Page 71 of Winning Bid

He laughs under his breath as he opens the lobby door for me. We stroll to the building directory before going to the elevators. “The summer when I was thirteen, Mom thought Dana had a thing for Dad, but she couldn’t say anything outright without proof. By that point, they’d been friends for years, so saying something out of pocket would have been an embarrassment. She waited, invited her to the big Fourth of July thing they do yearly, and the trap was set.”

“Huh?”

“Mom thinks Dad looks great in swim trunks,” he cringes as he says, “and I don’t wanna talk about it. Summer means they’re off like rabbits and is, therefore, the season I need the most therapy.”

I giggle at him. “Go on.”

“Dana’s there, and Dad shows off, pulling some big jump on the diving board. Mom is distracted, but Dana sees it. She also sees he’s not coming back up from under the water. She dives in, pulling him out. Turns out he’d cracked his head on the pool bottom. Dana does rescue breathing, which Mom sees at a distance, and she storms out there, assuming they’re making out. She screams at Dana—not listening to anyone who is trying to tell her what’s happening—but then the ambulances arrive and cart Dad off. He recovered just fine, but their friendship never did.”

“Oh, god. Your mom had to be humiliated. And poor Dana.”

He sighs as we enter the elevator. “Yeah. She’s a great lady. I still get birthday cards from her, but I haven’t seen her in a few years.”

“And she’s a defense attorney who Pym doesn’t like?”

“I don’t know all the details, but I doubt he likes anyone who is in the same line of work as he is, especially not one with her reputation. She threatens to outshine him. And anyone Pym doesn’t like is good by me because he is on my shit list right now.”

“Because he wants to use me as a scapegoat?”

Anderson squeezes my hand. “No one is using you for a scapegoat, June. I won’t allow it.”

That is as reassuring as I can ask for. The doors open into another lobby for her law office. It’s posh, with gold and silver accents and streamlined pale wood décor. Pretty, but not overpowering. The attendant seats us in the waiting area, and I can’t help but tap my foot impatiently.

Anderson plants his hand on my knee. “It’s going to be okay.”

“We only got this short-notice appointment because you know her. If she can’t fix this, then who will? How many other high-powered defense attorneys do you keep in your back pocket?”

“More than most. Remember who my family is.”

“Okay, yeah, but that’s good and bad, and I’m just freaking out?—"

“Breathe,” he says calmly as he takes my hands. “And please stop destroying yourself.”

“What?”

“You were picking at your cuticles again.”

I look down, and there’s a bit of blood at the corner of my thumbnail. “What the hell?”

He tips his head to the side. “You didn’t know you do that?”

“No, I just thought … I thought I had crummy cuticles.”

He smiles. “Your whole life you never noticed you pick at your cuticles when you’re nervous? And no one else pointed it out?”

I shrug. “No one pays attention to me like you do.”

“That doesn’t seem possible, but I’m glad for it. I like keeping you all to myself.”

Aw. The big lug. Just as I start to speak, a handsome assistant fetches us. “Ms. Horowitz is ready for you now.” He leads us to her office, and I am as nervous as possible. What if Anderson has overestimated her? What if she’s secretly on the take and working for his father? What if she won’t take our case?

What if I’m so full of anxiety that I actually explode and ruin her pretty office?

As the tall wooden door opens, I gulp. Inside, the place is even nicer than the lobby area but carries the same color palette. But I can’t take any of it in because the woman behind the desk is something else, and when she stands, I am in awe. I don’t usually get taken in by someone’s attractiveness. Having tended bar, I became used to seeing all kinds of people. Pretty, ugly, in between, none of it fazes me. But Dana Horowitz breaks my brain.

She has long, dark, wavy hair with a stylishly gray streak at her forehead and sparkling green eyes. Her red dress is business chic-meets-the runway, all polished modern lines that hug her ample curves. Her rich olive skin is perfect. Not a blemish or a line out of place.

In my mind, I can hear that old Sesame Street song, “One of These Things is Not Like the Other.” I have never felt like Anderson and I match on any level. We are so different from each other. But now I stand before a woman who I reckon is out of his league, and I am staggered by her presence.

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