Opposites Attract: An Enemies to Lovers, Neighbors to Lovers Romantic Comedy

Genres: Women's Fiction; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

First law of magnetism: opposite poles attract.

Single mom Vivian has been burned by love once before, and her job as a divorce lawyer has presented enough evidence to convince her there are no good men left in New York City.

The worst offender is her new neighbor: Dr. Lucas Keller, a couple's therapist whose piercing blue eyes and flawless dark hair are just as annoying as his bad temper.

And when Lucas starts poaching Vivian's clients by saving their marriages, she makes it her mission to force him out of the building to save her practice. But it's Lucas who gives her the perfect opportunity when he proposes an unexpected bet.

With their offices at stake, Vivian and Lucas play the field of love in a fierce battle of wits that quickly turns hot and personal, especially when Vivian's daughter gets involved. Now, taking down Lucas has become more than business for Vivian. It's become a pleasure—and soon, Vivian and Lucas will realize how pointless it is to fight the laws of attraction.

A fun, neighbors to lovers romantic comedy filled with heart. Be ready to laugh and swoon. Chick Lit Post

This is Camilla Isley at her very best, it's funny, it's touching, it has threads of a tricky storyline, and the banter and chemistry between to the two leads is rather evident from the beginning and it's just a sheer pleasure to read. Rachel Random Reads

Release date: February 15, 2021

Publisher: Pink Bloom Press

Print pages: 206

Sample

Free eBook - Get your copy at your favorite retailer!

One

Lucas

 

A woman in a red coat rushes in front of me in the subway station, cutting me off at the yellow line marking the end of the platform. Chivalry prevents me from protesting aloud or asserting my right to board the train first and compels me to pause for a second to let her pass.

It’s one second too many.

The moment she steps into the subway car, the doors slide shut and the train begins to move, leaving me behind gaping like an idiot at the beautiful profile of the woman in red who stole my ride. I barely have time to take in the regular curve of her nose, heart-shaped mouth, and dark hair swept back in a bun before the train gathers speed and they both disappear into the tunnel ahead.

On the ceiling, the subway monitor informs me another train is due in ten minutes. Fingers crossed it’ll be on time; otherwise, I’m going to be late, and I can’t afford to be. I’ve spent months hunting for a new office, ever since the rent on my current space skyrocketed and I had no choice but to cancel the lease. But so far, I’ve had no luck. All the places I’ve seen were out of my budget or not to my taste—as in, they wouldn’t be to any sane human being’s taste, unless they favored dingy holes with no light, no windows, stained walls, and fifty-year-old carpet.

And the clock’s ticking—not just to get to my appointment, but to find a new place, too, as I have to move out of my office next week. In short, I have everything staked on the newly-renovated business complex I’m supposed to be visiting in less than an hour, assuming I can make it to Brooklyn Heights in time.

Luckily, the next train pulls into the station on the dot, and, with no other corner-cutters in heels before me, I hop in first and even find an empty seat.

Aha.

Now I can get to my appointment on time, and I don’t have to grab onto an overhead handle while being jostled right and left, as that red-wearing woman is surely doing right now.

Despite the unexpected setback, I reach my destination with fifteen minutes to spare; just enough time to grab a quick breakfast first. I find a Starbucks in my path that’s surprisingly not too busy, so I step in and give the female barista my standard order.

“Tall cappuccino, double espresso shot, easy on the foam. And a donut, please.”

“Right away, sir.” The young woman behind the counter smiles at me. “Could I have your name, please?”

“Lucas,” I say. “Luke is fine.”

Her smile widens. “Luke it is.” The barista rings up my order, and frowns. “I’m sorry, sir, it looks like we’re out of donuts. Could I get you anything else to eat?”

Disappointed, I take a quick look at the bakery display. “A blueberry muffin is okay, thanks.”

I pay and move to the other end of the line to wait for my drink. In my peripheral vision, I catch a flash of red and turn toward it… And why am I not surprised to see a heart-shaped mouth bite down on a mouthwatering, double-glazed donut?

What should’ve been my donut.

Looking away from both woman and pastry, I try to convince myself the muffin is going to taste just as delicious as the donut.

It won’t.

When my cappuccino is ready, I move outside, since it’s a sunny day none too cold for March in New York. I hate eating and walking, so I sit at one of the metal tables and sniff the muffin.

Mmm.

Halfway through my first bite, the woman in red leaves the coffee shop. She strolls down the street without a care in the world. Her coat flaps open as she walks, revealing a black skirt suit underneath. The skirt is so tight it forces her to take small steps, while her black stiletto heels make a click-clack sound as they hit the concrete.

That queue-jumping, donut-stealing witch. I hope I’ll never see her again.

I finish my breakfast and check my watch. Time to go.

The address Leslie—my new real estate agent, and the girlfriend of my best friend, Garrett—gave me brings me to one of those industrial rehabilitations. Before the area was gentrified, the complex must’ve been a factory now turned into lofts and offices. I take to the place at once, liking that history dwells within these walls and that the building isn’t a brand-new high-rise with no soul.

In the entry hall, I check in at the reception and they direct me to take the elevator to the third floor. The elevator is another surprise. Whoever remodeled this lot has an impeccable sense of style and kept the old freight machine instead of opting for a new, shiny metal box that would’ve clashed with the retro, historical vibe of the structure. The interior has been refurbished to transport people with a polished casing, while the metal frame has a distressed paint effect easily recognizable as a design choice rather than spontaneous wear and tear. Admittedly, the journey to the top is on the slower side, but, hey, one can’t have everything.

Once the elevator stops, I step out on the small landing facing three doors. On my left, a double set of industrial metal and glass doors is half-open. Behind its panes, white desks equipped with monitors fill the space. The office seems already running and busy. A bronze plate informs me these are the headquarters of Inceptor Magazine. Never heard of it. Must be some kind of hip startup, judging from how young and trendy its working force looks.

In front of me, there’s a closed wooden door—less glamorous than the glass one but more practical, perhaps. And, on the left, Leslie is coming out of a similar, regular wooden door.

“Lucas.” Her bright smile falters as she spots me, and my heart sinks with a surefire realization: I’m too late. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “But I’ve just rented out the office I wanted to show you.”

My shoulders sag, and because I must be a masochist, I glance beyond the wide-open door to get a peek at the space I’m sure would’ve been perfect.

Instead, I catch sight of a woman in a red coat bent over the single piece of furniture in the room—a white desk—as she signs the lease to my dream office.

Oh, hell no!

I barge in. “Not you again,” I say.

The woman jolts and straightens up. She turns to me, holding the papers in one hand and the pen in the other.

Big brown eyes set on me with a glint of curiosity. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Do we know each other?”

“No, but you cut in front of me on the subway this morning, making me miss the train. Then you ate the last donut at Starbucks. And now you’re stealing my dream office.”

The woman in red doesn’t so much as blink. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. But I know that as of a minute ago, I’m officially leasing this space, which means you’re trespassing on private property.” She calmly replaces the cap to the pen and drops it on the table, brandishing her papers at me. “So, I suggest you show yourself out before I call the police.”

My mouth gapes open. It takes all my self-control not to utter any of the many rude retorts streaming through my mind.

The woman walks up to me and stops, adding, “If I could make a suggestion, though, screaming at strangers isn’t a super healthy way to cope with your frustrations. Maybe you should see a therapist about anger management.”

