Page 69 of The Wrong Guy

He’s smiling kindly, excited at the idea, and I nod in concession. “That’d be wonderful. Thank you.”

I follow Rose to Oliver’s table, which is beside a window that overlooks the downtown square and has a lit votive in the middle of it that gives a glowing light. Oliver stands when he sees me, moving to pull out my chair, but I hold out a hand. “No worries, I got it.”

I don’t want this meeting to be misconstrued in his mind. We’re discussing a case, a contract, work, work, work. And nothing more. Despite the ambiance, this is not a date in any way.

Rose doesn’t look convinced of that at all, and when she looks from me to Oliver before turning away, I’m tempted to explain what’s going on here. Otherwise, the town hotline is going to be blazing about my romantic interlude with the out-of-town hottie, and word will get back to Jesse in an instant.

To that end ...

I pull out my phone, telling Oliver, “Give me one second. I need to send a quick text.”

I’m having a completely professional meeting at Bernard’s with Oliver to discuss the divorce decree. Don’t freak out when the gossip starts. And do NOT come fuck me on the table where everyone can hear, ya caveman. Do that later. Your place. Nine o’clock?

I hit “Send,” and Jesse responds back less than a second later.

Deal. How about my dining table instead?

Along with the text comes a selfie of Jesse. He’s at home, working out judging by his shirtless and sweaty state. His dark eyes pierce into my core, even through the picture.

Oliver clears his throat, and I glance up to find him watching me with a hint of a smile. “I’m guessing your friend isn’t so stupid after all?”

“He never was,” I answer bluntly. I don’t need Oliver’s opinion on Jesse and me. I send a heart and a fire emoji back and slip my phone into my purse. “Let’s get to the divorce decree?”

“Oh, would you like to look at the menu first?”

I push at the leather-bound book in front of me. “No need. Bernard said he’d do a chef’s choice for us if that’s okay?”

He blinks, obviously surprised. “It seems you’re more of a regular here than I am.”

I shrug. “Once upon a time. The decree?”

Oliver picks up a manila folder from the table and hands it over to me. While I open it and begin to read, he simply watches me.

At first, it seems like a pretty standard intro, lots of first party this and second party that. I skip down to the part pertaining to Ford Construction Company to make sure that what we’ve been planning for Township is feasible and correct, and find it pretty straightforward.

“The division of the company looks good, all things considered,” I tell Oliver.

He nods and picks up his wine. Against the glass, he murmurs, “Check out page fifteen,” and then takes a sip.

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. This must be what he wants me to see about the decree. I flip to page fifteen and start to scan.

It’s a list of properties held by Jed and Chrissy Ford, and their dispersions under the settlement. The primary one that I care about is the land under development at Township, but there are several others. I scroll through them, seeing that Oliver and Robert have allocated some properties for each of their clients.

“How did you decide which properties Chrissy would keep versus Jed?” I ask, still reading the list that continues onto page sixteen.

“Negotiated individually, one by one, based on property values and equity,” he answers tiredly.

“I can imagine what a long, arduous process that must’ve been. Actually, I can’t, nor do I want to,” I joke.

Bernard interrupts my reading to deliver two plates of filet mignon, baby red potatoes, and a creamed spinach that’s my absolute favorite. “I remember how much you enjoyed it,” he says, smiling when he sees my food happy dance. “The filet has a plum and pink peppercorn sauce, which we’ve paired with a Malbec wine I think you’ll enjoy.” He looks at Oliver’s glass. “Would the gentleman like the Malbec as well?”

“No, thank you. I’m good with the Cab,” Oliver answers.

Bernard inclines his chin, but looks at me with slight offense in his eyes like, Can you believe that? I suppress a giggle and tell Bernard thank you.

The decree is forgotten for a moment as we begin to eat the delicious dinner. “Bernard was the only chef here for a long time,” I explain to Oliver. “It was by reservation only, prix fixe menu, and you had to be prepared to wait for your meal. But several years ago, Bernard began loosening his grip on the kitchen. He’s mostly front of house now, but he still designs the menu, creates the recipes, and has his hand in the kitchen. He can’t let it go.”

Oliver tastes the sauce delicately and frowns in surprise. “That’s unexpectedly good.”

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