or listening for me because as soon as I step up to the door, it swings open before I can even knock.
Though he’s still shirtless, it looks like he’s showered since his workout selfie, because his dark hair is slightly damp, and he’s wearing low-slung pajama pants with ...
“Are those hot dogs wearing party hats?” I wonder out loud as I point to the cartoons all over his legs. I read the multicolored words splashed all over the pants, and my wonder turns to hilarity.