I glare at her. “I am a therapist!”

“Really?” She scoffs. “I presume you don’t help people deal with self-control, though.”

“I’m a couples’ therapist for your information.”

“Well, I hope this is not how you treat your clients.”

With one last haughty stare, she exits the office and entrusts the signed lease to Leslie, who stashes it away into the black leather folder she’s holding in her arms.

Then, to my utter surprise, they hug.

“Thank you, Lee,” the woman in red says. “This space will be perfect for my law practice.”

“Glad I could help.” Leslie smiles, and hands her evil client a set of keys. “These are officially yours.”

Sporting a smug smile, the donut thief walks back to the door and pointedly stares me down. I’m still in her office; I’ve been petrified in here ever since Medusa put her eyes on me. I let out one last, defeated scoff and storm out of her precious private property. She locks the door, gives Leslie another quick side hug, saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then she’s gone.

The moment the elevator disappears, I ask, “You know that witch?”

“Hey,” Leslie says. “Vivian is one of my best friends.”

Vivian. So, the Gorgon has a name. “What kind of law does she practice?”

“She’s a divorce attorney.”

A Marriage Terminator, why doesn’t that surprise me?

“I’m sorry she snatched up the corner office,” Leslie continues. “But I’m sure we can find you another place.”

“Leslie, please tell me you have something decent to show me today, right now. I only have a week left to move.”

I’ve only recently switched to Leslie as a real estate agent, since my old agency could not deliver, and it isn’t fair to put so much pressure on her, but I’m desperate.

“As it happens”—Leslie shifts the black leather folder to a one-arm hold, and uses her free hand to fish a fresh set of keys out of her bag—“the office next door is still available. But you should know all the lots in this building are going fast.”

She unlocks the middle door. “Not a corner office like you wanted, but it’s spacious and bright.”

I follow her inside and assess the space. Not bad. The back wall is made of windows, in the same distressed metal and glass theme I’ve seen around the entire building, and light pours in, leaving no dark corners. Still, compared to the office next door, this is a poor facsimile.

I close my eyes to remove from my mind any memory of the adjoining space. Instead, I concentrate on all the sad hovels I’ve visited in these past few months. When put into perspective, it’s a no brainer.

“I’ll take it,” I say to Leslie.

“Really? Wonderful! Sign the papers, and the lease is yours. You can move in right away. And, good news—the rent is lower for this office.”

I would’ve gladly forked over the extra bucks for the corner office, but let’s concentrate on the positives. Except for the questionable neighbor, this place is perfect.

Two

Vivian

 

Freight elevator. I’m not a fan of this feature of my new office building. Slow, lumbering… But at least they’re spacious enough that Tegan and I can move all my stuff upstairs in one journey. Hiring a moving company would’ve been easier, but those are expensive, and I have a specific storing system. I couldn’t risk them messing up my files. So, elbow grease it is.

“Mom,” Tegan wines as she hauls one of the last boxes into the elevator. “You promised today would be fun.”

“We’re almost done, honey,” I say. “And then we can go get ice cream like we do every Saturday.”

She drops the box to the elevator floor, still with the long face. “I’m not five anymore, you know?”

Don’t I? At fifteen, my daughter is in that weird phase of life where she’s not yet a woman but is no longer a kid. But to me, she’ll always be my baby. And we’re going to keep the tradition of Saturday morning ice creams alive for as long as she’ll allow it—even under protest.

“Wait here,” I say, heading for the front doors that lead out to the street. “And make sure the elevator stays put.”

Before exiting, I pause, checking behind my shoulder to see if Tegan has blocked the doors like I asked. And there she is, leaning against the doorframe in her faded jeans, white sneakers, and a flannel shirt. Dark-blonde hair loose on her shoulders, arms crossed over her chest, and a slight frown complete the teenage-fantastic look.

I tear my eyes from my sulky daughter and quickly cross the street to where I’ve parked the small truck we rented for the big move today. But instead of one, I find two identical trucks parked next to each other. I’m not even sure which one is mine, until I spot the driver still behind the wheel of the truck on the left. The man is tall, even sitting down, with a distinctive mop of curly dark hair, blazing blue eyes, and a chiseled face that’d be hard to forget. He’s the crazy guy who barged into my new office two days ago, a minute after I’d signed the lease, accusing me of everything that ever went wrong with his life.

What is he doing here?

Keeping to the side opposite of him, I close the distance to my van. Let’s hope he won’t spot me so I can dodge another unpleasant exchange. Also, I don’t want him to see me in jeans, sneakers, and an old sweater. When I go into battle, I prefer to wear my lawyer armor, and for my shoes to be spikey. Especially because the fool must’ve decided it’d be a good idea to move offices while wearing another impeccably tailored suit—navy blue like the one he had on the other day. Rude and impractical. What an idiot.

Luck isn’t on my side, though.

The moment I unlock the rental vehicle and its lights blink to life, the man rolls down his window and yells, “Hi, hello, sorry to bother you, but I’m stuck. I can’t open the door enough to get out. Could you please move your truck to the left a little? You have space.”

I pick up the last box from the rear of the van and circle back to the front, this time walking directly into his line of sight. “Sorry,” I say, watching with gusto as his blue eyes widen in recognition. “But I have an elevator full of boxes and I can’t keep it busy all morning.”

A flash of challenge blazes across his eyes, but it quickly disappears. He must have realized he can’t yell at me again and expect me to do him a favor. Time to eat some humble pie, Mr. Stuck.

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in one dismayed swallow.

Ah, bet that pill tasted bitter.

True to expectations, his voice is polite-verging-on-pleading as he speaks next. “Please, it’d only take you a minute to move the truck.”

“Sorry,” I repeat, using my most civil tone. “I can’t help you. But I’m sure you can find another parking spot somewhere.”

I turn on my heel and stroll back into the building, not sparing the man a second glance. Guess he should’ve thought about paying it forward with kindness before he started asking for favors. What goes around always comes around, buddy.

“What took you so long?” Tegan accuses the moment I drop the last box on top of all the others.

“Nothing, honey, we’re good to go,” I say, pushing the button to the third floor.

The ride takes forever, and when the doors finally open, I place a big box in the middle to keep them from closing. Without wasting time, Tegan and I begin hauling boxes out of the elevator and into my new office. I only need to move everything inside today; I’ll come back tomorrow alone to sort and organize. I’ll also have to put together the new furniture, which came in suspiciously tiny packages that promise an assembling hell.

We’re halfway through the moving when an Indian woman clad in all black—jeans, sweatshirt, beanie—with combat boots to match comes up the stairs, panting. She can’t be much older than Tegan; twenty-three to twenty-five, tops, would be my guess.

“Oh, that’s why the elevator isn’t working,” she says.

“Hi, sorry,” I reply. “I’m trying to make it as quick a job as possible.”

See? I’m already disrupting the building’s services as it is. I couldn’t have possibly kept the elevator locked any longer to move the truck.

And why am I still thinking about that man and his problems?

I’m not. He couldn’t be further from my thoughts.

“You must be our new neighbor,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m Indira. Nice to meet you.”

I shake her hand. “Vivian Hessington. Nice to meet you, too. This is my daughter, Tegan.”

Tegan gives Indira that cool, indifferent nod that all teenagers seem to have perfected.

