3. Oliver

3

OLIVER

My job boils down to three things: Reassuring. Fighting. Finagling.

I happen to be tops at all three.

Perhaps that sounds cocky.

But as my cousin Jason says, “You can’t be cocky if what you say is true.”

Fine, fine. There are about a million flaws in his logic, as I point out every time, but it’s become our joke.

Today, I’m completely confident as I reassure my newest client. “I’ve got this, Geneva. I’m going to take care of you. This is going to be the partnership you’ve always wanted.”

Seated across from me in my Park Avenue office thirty floors up, the nervous client breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you so much,” she says, her shoulders relaxing. “I had a feeling you would be the right one to call on this deal. And I’m not just saying that because we’re from the same side of the street.”

“Can’t beat Crystal Palace, even the dodgy end,” I say. I grew up in that London neighborhood, where I lived until I was thirteen, and my new client comes from there too.

I tap the top paper in the stack on my desk—a term sheet I’m working on for her. Her ad agency is partnering up with a smaller one for a number of media clients, and my firm is handling the legal issues of the new pairing. Untangling prior contracts, I’ve found a few particularly thorny ones with unfortunate terms. Her last attorney was a selfish prick, adding in layers of unnecessary loopholes that likely just padded his billables. He was also her ex. More proof that exes are douches. “We’ll get this all sorted out,” I tell her, keeping my opinion of her ex to myself.

“Thank you, Oliver.” She smooths a hand over her tight black bun. “It’s been a terrible year, and I want something to go well. I had a very public split recently.” She waves a hand to dismiss her words. “But you don’t need to hear about that.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had a rough go of it,” I say lightly. I did hear of her divorce. Or rather, my Aunt Jane did, and she told me before the appointment. Since I hired her a few months ago, Jane’s job has been not only to staff the reception desk and manage the office, but also to stay abreast of every iota of gossip.

“It’s better now. Or it will be soon,” Geneva says, stiff-upper-lipping it.

“It will be,” I reassure her. I don’t know all of her situation, but I do hope it improves.

“And on that cheery note, I’d better be off,” she says.

I rise, escorting her to the reception area, where Jane beams from her post at the desk. “You already look happier,” Jane tells Geneva. “Like I told you when you arrived, Ollie has a way of setting everyone at ease.”

“Oliver,” I say low, in a friendly warning.

Jane gives us an oops grin. “He’ll always be Ollie to me.”

“Ollie,” Geneva says, laughing. “It’s a very sweet name.”

Sweet.

An adjective no corporate attorney wants assigned to him.

“Would you like Jane to call you a Lyft?” I steer the conversation away from nicknames. “An UberX to whisk you home? Horse-drawn carriage, maybe? On the house.”

Geneva’s lips quirk at the over-the-top suggestion.

“I wasn’t sure ‘on the house’ was in an attorney’s vocabulary.”

“Shh. Don’t tell the bar he said them,” Jane whispers.

“I’ll keep it quiet.” She seems to be enjoying the banter—a good sign for business. “But I must know—does the carriage come with a footman?” she asks with a smile.

That smile is like a signature on the client roster. It tells me she has all the faith in the world in my firm, which is how I want her to feel.

That’s how I want all our clients to feel. Absolutely reassured.

“But of course,” I say, not sure where I’d find a footman but still playing along.

Geneva, though, gestures to the lift. “I like to walk in the spring. But thank you so much. I appreciate it.”

When she leaves, Jane gives me an approving nod. “Try to be a little less charming next time, dear.”

“That would be impossible.”

“I know,” she says with a wink.

“Also, you should try to call me Oliver.”

“I will, Ollie,” she says with a wave.

I return to my office, make a few initial calls to the other attorneys involved in Geneva’s business, then shoot her a quick email letting her know I’ve begun the work. I lean back in my office chair made of old tires. I had my doubts when Jane ordered it—finding recycled replacements is another passion of hers—but the chair is not only kinder to cows than leather, it turns out it’s also pleasant on the arse.

As I gaze out the window, I picture the deal coming together, imagining what it could do for this firm. How it could shoot us to another level, raise our profile, allow us to attract bigger clients and pay our staffers even more. It’s an enticing image, being able to provide for those in my employ while sticking it to her ex.

