Page 2 of Grudge Match

Sabrina’s cheeks pinken, and she offers a humble smile. “That means a lot coming from you. You’re way too hard on yourself, El. The professors love your passion and devotion to your craft. If you want Paris, I’ll bet they give you Paris.” She winks and then pipes down, settling in her seat as the professor enters the room.

“Oh, one more thing,” Sabrina whispers through tight lips, afraid the professor will catch her talking. “What are you and Ramona doing for Valentine’s Day? My friend, Mimi, told me about an interesting get-together with a famous dating expert or matchmaker. She says it’s going to be fun. There aren’t any fees. All you need to do is apply and see if you receive an invitation. I’ll forward the email to you after class.”

I stare, confused, wondering what gave her the impression I would ever attend a hook-up party or seek the services of a matchmaker. I awkwardly smile at Sabrina and reply, “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t date. But if I did, I wouldn’t want someone else to choose the guy for me. I wouldn't know what I wanted if he was down on one knee, staring in the face with roses and a ring. There's no way a stranger would know better than me.” Everything I utter makes sense until I hear my words out loud.

Equally unconvinced by my rejection, Sabrina giggles quietly, shaking her head with disbelief. “That’s the point, dummy. She looks at two people through an unbiased lens and uses her years of experience to make a match. I heard it comes with a big prize. Read the email and let me know tonight. Mimi and I are too curious to let this opportunity pass us by.”

Big prize? I guess there’s no harm in reading an email.

Chapter Two

“Good morning, Deacon! Are you headed back to the office?” Daisy Kent, my boss’s wife, stands by the button panel and holds her finger over the number eighteen, ready to take us to the top floor.

“I am. I need to speak to Lincoln about the Mayfair case before I see my client at 9:00,” I explain, lifting my watch to check the time. It’s my case, but Lincoln Kent is the best divorce lawyer in the city. He’s legendary at nailing cheating husbands to the wall and I need his advice on Drusilla Mayfair’s habitually adulterous husband. I know the bastard is hiding assets, but I’ve failed to locate all of them.

“You’ve got a meeting with Lincoln?” Daisy’s ears prick up and she straightens her posture when the loud ping announces our arrival at the eighteenth floor. She positions herself near the doors, bouncing out when they slide open. Her previously happy expression turns sour as she picks up the pace and tries to beat me to her husband’s door. There is nothing she could possibly need from Lincoln that’s more important than my case. Ever since his second marriage to a woman young enough to be his daughter, Lincoln never arrives at the office any earlier than 8:00. It’s far too early for a bit of afternoon delight, but that’s never stopped them in the past.

I match her steps, my longer legs effortlessly passing her before we turn the corner and reach for his office door. “Would you mind if I speak to him first? My client will be here shortly,” I say, unwilling to surrender my grasp on the knob.

“Will it take long?” Daisy asks nervously as she smooths a lock of hair and curls it behind her ear. Her awkward smile gives her intentions away.

I’ve overheard rumors that Lincoln is eager to knock her up with baby number two, but that will need to wait until after I’ve received counsel on my case. I can’t leave my client hanging.

“No more than ten minutes, I promise. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” I answer, quickly losing my patience with both of their libidos.

They have all evening to work on their second baby. There’s no reason to flaunt their non-stop sexual satisfaction in everyone’s face.

Good God, when did I become such a bitter prick?

Daisy nods before placing a hand on the door. “Do you mind if I pop my head in to say hello and tell him I’ll return in ten minutes? He’s expecting me,” she whispers, pushing the door open and ducking under my arm to barge into her husband’s office.

As soon as he sees her, he won’t be able to focus on my case. There's no way to compete with a man’s wife, especially when she’s a beautiful lingerie designer with enough family wealth to dispute any assumptions that she married him for his money.

“Darling! You got here quick.” Lincoln’s voice rises with unrestrained joy at seeing his wife, and he moves from his desk to meet her halfway. They embrace a few feet from me, oblivious of my presence.

“Why do you wear such nice suits to work? Are you trying to attract every girl in the building?” Daisy flirts as she straightens his tie and gives him a light peck on the cheek. She turns to me, finally making Lincoln aware that I’m idling nearby.

“Oh damn, Deacon. I didn’t see you,” Lincoln stutters, slightly embarrassed with his public display of affection.

I’m used to it. Everyone in the building has grown accustomed to the nymphomaniacs formally known as Mr. & Mrs. Lincoln Kent.

“He needs ten minutes of your time, sweetheart, and I promised him I’d let him go first,” Daisy replies for me, sneaking away before he has a chance to stop her.

I give her a quick nod of appreciation and close the door behind her. My client arrives in five minutes.

Lincoln exhales sharply, visibly annoyed that I’ve cut into his time with Daisy. He returns to his desk and drops into his chair, his eyes slowly drifting to the clock over my head to keep time. “What’s up, Deacon? Don’t you see Mrs. Mayfair this morning?” He clears his throat and shifts in his chair, probably adjusting his erection after spending thirty seconds with his wife.

“I just need your approval to hire a new investigator for her case. I have a feeling her ex-husband paid off the last detective to keep him from uncovering or revealing the entirety of his assets. I’ve asked around, and it’s widely known that Jay Mayfair has offshore accounts and real estate under trusts. This P.I. came back with less than fifty million when I know that bastard is worth billions,” I bark, and my voice trembles angrily. That cheating jerk thinks he’s pulled the wool over our eyes, and I’ll make sure he pays through the nose.

Lincoln’s face twists into a grimace. “Fifty million? That’s absurd. Which detective are you using?” He angles his head, his brows creased with curiosity. “I told you to use Leland Frank. He’s one of the best.”

I run my hand across my face and thread my fingers through my hair. “I’m talking about Leland. And I agree, he is typically one of the best. But after he handed me his flimsy report, I asked another investigator to follow him, and last night, he sent me photos of your man, Leland, dining with Jay Mayfair at some dive in Harlem, seeming confident no one in his social circle would see him there.

“Leland is on the take? I’ve used him for years, and he has a sterling reputation,” Lincoln grumbles, his eyes shifting from side to side, amazed by his own naivete. He prides himself on being an exceptional judge of character and the thought that Leland slipped under his radar visibly astounds him.

“Do you have a suggestion for someone else? If not, I’m going with the less experienced guy who outed Leland. At least I know I can trust him,” I inform him and head to the door, uninterested in waiting for his reply. My client must be here by now, and no doubt, Daisy is buzzing nearby.

“Do what you need to do, Deacon. I trust you implicitly,” he announces confidently, surprising me with high praise. He’s always been a supportive boss, but lately, he’s been laying it on thick.

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