“You gals need help?” Indira offers.

“No, thank you, I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble at all,” Indira assures me. “I only came in on a Saturday because I forgot my phone charger last night. I’ll grab it real quick and be back in a sec,” she adds, and then disappears through the wide metal and glass doors opposite to my office.

Two minutes later, she joins Tegan and me in moving boxes, chairs, and filing cabinets.

“Seems like today is the official move-in day for half the building, uh?” Indira says between runs.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Another guy down in the lobby is hauling in a bunch of boxes. He was waiting for the elevator, too, I think.”

My heart sinks. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that horrible man must’ve rented a space in this building. All the dots line up. That basket case wanted my office, and Lee is his real estate agent. Plus, what else would he be doing here with an ill-parked moving truck?

I eye the middle door suspiciously. Let’s hope he’s at least on another floor.

I’ve just carried the last box out of the elevator when my unspoken wish is crushed, as Mr. Impractical comes up the stairs with a carton box in his hands. Our eyes meet across the landing, and he gives me the stare of death. I glare right back at him, waiting until he drops his gaze.

Men, I’ve found, can be a lot like wolves; you have to show them who the alpha is right away.

Mr. Blue Eyes struggles to get his keys out of his pants pocket while holding the box in his hands, until after a few long seconds, he comes to the obvious conclusion that he should drop the box first, and then open the door. He’s finally turning the key in the lock when Tegan shuffles out of my new office, calling, “Are we done yet, Mom?”

The man’s hand stops mid-motion, and I witness the usual reaction take place on his face as he turns to me. His eyes and mouth widen in surprise at finding out I have a teenage daughter, and then a small frown appears as he no doubt starts making calculations.

She must’ve been barely eighteen when she had her, I can practically hear him thinking.

Nineteen, for your information, I silently snap inside my head.

To his credit, he’s quicker than most to hide the shock and compose his features back to normal.

Indira comes out of my new office next, defusing whatever unspoken tension has passed between me and that man. “You’re on this floor, too!” she says to him with a wide smile. “We’re finally a complete family. Great, we were getting lonely all by ourselves here on third.” She points at her office.

The man finishes unlocking his door and then moves closer to us, offering his hand to Indira.

“Dr. Lucas Keller,” he says.

What a tame name for someone with such a bad temper.

They shake hands, and he does the same with Tegan next. When my turn comes, he pointedly drops the friendly hand to his side.

Both Indira and Tegan stare at us questioningly, so I explain, “We’ve met already.”

Lucas nods, acknowledging our mutual dislike once again with the downturn of his mouth.

“I’d better get a move on.” He waves politely at the other two and goes back to his box, bending ninety degrees to pick it up and regaling the three of us with a view of white men’s boxer shorts peeking through a tear in the backside of his pants.

Indira is the quickest to recover. “Hey, Luke, not sure if you know, but you’ve ripped your pants. We can see the whole jolly family from over here.”

Lucas’ first reaction is to stand up abruptly and ridiculously turn in half circles while trying to catch sight of his bum and failing miserably. The next step, however, is to glare at me.

Oh, I’d like to see how he’s going to blame this on me.

Lucas promptly explains, “I must’ve ripped them while exiting my van through the window because someone refused to move her truck and let me get out the normal way.”

All sugar and sweetness, I say, “Perhaps you ought to learn how to park before you rent a truck.” I give his preposterous suit a quick once-over. “Or wear more practical clothes when engaging in manual labor.”

Dr. Keller just stands there gaping at me, rage simmering in those strikingly blue eyes.

“Come on, Tegan,” I quickly add, before this can turn into another heated argument. “Let’s go get that ice cream.”

I lock my door and call for the elevator that has wandered to some other floor in the meantime. Tegan and Indira wait by my side.

“It was nice to meet you,” Lucas says, addressing his remark to them, and then disappears inside his hole.

Why, of all the possible office neighbors, did I have to end up next to a grumpy ogre? By the time I come into work on Monday, he’ll probably have riddled the landing with wooden “Stay Out” and “Beware Ogre” signs like Shrek. I imagine his face all green and laugh to myself as I enter the elevator and push the ground floor button. Lucas Keller might look nothing like an ogre, but he sure behaves like one. Maybe he’s a reverse Shrek: handsome on the outside and ugly on the inside.

“The new neighbor is pretty easy on the eyes,” Indira comments.

Ah, she’s noticed. Good thing I’ve had an early show of his awful personality and can’t be fooled by the handsome face.

I shrug at the comment, indifferent.

But Indira insists, “Maybe a bit too old for me; I steer clear of anyone above thirty.” And she eyes me suggestively.

How did she guess I’m single? Is it written on my forehead in big letters?

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” I say.

Especially not with entitled egomaniacs, I add in my head. But there’s no need to share my opinion on the man in question, since Indira has already ruled him out due to old age.

Aha. Bite the bullet, Mr. Ripped Pants.

Three

Lucas

 

Monday morning, I’m all settled into my new office and have opened up shop. This office, besides being more affordable, is also smaller than my previous one. But since my beloved secretary, Agatha, retired, I’ve switched to a virtual assistant, saving money and space. Like most New Yorkers, I’ve had to cut square footage down to the bones. It’s the philosophy of this entire building, with a shared concierge and communal waiting area on the ground floor.

My first clients are the Newmans, a couple in their late thirties who I’m meeting for the first time. From how they’ve been talking to each other so far, I’ll be seeing a lot more of them in the upcoming weeks.

“You know, Doctor,” Mr. Newman says, “that women on average use three times as many words as men.”

“We shouldn’t make this a battle about gender,” I say, as Mrs. Newman rolls her eyes and retorts, “That’s because we have to constantly repeat ourselves!”

“Oh, sorry,” Mr. Newman snaps, “it must be my brain filtering you out in a valiant attempt to protect me from your yapping orders all day long.” He mimics the blah-blah-blah hand gesture. “Yap, yap, yap.”

“How? You’re never around,” Mrs. Newman seethes, then turns to me. “You know what he does, Doctor? He pretends he has to work late every night, but I know he’s lying. He can’t be having a crisis every single day, it doesn’t make sense. Unless he’s having an affair, of course. Last week, I called his secretary, and she said he’d left already, but he didn’t come home until two hours later. No traffic is that bad.”

Mr. Newman completely disregards the accusation and stares at me with a satisfied grin. “See, Dr. Keller, I won this one.” He makes the hand gesture again. “Yap, yap, yap… It never ends.”

I take a deep breath. “Mr. Newman, this isn’t about winning. You and your wife are on the same team. If she loses, you lose, too. Part of counseling is to go back to a win-win mentality. But before we can do that, we need to re-establish trust. Mr. Newman, please respond truthfully: Are you having an affair?”

The husband scoffs, clearly offended. “No.”

I sigh in relief. Without a third person involved, my job will be a lot easier.

“Okay,” I say. “Are you pretending to work late to avoid being at home?”

He hesitates.

“Please be honest,” I encourage. “This is a safe space to share.”

He nods. “Yes.”

His wife turns on him, mouth gaping open, ready to attack, but I silence her with a raised hand.

“Thank you for being forthright, Mr. Newman. Now we finally have a starting point. Could you please explain to us, in your own words, why you don’t want to spend time at home?”

