Page 121 of Torrid Love
“My new hair color.”
“Blonde as usual?”
“No. I got my hair done yesterday and the hubby has yet to notice, but your visitor did.”
“Who’s the––”
“I went from a dirty blonde to an ash blonde––a more youthful bright tone. I love your girlfriend’s golden blonde––”
“Is there a point to this?”
“You’re just like my husband,” she scolds.
“Marissa,” I warn. “I don’t have all day. Dark? Light? Regardless. Your hair looks great. Now, who’s the visitor?”
She lets out a loud huff. She’s amazing at what she does, but when she goes off on a tangent, you can grow old just by listening to her. The best way to deal with her colorful, vibrant personality is to cut to the chase. “Mr. Gideon––”
“No way. Gideon Wilding?”
“Yes!”
“He’s here? In LA?”
“Yes and yes!”
“I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen him in such a long time.”
“Well, he’s in the building.”
“Holy shit. Did he have an appointment I forgot about?”
“No. He just dropped by. I thought it was a little peculiar, but given who he is, I didn’t give it a second thought.”
“That’s fine. He’s lucky I wasn’t caught in a meeting or traveling. I guess he really wanted to see me.”
“I’m sure he was eager to catch up. I’ve read so many stories online about him and how instrumental he was in your career, but I didn’t know he was such a gentleman. It’s so rare in the music industry.”
“Did you put him in the conference room?”
“I put him on the second floor. I still have to tidy up the aquarium, and the other conference room on the third floor is under siege—donuts,” she says, dropping her eyes to my plate.
I laugh. “Good call.”
“I didn’t know how long it would take you to get back from the airport, so I made sure he had coffee and donuts while he waits.”
“I can’t believe this. I haven’t seen the guy in five years. I was going to knock off a few things on my list, but seeing an old friend trumps work.”
* * *
After dropping the donuts and coffee in the kitchen, I take the stairs two by two. As I approach a conference room, I hear Gideon’s loud voice coming from the door that’s slightly ajar.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Peter?” he barks. “I didn’t fly overnight from London for you to come empty-handed,” he shouts louder. “I have a fucking company to run.”
Whoa.
“Is that your excuse? Why the fuck do you think I pay you such outrageous fees? You’re the lawyer. Figure it out.”
Yikes. It doesn’t sound like he’s having a good day.
