Chapter 2

Evie

"O

ne week only, right?" Bill the Bull asks.

It's the moniker everyone in the office uses for Stilton and Everett's newly minted managing partner. With his tough demeanor and slicked-back hair, if Bill had not become the head of a thriving mid-size New York law firm, he would be an enforcer for the Mob.

"Right," I say, feeling my agitation build. I force it down. I haven't taken a vacation in two years, and my boss is giving me a hard time. "It's my birthday."

Bill doesn't seem to hear me. He's staring at his screen. "I don't understand why now. It's crunch time with the two new accounts."

It's always crunch time. "Like I said, my birthday. I'm turning fifty. It's not like I can change the date."

Bill harrumphs. "Fine," he says like a petulant child. "I'll pass the Anderson account to Julie who will not be pleased. The other one will have to wait. Julie doesn't have the brains to handle that one."

Ugh.

"You can just stay longer hours when you get back."

I know the conversation is over when he taps his earbud, twirls his office chair away from me, and begins speaking to someone on the other end.

I walk out quietly and go to my office, half the size of Bill's despite being at the law firm three years longer.

It has nothing to do with gender inequality and everything to do with Bill being married to the granddaughter of the firm's founder. He's skyrocketed to the top while knowing dangerously little about the intricacies of negligence law. I've saved his slimy behind on more than one occasion.

Nepotism lives on.

With rumors of his father-in-law's impending retirement, Bill is also a notorious kiss-up, frequently cutting ethical corners, something I have never been able to do.

Doing the right thing even when it bucks the system has held me back in more ways than I care to ponder. Maybe even contributed to the demise of my marriage.

Holy matrimony, my derrière. There was nothing holy about how Marco treated our marriage.

Marco grew up in Italy, in a traditional family where the man ruled the household. When he migrated to the States, he had trouble shedding the long-held misogyny. He didn't take well to sharing the throne. When the fiery attraction between us eventually fizzled—or more like, exploded—so did our marriage. By then, I'd birthed two babies.

I force thoughts of Marco away, take a seat behind my cherry wood desk and text both of my sons, reminding them of my upcoming trip to California. Daniel, my eldest, responds immediately with a thumbs up. I know I'll be lucky to hear back from Jeffrey. He has inherited my independent—and impulsive—streak. I hope the last-minute plans he made with his father come to fruition. My ex isn't known for reliability. When Daniel started high school, Marco moved back to Rome. The worst possible time.

I'm about to dig into my work when a text comes in from Roger.

Yikes.

I've gone out twice with the restaurateur, and he's called me seventeen times since. We met when Caroline and I discovered Le Marais, the best restaurant in New York City, opened a few blocks from my office. Turns out Roger owns the place.

A bit on the short side, with an amiable disposition, Roger has magical abilities in the kitchen. But fair or not, I know what a passionate relationship is like, and while Roger is nice, he's vanilla. I need jalape?o.

Not to mention that I'm lousy at the dating thing. I've been out of the pool too long. My fingers and toes have shriveled.

My ‘thanks, but I'm busy' responses have had the opposite effect from what I intended, turning Roger into a borderline stalker. Problem is I don't want to alienate him and get blacklisted from his heavenly restaurant.

I shoot out another polite text, hoping he'll finally get the message. I put the phone away and get to work.