Mr. Newman shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Whenever I’m in the house, I’m either treated like the handyman or an unwanted guest. We never talk about anything interesting anymore. I wouldn’t even know why she’d want me home.”

“Why would you feel like an unwanted guest?” Mrs. Newman asks.

“You’re always busy running after the kids, and never pay me any attention—”

“That’s not true—”

“All right,” I say. “Let’s put a pin in the discussion. The issue is clear, and the good news is, it’s fixable. To start, I want you both to think about an activity you enjoyed doing together when you first met.”

The troubled couple considers my request for a few moments, until Mrs. Newman says, “Art. We could spend hours talking about an exhibition when we were in college.”

“Art, great.” I smile. “That’s fantastic. Starting this week, I want you to institute an artistic date night. Visit the Met, pick a floor, a time period, and go to dinner afterward. Just the two of you, phones off.”

“What if something happens to the kids?” Mrs. Newman asks.

“If you prefer not to turn off your phone, then put it on ‘do not disturb.’ Set your home number or the babysitter’s as the only calls that can get through.”

“I can do that?” Mrs. Newman mustn’t be very techy. “How?”

“I can show you,” I offer.

“No need, Doctor, I can teach her later,” her husband says. Look at them—already working together, and they haven’t even left my office yet.

“Great,” I say, and peek at the clock mounted on the wall behind the Newmans. “I’m afraid our time has run out.”

We all stand up, and I escort them to the door.

At the landing, I stop on the threshold while they call the elevator.

“Art date night,” I repeat. “Let’s try it out, and next week we can discuss how it went.”

We say our goodbyes, and I go back to my desk to write a few notes while the session is still fresh in my mind.

But I haven’t sat down for five minutes when a riot starts outside.

“Diana! DIANA!” a man is shouting. “Let me see her!”

I get up again and poke my head out on the landing to find a bald guy with a flourishing mustache, dressed in a tweed suit, knocking desperately on the corner office’s door.

“Excuse me,” I say. “What is all this racket?”

The man points at the door. “She’s forbidding me to see my wife.”

As if he’d used the magic summoning words, the door flies open and The Wicked Witch of the West Office emerges in the flesh. “I’m not preventing anyone from doing anything, Mr. Cavendish,” she says coldly. “Your wife doesn’t want to see you.”

Ms. Vivian Hessington, Esquire, is back to wearing a skirt suit—burgundy today, pencil skirt as tight as ever—high heels, and that severe bun on top of her head; must be her lawyer uniform. I preferred her in the casual clothes of the weekend—correction, I don’t prefer her in any guise, because she’s the most aggravating woman in the world.

“Of course,” I scoff. I should’ve known she was responsible for the commotion.

Medusa turns the stare of death on me. “Found good parking today?” She doesn’t leave me time to reply before she returns her attention to the poor bastard she’s torturing. “Mr. Cavendish, it is useless to bring reinforcements.” She pointedly stares at me. “The cavalry won’t help you.”

“No, listen.” I raise my hands. “I’m not involved. I was trying to work in my office when this pandemonium started.”

She ignores my comment and crosses her arms on her chest. “Mr. Cavendish, unless you want me to ask for a restraining order, I suggest you leave.”

“A restraining order? But for what? I just want to talk to my wife. Diana, Diana, I’m sorry. I love you.”

From somewhere inside the corner office, his wife mumbles, “He sounds sincere.”

The witch’s nostrils flare. “He only wants to pay less alimony, trust me, Mrs. Cavendish.”

“No,” the man insists. “I don’t want to pay any alimony, because I don’t want a divorce.”

Mr. Cavendish really does sound sincere, so, despite my better judgment, I get involved. “Let them talk,” I suggest. “If there’s a chance they could resolve their issues, why prevent it?”

Medusa crosses the hall to the elevator and pushes the call button. “There’s no chance,” she says. “Mrs. Cavendish has decided.”

Once the machine arrives, she opens the metal grate door, showing the poor man the inside. “Now, I suggest you leave, Mr. Cavendish, this is private property. Unless you want me to add stalking to the list of grounds for the proceedings.”

The dejected husband is ready to give up, when I once again intervene. “No need to leave, Mr. Cavendish. You’re my guest, you’re not trespassing.”

He falters on the elevator doorstep.

“Get in,” the witch orders, “or I’ll have no choice but to call the police.”

So it isn’t just me; Medusa likes to terrorize everyone. To hell with the police and the private property. This is now equally about helping Mr. Cavendish and sticking it to Miss High-And-Mighty.

The threat, however, is enough to scare the poor bastard for good, and he gets into the elevator. And since I’m already too invested in the drama, I follow him inside. “Mr. Cavendish, why don’t you come to my office and explain the situation to me, and we can see if we might find a solution.”

While I’m distracted with talking, the witch reaches inside and pushes the Lobby button. Medusa pulls the grate door closed, setting the elevator in motion.

I glare at her, and she gives me a one-handed goodbye wave, smirking with satisfaction as we disappear into the bowels of the building.

There’s no way I’m giving up that easily. I push the stop button. The freight machine bumps to a halt between floors. I push the third-floor button, but nothing happens. Uh oh.

Mr. Cavendish’s breath turns ragged as he asks, “It isn’t working?”

He looks pale and sweaty and is rolling a finger inside the collar of his dress-shirt as if to loosen it.

“Are you claustrophobic, Mr. Cavendish?”

“Yes. No. A little.”

***

Mr. Cavendish ends up being carried away on a stretcher forty-five minutes later, still in the throes of a claustrophobia-induced panic attack. After the elevator stopped, I had to call the building superintendent to come free us, and it took a while.

The paramedics carry Mr. Cavendish into an ambulance and perform a few basic checks. Meanwhile, I sag on a bench outside the building, tilt my face up to the sun, and close my eyes for a second.

A click to my right makes me blink and turn toward the source of the noise. The teenage daughter of the Wicked Witch of the West Office has sat down beside me and is holding a pale pink Polaroid camera in her hands.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey,” she says back, and, jerking her chin toward the now-departing ambulance, she asks, “Did Mom do that?”

“Why? People often leave her office on a stretcher?”

The daughter flashes me a wide, wicked-but-candid grin that I could imagine mirrored on her mother’s face if the woman ever smiled.

“Only the male kind,” she says.

I shake my head and smile back. “You don’t seem as prejudiced against my gender. Tegan, is it?”

She nods, then shrugs. “I’d better go. We’re supposed to have lunch together, and I don’t want to be late or Mom will go ballistic.”

That gives me pause. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Today’s a half-day. The teachers hold this meeting once a year on how to be better at their jobs.”

“That sounds like a great initiative.”

“It sucks. The great project usually adds up to two weeks full of stupid, newfangled teaching methods that don’t work and will be dropped in no time. But, hey, I got to skip Calculus, so I’m not complaining.”

“Really?” I laugh. “What was the weirdest thing they made you do?”

Tegan’s lips curl up. “Last year, Mrs. Robison decided we should all cosplay Shakespeare to get us more involved… But, like, not just in class. In real life. Bunch of teenagers walking around dressed in 15th century clothes… Didn’t last long, let me tell you.” She shrugs and stands up. “I gotta go now.”

“I’ll walk in with you,” I say, getting up from the bench. Can’t buy lunch if I don’t have my wallet, which I inconveniently left on my desk upstairs.

