Page 25 of Over the Edge

“You said two weeks,” I remind.

“I said after two weeks we’ll reevaluate the situation and if you meet expectations and are ready to get back to work, then you can come back to the office.” Holt’s voice is measured and unyielding. As much as I want to complain, without her go ahead I won’t be able to get past security. Hell, without her I can’t even access my email.

“And what expectations did I fail to meet? I went on vacation. I’m ready to come back.” I can’t afford more time off. It’s not that I don’t trust the other partners and associates to have helped my clients, but if I take care of something I know exactly how it’s done.

“Tell me, what have you done so far on your vacation?” Her words are accompanied by a light, even tapping. I easily picture her walking across the cool marble of her office to the wall of windows overlooking the Financial District the way I’ve witnessed countless times.

“I’ve been spending time with my old neighbor. I went home.” My jaw clenches with the effort to contain my frustration.

“Do you have any pictures? Did you go out and get some fresh air? I’ve heard there are some breathtaking views there.” Her words are laced with feline satisfaction. She knows me, and even if she didn’t, she’s a fucking human lie detector. During litigation that’s invaluable, but under my current circumstances I’m not the biggest fan. “Tell me, what was your favorite part? Don’t spare a single detail.”

The deck railing creaks as I lean back against it and heave a sigh. “Pictures weren’t part of our deal. But I’m fine. I’m ready to come back.”

“There was nodeal. It’s my call and I say no,” she says. “I'm not letting you come back if you’re just going to push yourself to the brink again. It’s a waste of my resources to have you half-assing your work because you’re running on empty instead of utilizing the damn PTO you’ve accrued.”

“But—”

“No,” she snaps. “Two more weeks. I want to see you use that Instagram of yours with millions of followers and post something. I want to see a picture of you drinking something fruity with an umbrella wearing something that looks close to a smile.”

“No drinks here come with umbrellas,” I say as if that matters, as if she cares.

“Then I want proof that you’re putting your full effort into this. Remember, I know what that looks like.” A slyness coats her voice.

She wouldn’t act like this with anyone else. But no one else passed out at their desk only to be found by security. Hell, no one else made a quick trip to the ER. If it got out, no one would have their old career become the reason the firm got bad publicity. My grip tightens on the phone, the edges digging into my palm.

“I’m not posting anything that will give away my location,” I say. My relationship with Hartsfall has always been complicated. It does fine on its own. Maybe if it needed my influence to boost tourism, I’d use it. But I don’t want to disrupt what’s here even if I think it’s a pretty lie.

“Post or don’t. Send me proof that you’re taking steps to relax.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do here?” I demand, without really expecting an answer. I’ve already exhausted all of my options because of the two-week timeline I had anticipated. I can’t be stuck here any longer. I just fucking can’t. It’s not like I can join the tourists in their carefree jaunts down Main Street, though that appears to be exactly what Holt is asking for.

“You’re the one who chose the location. Figure it out,” she says. “I have a meeting. I expect the pictures in my inbox starting tomorrow, or two weeks will quickly become four.”

Holt hangs up without another word. Alina gives me a few minutes before the French doors to the back deck fling open letting out the crooning of Nat King Cole. Her shuffling steps scrape against the deck as she walks up behind me.

“I have something to keep you occupied,” she says.

After my second round of knocking, Evelyn appears in the doorway wrapped in a thick blanket and wearing mirrored sunglasses. I try to look her in the eye and I’m faced with my ownreflection, a reminder that I’m not where I want to be. Instead of a suit, I’m in a navy T-shirt and jeans.

“You look like hell,” I say.

“Thank you, it's very in right now. I bet we’ll be seeing plenty of it when Paris Fashion Week comes around in a few weeks,” she says, not missing a beat.

Even haggard by a hangover, she’s acting like last night isn’t fazing her. I can throw anything at her and humor will bounce right back.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.

“Why? Are you desperate to take care of me? Have a thing for damsels?” she asks, her lips curling with a self-indulgent smirk.

“No, just wanting to make sure you won’t complain about it while I’m here.” And yes, maybe I’m worried. She went through it last night—why shouldn’t I be concerned?

There’s a rustle under her blanket-cloak and a box of cereal pokes out. That’s that I guess.

“I thought you were headed back to Manhattan,” she says.

“There’s been a slight change of plans.”

“Oh, care to explain?”

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