Well, not directly to her ex.

I simply have zero tolerance for bad legal advice.

And zero tolerance for lateness.

I grab my phone, lock up my office, and head out, chatting on the way with Jane about her weekend plans. No surprises—they involve snuggling cats, gardening, and reading the gossip blogs, much like they always do.

“Thank you again for the job, love.” She plants a kiss on my cheek. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be working for that wretched temp agency.”

“What? You didn’t like shuffling papers for bond traders who spent the day shouting into phones when not cursing and punching things?”

“Shockingly, I did not,” she says with a smile.

We say goodbye on the street, and I turn to walk uptown. As I reach the crosswalk, a text pops up.

Logan: Tomorrow night. Paintball. Be ready. I need you operating at 110%.

Oliver: Everything I do is at 110%.

Logan: That’s not what she said.

He rings. I pick up, faking an over-the-top laugh. “Haha. Never heard that from you before.”

“Listen, if you give me low-hanging fruit, I’m going to pluck it. But about paintball—” Logan wastes no time and minces no words. “I’ve got some new strategies to go over. We have to beat those fuckers at Lehman.”

His two speeds: intense and hyperintense. It’s my job to remind him of life’s niceties. “You do know the paintball league events are to raise money for charity, right? Not for obliterating other teams.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s awesome. That’s totally why I do it. But I also have to crush Lehman, and you know why.”

“Fair enough.” I do know he has his reasons. Perfectly valid ones. “But don’t worry. I’m brilliant at paintball, as you know.”

“Humble too.”

“Because humility is the trait you lead with as well?”

He scoffs. “Never. Anyway, I’ll email you and Fitz and the rest of the team the strategy guidelines later. I’m going to the boxing gym now. I’ve got to blow off some steam. Want to join me?”

As I walk up the avenue, I shake my head, though of course he can’t see me. “I know you can risk things like having an eye that looks like a meat pie or a nose that’s out of whack, being an ugly git already, but I can’t take those chances. What with this face and all.” I scrub a hand across my jaw as I stop at Sixtieth Street.

“ Right ,” he says, the word having about ten syllables. “You don’t want to risk your next appearance on Buzzfeed’s New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors.”

“Of course not. I’m hoping to make it five years in a row.”

“I cannot wait till the day you fall off that list,” he says, and I can hear that he’s practically salivating.

“They say all good things come to an end, but this one seems like it’ll last forever.”

“You’re telling me.”

“In any case, I’m almost at Melt My Heart to meet your sister.”

“Say hi to my twin for me. Also, why don’t you two just?—”

A bus rumbles to a stop, the sound drowning out Logan’s words. “Didn’t catch those last few words.”

“Marry her. It’ll be easier.”

“What would be easier? I don’t follow.” My brow furrows. What he said doesn’t compute. There are a million reasons why Summer and I shouldn’t get married. First and foremost, we’re great friends. Second, despite her being quite lovely to look at, I can’t think of her that way. Third, I like having her in my life, not out of it, and since relationships always go belly-up and exes always go rogue, it’s best to keep this one on the level.

“Kidding! I’m kidding,” Logan says. “Just like I was that time I told you to propose when you took her to that asshole’s wedding.” His other line beeps, and he groans.

There’s another reason too. “Let me remind you, your sister is well-known for having the worst taste in men. Just bloody awful, and well, I’m delightful.”

“I beg to differ on your levels of delight. But the devil is calling, so I have to go. It’s my night with Amelia after boxing.”

“Tell Amelia her favorite person will swing by this weekend. We have to catch up on Game of Thrones .”

“You are not showing Game of Thrones to my six-year-old.”

“ Sex Education , then? It’s brilliant.”

“Goodbye. The devil waits for no one.” He hangs up to talk to his ex, who is evidence that exes GO wrong.

Tucking the phone away, I head into Melt My Heart to wait for Summer, a woman who fits into a highly specific category among the people in my life. And that is the most important reason we can never be a thing.

Because Summer is a dependable person.

She’s reliable in a world where far too many people aren’t.

And frankly, those are the people you don’t risk losing by messing with a proven formula.