In the lobby, I eye the elevator suspiciously. After spending nearly an hour locked in that cage, I’m not keen on repeating the experience. No matter how “fixed” the superintendent claims the elevator now is.

So, with a friendly nod, I leave Tegan in front of the grate doors, saying, “I’ll take the stairs.”

She waves goodbye, showing more friendliness in her pinkie than the sum of her mother’s entire being.

In my office, I find my laptop still open on my session notes. Right. In all the excitement, I’d nearly forgotten about the Newmans. I’d better finish the notes before I take my lunch break.

Unfortunately, as I sit at the desk, my brain refuses to concentrate on the Newmans. It keeps going back to the woman next door and her daughter.

Tegan must be fifteen or sixteen—which, unless her mother has an excellent plastic surgeon, means Medusa must’ve had her when she was a teen. Eighteen, nineteen at max.

I wonder if there’s a father in the picture. From the brief interaction I witnessed on Saturday, their dynamic spoke of a consolidated duo. I’d bet my right hand there’s no dad. Why? What happened? Is that why Miss Attorney has such a bone to pick with men?

My phone rings, interrupting my musings. It’s Garrett, my best friend.

“Hey, buddy, what’s up?” I ask.

“Luke, I did it! I asked Leslie to marry me last night. We’re engaged!”

“Whoa, man, congratulations!”

“Thanks, dude, it was a long time coming. And you were right, it was stupid to be scared. Leslie is my best friend and I’m lucky to have her.”

Garrett has been hinting he might propose for months now, but I thought he was still too terrified of commitment to actually pop the question. Apparently not.

“Want to grab a beer tonight, celebrate?” I ask.

“Yeah, man. But we’re also hosting an informal engagement party Saturday night at our house. You’re coming, right?”

“Sure, what time?”

“Six. Sorry, Luke, gotta bounce, lot of calls to make. Catch you later at the Full Shilling?” he asks, naming our favorite pub for after-work drinks. “Usual time?”

“Perfect, later, man,” I say, and hang up.

Garrett is like a brother to me, and I’m thrilled his relationship with Leslie has hit such an important milestone. Still, I can’t help feeling a little wistful, and my mind inevitably drifts to Brenda. My ex-girlfriend of two years, who was offered a promotion in Chicago six months ago and didn’t even bother to ask me if I’d consider moving before she packed up and left. New job, new life, new boyfriend, probably.

It was a blow, not gonna lie. I pride myself on being good at reading people, and always preach to my clients to be attentive to their partners’ feelings. With Brenda, I failed on both counts. I was blind to what was going on in my backyard. Which has led to another instance of me not practicing what I preach. I haven’t been on a date ever since Brenda left me. I’ve refused all subtle and not-so-subtle offers from my parents—mostly Mom, admittedly—and friends to set me up with that perfect relative/friend/vague acquaintance they just knew I’d hit it off with. Online dating isn’t for me, too prosaic. And I haven’t met anyone the old-fashioned way. But Garrett’s announcement has stirred a dormant longing. Life is short. I shouldn’t waste it pining after someone who tossed me aside with no regrets. Time to move on. Yeah, I might be ready to jump back on the proverbial horse.

Right, next time someone offers to set me up on a date, I vow to keep an open mind.

Four

Vivian

 

What an awful first day at the new office. This morning, that Cavendish mess. Then, in court, the hearing before mine dragged on forever, bungling my afternoon schedule and forcing me to pull long hours to get everything on track for tomorrow.

As a result, I get home super late and well past dinnertime. The house is silent, meaning Tegan must be in her room with her headphones on. Before saying hello to my daughter, I hop into the bathroom real quick to change into more relaxing clothes.

In front of the mirror, I let loose my hair from the tight bun I keep it in while at work and massage my scalp with my fingers. After a day wrapped up so tightly, it’s a mess. I drop the pins and donut styler in the drawer under the sink and comb through the rat’s nest with a brush. Unable to resist, I check the tips and pull off a few split ends. I should probably stop abusing my hair like this, but I’ve been in the Mom Bun Club since Tegan was born, and now I’m addicted to not having to deal with hair in my face or, heaven forbid, actually have to style my locks. The curling iron at the bottom of the drawer stares up at me accusingly. I haven’t used it in—how long? I couldn’t say, but the thin layer of dust covering the handle is a clear hint it’s been too long.

I drop my burgundy suit and cream blouse in the dry-cleaning laundry basket and move to my bedroom to change into a pair of leggings, an oversized sweater, and comfy socks.

Once I’m settled in my cozy gear, I knock on Tegan’s door.

There’s no answer.

And, okay, moms aren’t ever supposed to—under no circumstances—enter their teenagers’ sacred bedrooms without the occupant’s express permission, a warrant, or at least probable cause. But Tegan is a sweet kid, and she’s probably just listening to music too loud to hear me. So, I do the unthinkable and turn the knob.

True to expectations, my daughter is on her bed, laptop on her legs, giant headphones covering her ears while she bounces her head up and down in rhythm to a tune. Our cat, Priscilla, is nestled between the pillows of Tegan’s queen bed where she knows she shouldn’t sleep. The covers are fair game, but the pillow area is forbidden, which, in our cat’s mind, must be exactly the appeal.

I sit at the foot of the bed, causing Tegan’s head to snap up and her eyes to go wide as she shuts the laptop at the speed of light.

What was she doing?

Unfortunately, I know the rules and am not allowed to ask. I sigh inwardly, missing the days when she was little and her biggest life’s goal was to spend as much time in my arms as she could. But, alas, those times are gone. Let’s focus on the present.

“Hi, honey.”

She removes the headphones, nestling them around her neck. “Hey, Mom.”

As expected, her tone isn’t angry. Tegan doesn’t begrudge me the intrusion. And other than shutting her laptop, she welcomes me with a warm smile.

“Did you have dinner already?” I ask.

“Yeah, I ordered pizza. I left you some.”

I want to say eating fast-food every night isn’t a smart choice, but what right do I have when I wasn’t home to make her a healthier meal? The usual inner battle between providing the best financial support for my kid—ensuring Tegan has a solid college fund and can choose whatever school she wants—and the need to be more present in her life rages in my chest. Unfortunately, becoming a parent didn’t happen with an instruction manual on what to prioritize.

At least Tegan had a half-day today, and we had a healthy lunch at the salad bar near my new office. If nothing else, she ate some of her vegetables. And for tomorrow night, I’ll make the dinner order myself—sushi, or a noodle soup.

And to be honest, I could use leftover pizza right now.

I ask my next standard-issue, end-of-day question. “How was the rest of your day?” And prepare myself for the equally standard non-answer.

It promptly arrives. “Great.”

“Did you do anything fun?” I prod.

Tegan shrugs. “Just homework and practice.”

She plays varsity volleyball.

When it’s clear I’m not getting any further information out of her unless I switch into interrogation mode, I smile and lean down to kiss the side of her head. “Okay, honey. I’m going to eat and watch some TV. I’ll be in the living room if you want to hang out.” She probably won’t, but I always extend the offer, just in case.

Half a pizza later, I settle on the couch ready for a good movie. I grab the remote and am about to turn on the TV when my phone rings.

“Lee! Hey.”

“Hi! How’s the new office treating you?”

