Page 8 of Three Bossy Boyfriends
And for getting sued.
I run my hands over the thighs of my pants and shift in the chair.
I’m not nervous. I’m just very uncomfortable.
And restless to get back to work.
“Mr. Hastings, they’re ready for you,” the receptionist says with a smile.
I stand quickly. “Great. Thanks.”
She leads me down a wide hallway with doors on both sides to the frosted glass double doors at the end. The plate beside the door says Conference Room B.
She pulls the door open, and she steps to the side. “Right in here. Mr. Davis, Mr. Hastings is here.”
“Come on in, Tucker,” Christopher Davis, my fancy, expensive lawyer, says, stepping forward and extending his hand.
I give the receptionist a smile and step into the room, taking Christopher’s hand.
“Hey Christopher.”
Christopher is from Honeysuckle Harbor, which is how I ended up in his conference room. I don’t know the guy well, but I’ve met him, and my parents have hired him before. One of the other partners, Greg Anderson, is also from Honeysuckle Harbor. He’s retired now, but everyone in town loves the Anderson family.
I feel a familiar cold trickle dance down my spine. The Anderson family is fine, with one exception. Finley. I went to high school with Greg’s daughters and made the mistake of crossing Finley once.
It’s not like we were friends before that one fateful moment, because I’d mostly ignored her up until then. We did not run in the same circles, and the emo nerdy girl just didn’t cross the path of the star quarterback and homecoming king. Cliché, I know, but I was popular and Finley was…not…and so we just basically avoided each other.
Until the night she cursed me.
I’m not kidding.
I’ll admit I was an asshole to her, but her voodoo–witchcraft–curse–whatever that I thought was a joke at the time, has haunted me for the past ten years. To the point thatwhenever something bad happens to me, my buddies say shit like, “Wow, that was quite a Finley.”
They’re hilarious.
“Well, no offense,” I tell Christopher. “But I’m not that happy to see you.”
He chuckles. “No offense taken. But we’re going to clear this up for you.”
“Well, hey there, Tucker. I didn’t know I was going to get to run into you today.”
I swing toward the female voice to my left. There’s a long gray credenza at the far end of the room with a pitcher of water and glasses. And a gorgeous brunette is leaning against the credenza with a glass in hand.
I’m immediately hit with three thoughts in a row. One, she’s fucking gorgeous. Two, I’m suddenly not so upset about being sued if I get to work with her. Three, she’s vaguely familiar.
Her long dark hair falls in soft waves past her shoulder blades. She’s dressed in a white button-down shirt paired with a teal-colored pencil skirt that shows off her firm breasts, and trim hips and thighs. Her legs look amazing in the high heels, and her makeup and nails are definitely law-firm perfect.
So, I have no idea why I feel like I know her. I don’t typically go for the dressed-up corporate types. I am definitely a blue jeans and beer type of guy, and I like girls who don’t mind getting a little dirty and who can shoot pool and tequila.
But looking at this woman as she crosses the room, I think I could make an exception.
When she’s directly across the table from me, she stops and our gazes lock. “You don’t remember me?” she asks.
“I’m…sure,” I say. “I just…”
Her eyes widen, then narrow.
Now I feel another shiver go through me. I should definitely remember her, and she’s pissed I don’t.
