Page 2 of Love in Fine Print

Somehow the name stuck through college, followed me to law school, and was still how people referred to me two decades after its inception.

In fairness, I was fully aware that my cold, detached, aloof exterior perpetuated the image of the Maneater. But it worked for me professionally, so I went with it. In the boys’ club, that was this firm, I liked that most of the men who worked here were a little scared of me. It saved me a lot of time in HR filing reports.

“The problem is,” Trevor began, then paused for what I was sure was supposed to be for dramatic effect before continuing, “you can have any man you want?—”

“That’s not true.”

Trevor tilted his head to the side. “Name one man you’ve been interested in who hasn’t been interested in you.”

My left shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I haven’t been interested in that many men.”

“As I was saying, look at you.” He waved his hand up and down. “You, Lawyer Barbie, you can have any man that you want.”

I hated Lawyer Barbie almost more than Maneater. My appearance was not something I enjoyed people commenting on. I’d been blessed with my mother’s genetics. Bianca Bradshaw was a self-proclaimed modern-day Marilyn Monroe. In fairness she did look like the Golden Age of Hollywood star. And I was her spitting image, whether I wanted to be or not.

All her life she’d cashed in on the fact that she was a blonde bombshell. A petite girl next door with sexy curves. She’d never worked a day in her life and had always relied on men to supporther. Growing up I’d witnessed her use her sex appeal and charm to get homes, cars, and even earned the title of Duchess after marrying her tenth husband who happened to be a Duke.

I vowed at a very young age that I would be nothing like her. Being attractive wasn’t something I valued. I valued my intellect. My work ethic. My ingenuity. Not my blonde hair, and double Ds.

“You are spoiled for choice. The men at your feet are an embarrassment of riches and it has made you too picky.”

“I’m not too picky,” I countered.

He tilted his head to the side. “Okay, then, what happened with Brian?”

I searched my brain to remember who Brian was and came up empty. I had zero clue.

“The stockbroker,” Trevor prompted.

Still nothing.

“You went onthreedates.”

That narrowed it down, but only slightly. My limit was three dates. If any red flag came up before then, I was out. Only three percent of men I dated made it past the third date. Out of that three percent, only one made it to a relationship stage. But that said more about the quality of men I encountered than it did about my selectiveness.

“He was tall,” Trevor used another tactic to refresh my memory and it came back.

“Oh, right. Hewastoo tall.”

“He was six-four. Six-four is not too tall.”

“I’m five-two. Yes, it is. I don’t want to have to get a crick in my neck every time we kiss.”

“He was gorgeous. Funny. Smart. Loyal. Successful. Age-appropriate. With a near-perfect credit score. No baby mamas. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. And he wastoo tall?”

“Yes,” I maintained, holding my ground.

Trevor carried on, undeterred. “Fine. What about Christopher?”

Again, I was drawing a blank.

“The race car driver.”

It still wasn’t ringing any bells. Trevor rolled his eyes and typed into the tablet on his lap. A second later, a photo popped up on my screen. Dark eyes, blond hair, and a scar just above his right eye. It was the scar that rang the bell.

“Oh right, he was thebreather.”

Trevor stared at me. “You discarded a man who was so hot I was convincedIwas pregnant after seeing him because he breathed.”

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