“It’s perfect. Thank you again for setting me up. I couldn’t have wished for anything better.” Ogre neighbor excluded, my brain adds. “What’s going on with you? How was your weekend?”

A long, happy sigh comes through the line.

“Garrett proposed last night,” Leslie says, and my stomach drops.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” I say, trying to infuse enthusiasm in my tone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for Leslie—but, lately, everyone around me is dropping off the single list right and left. In my twenties, it was okay to be on my own. I had as many unattached friends as I wanted. But now that I’m approaching thirty-five, that is no longer the case. I can count the people I know who aren’t married or engaged on the fingers of one hand. Leslie is the perfect example: we met four years ago at a Pilates class, both single, and now she’s engaged.

After years of practice, I’m trained on all the questions I should ask next, so I fire them all at once. “Were you expecting it? How did Garrett ask? Send me a picture of the ring.”

“Wait a second.” Scuffling noises replace Leslie’s voice, no doubt as she lowers the phone to forward me the perfect ring shot she must’ve already sent to all the people she called with the happy announcement.

A second later, my phone chimes with an incoming text. I stare, mesmerized, at a close up of Leslie’s hand with the Manhattan skyline in the background. On her ring finger shines a majestic pear cut diamond—over one carat, of the purest quality—that must’ve cost Garrett a small fortune.

For someone who gave up dating a long time ago, I’m becoming quite the expert on engagement rings.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. No need to infuse fake admiration in my voice—it’s gorgeous. “How did he ask?”

“Oh, he completely blindsided me. We were going on our usual run Sunday night. Garrett timed it so we’d reach Brooklyn Bridge Park at sunset, and then pretended he had to stop to tie his shoe. He dropped to one knee, pulled out the ring, and popped the question.” Leslie chuckles. “I should’ve been suspicious; he sent me to a manicure appointment Saturday I couldn’t remember booking.”

A sneak manicure. A small thing compared to a proposal. But Garrett knows how much Leslie cares about her Instagram, and he made sure she could take the perfect engagement photo with perfectly lacquered nails. Gosh, what it must be like to have someone care for and love you that much.

My chest tightens.

Hoping my voice isn’t too strained, I say, “I’m so happy for you, Lee. Have you already picked a date?”

“We’re thinking of summer next year. That should give me enough time to plan for everything.”

That’s when the jealous, cynic, scorned woman in me takes over for a second. “Don’t forget to come to me for a prenup first.”

“Sheesh, Vivi, romantic much?”

I rein in my inner bitter bitch and hastily apologize. “Sorry. It’s just the lawyer in me talking. You know I can’t help it. I’m sure you and Garrett won’t need a prenup.”

Leslie lets out a nervous laugh. “I hope not.”

An awkward silence follows, so I break the tension by asking a silly question. “Have you already bought all the bridal magazines on Earth?”

“Not yet.” I can hear the easy smile return in Leslie’s voice. “But I might have abused Pinterest a little.”

“Oh, gosh, that must’ve been quite the rabbit hole.”

“Yep, I have to delete the app from my phone, it’s a drug. Uh, listen, anyway, Garrett and I are hosting an informal engagement party Saturday night at our house. Are you free?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Great, I’ll text you the details.”

We hang up, and I stare around the living room for a few seconds, at a loss for words. A familiar lump in my throat is lodged in place, no matter how many times I try to swallow it away.

How did I end up here? In my mid-thirties, with no love life to speak of, and no prospect of a relationship. I’m a romantic at heart, but fifteen years of bad relationships have kept telling me I’m wrong. First, with what happened with Tegan’s father. Then, with all the gruesome love-turned-to-bitter-resentment I witness daily in my job. And, finally, with a good chunk of the men in New York not interested in dating a single mom. But when did I stop trying? I can’t even remember the last date I went on. Still, stories like Leslie’s make me hope love is possible, even in this chaotic world.

Not if you don’t put yourself out there, a voice admonishes in my head.

Garrett didn’t just fly into Leslie’s lap; she actively pursued a relationship.

Right, they met through a dating agency. I always thought that having an algorithm choose my life’s partner wouldn’t be romantic, but…

I pull up Leslie’s engagement ring photo again. What’s not romantic about this? Nothing, it’s perfect. What does it matter how they met? Zilch. Nada. Maybe I should ask Leslie the name of the agency… An irrational fear makes me shudder at the mere suggestion. One day… We’ll see.

I grab the remote and turn on the TV, shuffling channels until the screen shows Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze making pottery. I drop the remote on the coffee table and wrap myself in a blanket. A Ghost re-run is just the heartbreaking kind of movie I need tonight.

Tegan finds me a while later, unabashedly crying to the notes of Unchained Melody.

“Ghost, Mom?”

I look up at her, wiping a few tears off my cheeks. “I couldn’t resist.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “We need ice cream for this. Vanilla, or the heavy stuff?”

Our eyes lock, and we nod, saying in unison, “The heavy stuff.”

When she comes back from the kitchen with two bowls of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, I lift the blanket and pat the empty spot on the couch next to me. Tegan scoots right in, snuggling close to me under the blanket, filling my heart with love. Five seconds later, Priscilla joins us, curling up between us. I scratch the cat behind the ears, and she begins to purr.

Who said I need a man? Maybe my daughter and our cat are enough.

Said the sad lady who cries watching decades-old romantic fantasy thrillers.

***

 

Wednesday morning, at the office, I drum my fingers on the desk anxiously. I hate it when a client is late. My calendar is precise, scheduled, organized down to the minute. And, no, I’m aware not everyone is as punctual or efficient as I am, so I always keep a half hour buffer between appointments. But Mrs. Thomas is now officially forty-five minutes late. I sure hope she won’t show up now, expecting me to still receive her.

Well, her separation papers are ready to go; all that’s missing is her signature. I’ll FedEx them to her, and she can have them delivered back to me. Couriers, at least, are reliable.

I search for her number in her file and call her.

After the line rings forever, I’m connected to her voicemail.

“This is Mary. I can’t pick up the phone right now. Please leave a message and I’ll call you right back.”

Right back in her vocabulary, as I soon discover, means “Whenever I get around to it.” Three days later, on a sunny Friday afternoon, she still hasn’t returned my call. Honestly, I’m getting a little worried. Considering how much in a hurry she was to get divorced, you’d think she wouldn’t ignore my calls unless she was in trouble or something.

I’m downtown shopping for Garrett and Leslie’s engagement present for the party tomorrow night when, what do you know, I spot Mary Thomas herself coming out of Eataly, a fancy food store that sells Italian specialties. She has a man on her arm, and they’re looking into each other’s eyes like two lost love birds. I smile to myself, worries vanishing into the wind. She’s not in trouble—she’s met someone! In the excitement of her new relationship, she must’ve forgotten our appointment, or to return my message. Love does that to people.

I watch as he feeds her a spoonful of gelato from his cup.

Yep, definitely two turtle doves.

I hate to crash her date, but if Mrs. Thomas wants to start a new life with that nice man, she’d better put her soon to be ex-husband well and forever in her past.

And I can help her turn that page for good. No matter how unpleasant the task, or how taken by her new relationship she might be, she’ll thank me in the end. And since she won’t return my calls or show up for her appointments, it seems the only way I can finalize her divorce is to remind her about the missing signature right now, when I have access to her.

I cross the street over to their side, calling, “Mrs. Thomas!”

