Page 1 of Bidding War

1

JUNE

It’s eleven in the morning, and the caffeine still hasn’t kicked in. The buzzing din of the office is unhelpful, much like our “state of the art” open floor plan design. No door for me to slam or wall to hide behind. Is this the third or eighth time I’ve read this sentence? Why doesn’t it sound right?

I groan at my computer and roll my chair back. Garrett Edison, my desk neighbor, gives the head tilt of pity. “Why are you stressing about this? It’s a letter to the IRS. You’ve written hundreds of them for clients. It’s practically a form letter. What’s different about this one?”

It’s not that the letter is different. It’s me. I’m the thing that’s different. But I can’t say anything about that to Garrett. No matter how much I adore the guy, he’s my sweet desk neighbor. I would never put him in harm’s way by telling him the truth.

“I know I’m a corporate attorney, and this should be like breathing, but I’m just having a hard time focusing. Think I need more coffee or?—

He snatches the mug from me. “Nope. You have hit the coffeepot so many times this morning that it’s making me vibrate. What is going on, June?”

My entire life is over, thanks to some miscommunication and gangsters of unknown origin. But I can’t say any of that. It would lead to more questions. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not cut out for helping another multimillionaire save a few million dollars on their taxes. It just feels wrong, you know?”

“But you’re a lawyer.”

“And so are you. What’s your point?”

“Didn’t they strip you of your morals in law school?” He grins, and he might as well be a breathing dentistry ad. His teeth are so perfect. Garrett is Japanese American and gorgeous. I got over my tiny office crush on him the first week when he arrived. Spinach in his teeth after lunch. Can’t. Just can’t. Since then, he’s been a buddy, and he’s never made a move I’d have to awkwardly turn down, so we’ve been tight ever since.

I still won’t read him in on this.

“Most of my morals were already gone by the time law school started. High school was rough,” I tease. “But seriously, I have the Peterson presentation due this afternoon and this letter, and I just … it’s like my brain is stuck.” Because I was kidnapped, and I’m still kinda freaked out by that. And that’s not the worst thing that’s happened.

“Sounds to me like you don’t need more coffee. You need some fresh air.”

“Boston winter fresh air? Have you lost your mind?”

He snorts a laugh. “I saw your running gear in your bag.”

I lie, “I went to the gym this morning?—"

He laughs hard that time. “Be glad you didn’t go into litigation because you are the worst liar I have ever seen. Go for a run. The frosty air will clear your head. Besides, it’s almost lunchtime. No one will care if you’re gone right now.”

I stared at the same sentence I wrote an hour ago. Or five minutes ago. I don’t know. Time is a construct. “Yeah, okay. Not making any headway here anyway.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“I want my coffee mug back when I return.”

“You can have it back if you bring me a donut from MacGregor’s.”

I laugh. “Are you kidding me? That is too far for a winter run.”

“I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

I roll my eyes at his Star Wars reference. “Nerd. Fine, MacGregor’s. What kind?”

“Lemon-iced, blueberry-filled, and thank you very much.”

Grabbing my bag, I kick his chair on my way past, and he laughs as I grumble, “Blackmailer.”

“Procrastinator.”

But I’m not procrastinating. I’m distracted. Changing in the ladies room around lunch is weird because the actual running bunnies are changing, too. I’m not much of a runner. Never have been. I’ve always said that if I was running, it was because I was being chased.

Now, I feel like I am.

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