Page 4 of Perfect Assumption
“I can’t think about it,” comes my lightning-quick response. “And I sure as hell refuse to speak of it.”
“I’m not asking you to. I just want you to know you’re loved. That’s all.”
“Okay.”
“All right.” I can tell Sula’s gearing up to say more, but I’m rescued by the ringing of the office line.
“Have to go. We’ll talk more over the weekend.”
Even though I know she’s reluctant to let me go, Sula hangs up.
It’s a complete comfort to have my daily routine start the exact same way after so many years of battling to be normal. It’s just like when a piece of software reloads a file you’ve lost, I think with satisfaction. Feeling content, I swirl to face my computer and begin scanning the social media sites to determine if any of my boss’s clients will be calling to interrupt her already packed day.
Carys Burke might be diminutive in stature, but as a lawyer, she’s a barracuda. It’s why after striking out on her own only five short years ago—and stealing her now husband, David Lennan, and me from the company we all worked for prior—to start LLF, LLC, we represent some of the biggest musical names in the industry. When I came on board, Carys explained in addition to being legal assistant to both her and David, part of my job is to play watchdog to ensure their antics don’t require immediate legal services.
“Now, I get the fun of seeing Ward’s name pop up as much as our clients,” I mutter as I scroll through my RSS feed. The paparazzi can’t get enough of Carys’s brother, the man whose lukewarm greeting equates me to well-functioning office furniture. Then again, I’m not so certain what I feel about him either.
Carys would erect a shrine to her baby brother, given the opportunity. David has a much clearer impression of “Winsome Ward,” as the tabloids have dubbed him. “He’s not quite the man you think he is, Angie. Losing their parents affected both of them; Ward more so. I think he lost his ability to have fun,” David let slip one day after Ward snapped at me when one of our favorite clients engaged me in a paper airplane contest with Post-its. There was such disdain in the way Ward brushed aside the pink plane.
Ever since, there’s a small part of me that’s wanted to inform him that tiny little bit of fun —something I, myself, rarely indulge in— didn’t ruin his three-thousand-dollar suit.
Frowning at the screen, I mutter, “I don’t get it.” Of all of us who work here at the firm, I never expected Ward to be the most serious, especially considering how fierce Carys is and how efficient David is. Yet, Ward is the one people who saunter through our doors believe should smile, yet I rarely see one on his brooding face.
When I was forced to describe him to Sula after she realized I was now working with him, I begrudgingly said, “He’s a modern-day Heathcliff.” And it’s true, if that’s your type. Objectively, Ward Burke is a magnificent-looking man whose sheer masculinity is a magnet for men and women alike. Just not this woman.
Not spotting anything critical on social media to raise any alarms, I decide to let David know the special plans he and Carys have going on later shouldn’t be ruined. Grabbing my tablet and coffee, I juggle the two while I tug at the heavy door to what we call the inner sanctum— where David’s workspace, our file and conference rooms, and Carys’s and Ward’s offices are. Just as I manage to get the unwieldy door open a few inches, it comes flying at me.
I stumble, my tablet going in one direction, the coffee in the other. “Well, I hope the tablet isn’t destroyed.” I bend down to pick it up when a pair of black wingtips appear in my line of sight.
“I think the tablet can be replaced much easier than my suit, don’t you think, Angela?”
Crap. Double crap. There isn’t a chance I’ll receive merely a disdainful look. After all, coffee isn’t Post-its. My eyes snap up and meet Ward’s infuriated ones. “Sorry. I had no idea you were there.”
His mouth open and closes like a guppy. If it was Carys or David, I might have even told him that. But Ward’s different. He always has been.
He leans forward, causing me to step back instinctively. “Probably with more difficulty than the tablet. We could have picked one of those up on every corner.”
“Can’t jet off to London to get a new one made?” I joke feebly.
I only know where his suits are made because they were mentioned in the rags one time. “Winsome Ward” made the headlines the next day along with the model he escorted to dinner.
It was annoying to have to filter out gossip about…whatever Ward is in terms of the structural hierarchy in this firm on top of the normal seedy nonsense about our clients being impregnated by alien babies. Although—my lips barely lift—it did humor David immensely when I showed him that nugget about his wife’s ex-boyfriend.
Ward, more disjointed than usual, slides by me and the mess without any thought about who should be responsible for cleaning it up. Calling back over his shoulder, he orders, “Tell Carrie I’ll be late.”
After the front doors of LLF close behind him, I let out a huge breath before saying, “Like that won’t be anything new.”
The heavy door swings open cautiously. “Angie, did I hear Ward leave?” Carys asks. Then, “What happened?”
“Ward and I collided. Apparently, my latte caused irreparable damage to his day. He’s going to be late to your meeting.”
She flits her hand as if it’s of no consequence. “That’s fine. It means the cake will have more time to get here.”
I grit my teeth. But all I say is, “Of course. Do you still want me to bring it in straightaway?”
“No, let’s hold it until the status meeting later.” We both turn when the phone rings on my desk.
Leaving the mess on the floor just a moment longer, I lift the receiver to my ear. “LLF, LLC. This is Angela. How may I direct your call?”