Mary looks at me and pales. Wait, is she trying to avoid me? Yep, she’s steering her companion away, pretending she hasn’t seen me. Why? Is it because I know she’s still technically married, and she’s ashamed of being with someone new before the divorce papers are finalized?

I’m not one to be discouraged easily, so I run after her, still calling, “Mrs. Thomas! Mary Thomas!”

Mary tries to keep going, but the man tugs at her arm, slowing her down so I can catch up with them. As I approach, I hear him saying, “What’s wrong? You look so pale.”

“I’m fine, I just—” Mary cuts herself off as I reach their side. “Hello,” she says warily.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Thomas,” I say. “I expected you at my office on Wednesday. Did something happen? I left you a message but never heard from you.”

“Oh, right.” She’s still looking at me with that deer-caught-in-the-headlights scared look, her smile tense. “I should’ve called you, but this week has been crazy. My dad fell and broke his hip, and my dog got food poisoning.”

Even if she’s telling the truth, these are nothing but excuses. It takes all of three minutes to pick up the phone and call me. Still, I’m not in the habit of antagonizing my clients, so I move on. “I have your papers ready. All you need to do is sign, and you and your husband—”

“My husband is here,” she cuts me off, pulling on the man’s arm. “This is Cedric. I’ve decided to give him a second chance.”

My jaw drops, and I stare at the man directly for the first time. I’ve never met him before, so I didn’t recognize him. All Cedric Thomas has ever been to me is a name on a page, a mysterious figure I needed to get my client away from with as little emotional and financial loss as possible.

Mr. Thomas flashes me a big smile. “She came this”—he brings his index and thumb together until they’re almost touching—“close to divorcing me. But I can’t complain; it’s only thanks to her bitch-face of a lawyer that we’re back together. If Mary hadn’t gone to her, we would’ve never met the wonderful couples’ therapist who works next door. Total chance, Mary and Dr. Keller bumped into each other in the elevator, and he convinced her to give our marriage a second chance. One hour with him put us back on track. Heck.” He side-hugs his wife—who by now has gone pale with mortification—and looks down at her adoringly. “We’ve never been happier.”

He pauses, then winces. “Sorry, I just realized how rude I’ve been, I haven’t introduced myself, Cedric Thomas, and you are?”

“Her bitch-face of a lawyer,” I snap. “So nice to meet you.” Mr. Thomas goes as pale as his wife, and neither says a word. I give them one of the fakest smiles I can muster, then turn on my heel and stride away, leaving them to wallow in their embarrassment.

After a block of speed-walking and venting to myself, I pull out my phone and call Leslie. She picks up on the third ring.

“Vivi. What’s up?”

“Hi,” I say.

“Are you running? You sound breathless.”

“No, just been power-walking all over Manhattan.”

“Oh, where are you?”

“Near Madison Square Park.”

“Really? I’m three blocks away; you want to meet for a drink?”

I remove my phone from my ear to check the time, and sigh. “No, I can’t, I promised Tegan we would have dinner tonight before she goes to the movies with her friends. And I’m also carrying your present for tomorrow night, still unwrapped.”

“Hm? Madison Square Park, you said… What special shops are there? I can’t think of anything.”

“Now, don’t you go Google-Earthing the entire block! Be patient until tomorrow night and you’ll love the surprise, trust me.”

“Okay,” Leslie says. “So if you’re rushing through Midtown with secret, unwrapped presents I’m not supposed to know about, why are you calling me?”

“That man you put in the office next to mine—I need him gone.”

“Who, Lucas? Why? I know when you met him he seemed a little crazed, but he was stressed about finding a new office and he had his heart set on a corner one. But, usually, he’s a nice guy, I swear. Actually…”

“What?” I ask.

“Garrett and I couldn’t wait to introduce you guys… We hoped you would, you know, hit it off or something.”

I scoff. “With that maniac?”

“He’s not—it doesn’t matter. Luke probably isn’t ready yet, anyway.”

I take the bait. “Not ready, why?”

“His last girlfriend walked out on him, a total blindside, no one saw it coming.”

Ah, so much for being the greatest couples’ therapist of the century. He couldn’t even keep his house in order. I store the information of his ass being dumped not that long ago into his file in my brain. I need all the ammunition I can get.

“Boo-hoo!” I say, unmoved. “I’m heartbroken, but I still want him gone.”

“Why?”

“You can’t put a couples’ therapist next to a divorce attorney, Lee! Not a week in, and he’s already poaching all my clients.”

“Wait, what? I thought you guys operated at opposite ends of the spectrum. How is he stealing your clients?”

“By turning a bitter wife and an unromantic husband into turtle doves after a magic hour with him is how.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Of course it is! Come on, you really think years of issues can just vanish with a snap of his fingers? The problems are still there, and once his magic spell wears off, the Thomases are going to be right back where they started.” I pause, huff, then add, “Not to mention he’s stealing my business! How am I supposed to pay for Tegan’s college tuition if he keeps brainwashing my clients? You have to kick him out of the building, Lee. Tell me there’s a way.”

“Afraid not, honey, his contract is as ironclad as yours.”

“Are you telling me I have no chance of getting rid of him?”

“No, not unless he goes voluntarily. But I honestly don’t see that happening.”

We hang up shortly afterward, and I hurry to catch the subway back to Dumbo. On the train, while I’m jostled and tossed around like a pinball, I brood over the Master Puppeteer of Hearts. I have to get rid of him. Shrek can’t come on my home turf, steal my clients like it’s nobody’s business, and expect no retaliation. Nuh-uh, mister, you picked the wrong divorce lawyer to mess with.

Five

Lucas

Saturday evening, I enter Garrett’s building—a Williamsburg condo that has a communal rooftop deck with stunning Manhattan and East River views—careful not to tear the paper of the engagement gift I’m carrying.

I greet the doorman with a cheerful, “Hey, Washington, how’s it going?”

“Evening, Dr. Keller. Perfect night for a rooftop party. Everyone is already upstairs; you can go right ahead.” He inches his chin toward the elevator.

I nod and cross the hall. After a quick ride up, I step out onto the tenth-floor terrace, where cool lounge music fills the air.

“Luke!” Garrett—who’s clearly been stationed on welcoming duties—exclaims. He receives me with open arms and hands me a flute of champagne. “Great to see you, buddy.”

I struggle for a second to reposition the perhaps too-large present under one arm, and then accept the glass.

“Man, can I drop this somewhere?” I ask Garrett.

“Oh, you didn’t need to bring anything,” he protests. “But the gifts station is right over here.”

He guides me to the left of the elevator and to a table piled with presents, which clearly shows I should’ve bought a gift. I drop the heavy load on a relatively empty corner, hoping the other guests didn’t go too fancy with their presents. A Google search assured me engagement gifts should be something small and sentimental.

Without the package, I’m finally free to move. I roll my shoulders and then sip my champagne while checking out the crowd.

“Wow, great party,” I say to Garrett, taking in the catered refreshments, hired barman, and vibrantly colored decorations. “Didn’t you say it’d be casual?”

Garrett rolls his eyes. “Ah, man, you know Leslie. She started with ‘just a few close friends on the roof’ and we ended up with, well”—he motions at the surrounding space—“this.”

Garrett steers me toward the closest food station, where a woman is filling a plate with hors d’oeuvres, her back turned to us. “Get something to eat,” my friend says. “I’ve got to go welcome the newcomers.”

