Chapter 7

Work flew by surprisingly fast. Normally, an eight-hour day felt like twelve, but somehow, my nervous anticipation helped the clock tick faster on the wall instead of dragging it out.

I'd been with Stearns and Wilkes since I got out of college. I have a degree in business from the state university, but I hadn't had a clue what I wanted to do with it when I graduated. I just knew I had to have one-a degree that is. The law firm was one of the largest on the East Coast, and I'd started as the receptionist. The guy who'd hired me hadn't even pretended it was based on my potential-he flat out told me I'd appeal to their male clientele. That was seventeen years ago, which still did not put me at forty-close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades-and I still held that same special clout...appeal for the male clientele.

Only now, I was the Executive Secretary for one of the firm's managing partners. That sounded fancy, but there were paralegals who did the actual paperwork and grunt research, and junior attorneys who worked the long hours, and another receptionist who answered all the phones. My job-make the best cup of coffee ever consumed by our clients and entertain them while they waited. I was there for them to look at but never touch-always appearing available but never actually being available. It paid well, really well, and came with a wardrobe allowance-so I wasn't about to try to better myself or make my life meaningful. I'd remain shallow as long as they'd allow it.

Unfortunately, on slow days-or those my boss was in court, which were the majority of my week-the most I did was file my nails and paint them a new color. Today's shade was "Pretty Posey." I blew on my fingertips, waiting for five o'clock and the final coat to dry. I had about two hours to run by the liquor store for wine, get home to change and freshen up, and be at Beck's by seven. I'd mentally picked out my outfit around 9:17 am, decided on my hair at 9:19 am, and started my first coat of "Pretty Posey" at 9:21 am. Beauty was a process-one I'd honed into an art form. But my entire day's agenda had been completed twenty-three minutes after I'd clocked in. I expected the rest to drag, but my nerves had gotten the best of me and rounded it out in the blink of an eye.

I pulled up to the liquor store I frequented more often than I did the grocery store. It was owned by an older couple who actually knew their products. I respected that and rewarded their knowledge with my patronage. Often.

"Good to see you, Giselle." Mrs. Grobin was a lovely lady. She and the Mister had traveled all over Europe and lived like gypsies for most of their twenties and thirties. When they'd finally decided to settle down with the knowledge they'd gained overseas, they ended up here with a quaint store less than a mile from my house. They took care of their regulars, one of which I'd quickly become. I wasn't a lush by any means, but wine was a great way to curb the appetite and limit food consumption, which reduced the number of miles I had to log every morning before conquering the world at Stearns and Wilkes.

"Nice to see you as well."

"Are you looking for anything in particular tonight?"

I stopped at the counter and tapped my freshly manicured nails in front of me as I pondered how to approach the need for the evening. "I have a date, and I've been tasked with wine. I'd like something that says 'I appreciate your having me over' but won't break the bank or indicate I expect anything in return."

"Aww, Giselle. You don't need to take wine to a man. He'll expect you to put out regardless. Save your money."

I snickered. "True, but I offered. How about a spicy red?" I had no idea whether Beck liked red or white, nor what we were having for dinner, so I went for what tickled my fancy.

"Young lady, is that the message you want to send?" Only a seventy-year-old woman could consider another in her late thirties-we shall not use the dreaded F-word-a young lady.

"Absolutely. So, what do you recommend?"

She shook her head before leading me over to her first pick. "How about a pinot noir? Flowers Sea View Ridge is nice. It's from a vineyard in Sonoma Valley."

I quickly glanced at the price. Beck seemed like a nice girl, but I wasn't spending seventy-five dollars on a bottle of wine I had to share. "How about something a little less...spicy?"

The elderly lady giggled at my innuendo before taking me farther down the aisle. "A Syrah should do the trick at half the price."

I took the red she'd suggested and grabbed a bottle of sambuca on my way out. I'd had far too much time to think about Ronnie's advice and concluded she was right. A shot or two would help me loosen up. I downed one when I walked in my front door and put a couple more in a flask to partake of before ringing Beck's bell.

When I looked in the mirror, I was impressed with my reflection staring back at me. I'd decided appearing carefree would help ease my anxiety. If I weren't concerned with my attire or my hair, then I could focus on other things-like not stabbing myself with a fork accidentally or knocking over red wine on her white carpet. I didn't even know if she had carpet much less what color it was, but in my mind, it was a plausible scenario I wanted to avoid.

I'd stopped by the mall and talked to my favorite Sephora rep and tried to describe the gorgeous lip color Beck had worn the night we'd met, and while she couldn't tell me with a hundred percent certainty what it was, she'd sold me what appeared to be a close match. I'd debated between shades of Bare and Undressed and decided to purchase them both. If nothing else, "Lippie Lingerie" had made my evening-God, I loved makeup. My mouth rivaled that of any porn star-prior to them sucking someone off-and when I wiped my hand across it, the color didn't budge. No lip prints would be left on a wineglass or napkin...or anywhere else tonight. I grinned as I thought about my first sexual encounter with another woman. It still seemed so taboo and racy, but that might be the sambuca worming its way into my blood stream.

The second shot I took as I left the house in my dark, skinny jeans and embellished tee with pull-on ankle boots set the mood. A smile tugged on the corners of my mouth while I drove to Beck's. I couldn't believe the palatial mansion I pulled up to. I'd driven with the top down and my hair piled up on my head, and my glasses still sat on my face when I stepped out of the Camaro. A gorgeous, red Porsche 911 sat in the circular driveway, and I wasn't sure which I was more intrigued by-the car or the house. Both were stunning, but since the 911 was closest, I stopped to drool before going in.

With the neck of the wine bottle in my hand, I tilted my glasses up to my forehead and circled the car like it was my prey. The brand-new Carrera was completely tricked out with every available option including the Carmine Red premium paint job. Someone had dropped a mint on this ride. I peered into the window, making sure not to actually touch them-fingerprints would be so tacky.

"Hey. Can I help you?"

I spun around so fast my glasses fell, covering my eyes, and I just about lost my balance. I barely had time to take in the man who must own the car now standing in front of me. "Oh, um. Hi." I stuck my free hand out in front of me. "I'm Giselle."

He didn't bother to shake my hand, but he certainly stared at it like I might be carrying the bubonic plague. "Ah. My sister's date. She's inside." Short and to the point...a man of few words.

"Nice car."

"I know."

Either this guy was the biggest prick that ever lived, or he'd had a really bad day. Either way, he wasn't interested in small talk, even if it included stroking his ego. He stepped around me without so much as a pat on the ass and waited for me to move.

"I'm sorry." I dropped my hand to my side and got out of his way.

He took off like a bat out of hell, leaving tire marks on the cobblestone. I'd be pissed if I were Beck. With her brother gone, I took in all that was Beck's house. She'd indicated she worked in marketing, but I had no idea it was such a lucrative business. After the encounter with another douchebag male, I opted for one more shot before knocking on the door. I felt like a boozer one step away from rehab turning up the bottle in her driveway. Not enough that I didn't do it, but the thought crossed my mind just the same.