Page 1 of Love in Fine Print

1

OLIVIA

"You need a husband."

"I need a husband like I need hemorrhoids," I shot back at my executive assistant Trevor, who was supposed to be going over my schedule in our daily morning meeting but was instead trying to insert himself as my life coach, which he also claimed to be.

"Are hemorrhoids going to help you make partner?" Trevor's perfectly arched left brow rose in a very disapproving parent-like way as he reemphasized, "Youneeda husband."

"Is that a proposal?" I was only half-joking.

Trevor Antonio Harrison was a sexy, driven, brilliant, hilarious, dark-complected man with a body that rivaled the Hemsworth brothers. His immaculate style was rivaled only by his flawless bone structure and mega-watt smile. He was often told he looked like a cross between Taye Diggs and Shemar Moore, which he did. He was the only man in my life that I trusted. He was also one hundred percent gay.

His sexual preference wasn’t a dealbreaker for me if it wasn’t for him.

"I'm not saying I wouldn't make a fabulous wife, but Vi, I don't think you could handle me."

He wasn't wrong. I conceded with a dip of my chin.

"Olivia Grace Bradshaw, I'm serious. You are going to get passed up.Again."

In the past five years, two positions for partner had become available. Both times I was passed over. Andrew Cline and Peter Katz, two men whose billable hours and client retention paled in comparison to mine. I’d proven my worth, and although I had a corner office with a breathtaking view, my name was not on the letterhead, which read Walters, Chen, Katz, Cline & Associates.

I sighed, unwilling to face the truth. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” Trevor stated flatly. “Unfortunately, I do.”

“I have more billable hours than any other associate in the firm.” I began to list my résumé in frustration. “My clients are A-list. I have more referrals and repeat clientele than anyone in the firm?—”

“You’re a divorce lawyer. Are you sure you want to be bragging about repeat clientele?”

“You know what I mean. I deserve to be a partner.”

“Yes, you do.” Trevor nodded. “And I deserve for people not to judge me on the fact that I’m brown and gay, but guess what, lovely, we live in what’s called the real world.”

I glanced to my left and looked out over San Francisco Bay. Sunlight danced off the surface of the water as boats dotted the horizon. Below me, the city was filled with people who were living lives that weren’t fair. People who had struggles much worse than mine. I was sitting on the forty-second floor of a high-rise building in a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows. I had a full-time assistant and two paralegals at my disposal. This job might not be everything I wanted it to be, but my life could definitely be worse.

If I were to take a fearless inventory, the truth was, I knew Trevor was right, even if I didn’t want to admit it. There was no way I was ever going to make partner unless I had a partner. It was antiquated, misogynistic, and downright ludicrous, but it was also a fact.

I leaned forward on my desk, resting my forearms on the mahogany surface. “For argument’s sake, let’s say you’re right. How do you suggest I go about acquiring a husband?”

“Well, for one thing, don’t use the term acquire. This is a person. A relationship.”

“How do you suggest I go aboutfindinga husband?” I rephrased.

A wide smile spread on his face. “I thought you’d never ask. Now, you know I’m all about knowing your worth and not settling, but?—"

“But what?” If Trevor thought I was going to settle for someone just because I needed them, he gravely underestimated me. I may not have the leverage here, but that did not mean that settling was an option.

“But… I think you might need to lower your standards. Just a tinge.” He held his finger and thumb together.

“What standard, exactly, do you think I should lower? My bar is not that high.”

His head fell back as he roared with laughter. “Really, Maneater?”

“Donotcall me that.” Most people were intimidated by my firm, take-no-prisoners voice. Trevor wasn’t ‘most people’ and was nonplussed by my tone.

I hated that moniker. It had started in college when my roommate talked me into doing a dance routine to the song for a talent night at the dorm. The next night, a few guys who were in a fraternity saw me and called me Maneater, because I’d done the dance. Then, after a few of them hit on me and I turnedthem down, it stuck. The truth was, I’d started college when I was sixteen, and although I projected the demeanor of a mature adult, I was a scared shitless kid. Those guys had intimidated me, not the other way around. But for some reason, they bought my ice queen persona.

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