The woman turns, and her hostile brown eyes widen in recognition.

Miss Attorney looks different tonight. Her hair is loose in soft waves that reach to her shoulders, and she’s wearing a frilly blue dress, not one of her power suits.

If this was our first encounter, I’d even go as far as saying she’s beautiful. But I know better.

“Ah, Vivian,” Garrett says. “This is Luke, my best friend.”

Medusa’s lips curve in a taught smile. “We’ve met.”

“Of course.” Garrett swats himself. “Lee found you offices in the same building, right? Well, enjoy, I gotta get welcoming.”

Garrett rushes off, and I narrow my eyes at my ill-disposed neighbor. “Thirty-five years without seeing you once, and now a day can’t pass without the pleasure.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine.” Medusa gives me another one of her petrifying stares, then walks away.

Good riddance.

I shuffle through the crowd, eating a few treats, drinking champagne, and making civil conversation with the other guests I know, until Garrett finds me again about forty-five minutes later.

“What do you think?”

I shrug at the surroundings. “Amazing party, man.”

“Not about the party.” He smacks me playfully. “About Leslie’s friend.”

“Who?”

Garrett waves a hand before my face. “Have you gone blind? Vivian. She’s hard to miss.”

Hard to miss, for sure. If I’m being objective, Medusa is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Dark brown hair, big Bambi eyes, and that heart-shaped mouth. Pity the more-than-pleasant appearance doesn’t come paired with an equally amiable temperament.

“Yeah, sorry, man, she’s not my type.”

“Really?”

I study my friend. “You seem hurt by the revelation. What’s up?”

Garrett hides half a grin. “Oh, nothing, it’s just that she’s single, you’re single, so Leslie and I thought…”

I scoff, while pocketing the information that, indeed, there’s no father in the family picture of my office neighbor.

“You’re not seriously trying to play matchmaker, are you?”

“Why not? She’s great, you’re great… We were just waiting for the right moment to introduce you guys.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And by the right moment, you mean…?”

Garrett stares out across the East River. “Once you were ready to date again.” He turns to look at me. “Are you? It’s been six months since Brenda left.”

I consider my answer for a second. Not a week ago, I promised myself I’d be more open to friends’ offers to match me up.

Not with the Wicked Witch of the West Office, though, a voice protests in my head.

Okay, maybe not her… But someone else? Why not?

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”

“That’s great, man.” Garrett pats me on the shoulder. “Listen, if you don’t want to ask Vivian out, you should try the dating agency that set me up with Leslie.”

“I said I was ready to try dating again, not search for a wife.”

On my other side, Leslie comes up to me, whispering, “Ah, but it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

I shrug. “Get me the good fortune, and then we can talk about the wife.”

“Such a material man,” a familiar voice comments from behind Leslie.

Garrett’s fiancée moves to the side to reveal Medusa in all her wicked glory.

“Oh, please,” Leslie says. “Luke is the soppiest romantic man on Earth.”

Brown eyes glint with amused malice. “Is he now?”

Leslie tsk-tsks at her friend. “As if you can talk.” Then, turning to me, she adds, “Put Vivi in front of a romantic movie and she’ll be crying within five minutes—even if it’s a comedy! She might even be more helplessly romantic than you.”

My turn to be smug. “Is that so, Vivi?” I wouldn’t have pegged her as having a romantic bone in her body.

From the petty way Medusa is looking at me, I’m sure she’d be happy to show me her tongue, but, not being a child, she settles for an annoying half-smirk.

“Why were you talking about wives, anyway?” Leslie asks, glancing curiously at her fiancé.

“I was telling Luke he should try our dating agency.”

“What a coincidence! Vivi just asked me for their information. You guys should go together.” Leslie pauses, and gives us a naughty look. Before we can protest, she grabs Garrett’s hand and pulls him away, saying, “Come on, honey, time to open the presents.”

And I’m alone with Medusa once again.

“The dating agency’s all yours,” I tell her. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to use it anyway.”

“Why?” She stares me down. “Afraid all the women would reject you?”

“Women like me just fine.”

“Is that why you’re single?”

The question cuts a little too close to the heart, so I get petty in return. “How can you be a helpless romantic when it’s literally your job to destroy marriages?”

She levels me with a stare that could kill. “When a client comes to me, their marriage has already been destroyed. My job is to make sure their partner doesn’t take advantage of them during the divorce proceedings, and to secure them the best post-marital life that I can.”

“And if you get to terrorize someone in the process, that’s just a bonus?”

“What are you talking about?”

“How about that poor man you made almost die of a heart attack the other day, all because he wanted to talk to his wife?”

“You do realize he basically ignored her for ten years, right? Way too little, way too late. Why does it always take you men losing something before you understand how much you care? And, anyway, you broke the elevator, not me. So, technically, it was you who almost gave Mr. Cavendish a heart attack.”

I’m about to retort when Garrett shouts my name, distracting me.

“And the next present is from Luke, my best friend!” He grabs the package and hands it to his fiancée for unwrapping. Leslie tears the paper and squeals in delight.

“A custom doormat!” She shows her guests the coir doormat personalized with the plural form of Garrett’s surname: The Greens.

“Taking for granted Leslie will take his name?” Medusa comments beside me. “Patriarchal much?”

Again, I’m saved the need to respond by Leslie shouting, “And now a gift from my dear friend Vivi! And not just one, but two presents.”

“Overachiever much?” I whisper.

Medusa ignores my jab as our hosts unwrap her gifts. The first is a Polaroid camera identical to the one her daughter has, but in light blue instead of pink.

“This is amazing!” Leslie shrieks in delight. “I want to take pictures of everyone tonight—thanks, Vivi.” The bride-to-be pulls out a few more items from the first box: a carrying case, an album, and two packs of film.

In the meantime, Garrett raises his half of the gift for the crowd to see, revealing a personalized hearts Connect Four game engraved with Garrett and Leslie’s first names in the middle.

The gifts are cute. Not that I’d ever tell Medusa that.

“Well,” Medusa says. “As fun as it’s been to get to know you better, I think I’ll go.”

“Please don’t let me deter you.”

She grimaces. “See you at the office.” Then she pauses and, with an evil little smirk, adds, “Or at the dating agency, assuming you’re not too afraid of rejection.”

“Oh, please, if I signed up I’d be matched up in no time, and definitely before you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Mr. Soppy. I could wager to the contrary.”

“You want to make the bet real?”

“What do you mean?”

“We both sign up to the agency, and if I find my match first, you give me the corner office.” The offer tumbles out of my mouth before I’ve had the time to consider its soundness.

She studies me intently for a few seconds. “And if I win?”

I shrug. “What do you want?”

Medusa narrows her eyes at me. “You move out of the building and I never see you again.”

It’d be foolish of me to accept. It took me forever to find this office and I should remind myself how desperate I was by the end… But the smug way this woman is looking at me is just too much for me to handle. My common sense goes out the window, and suddenly all I want to do is beat her.

“Deal,” I say. “Winner takes it all.”

Medusa smiles sweetly. “I’d start packing up boxes if I were you.” She raises her flute at me in a mock cheers motion. After taking a sip of bubbly, she adds, “It’s a bet.”

Get your FREE copy at your favorite retailer!