Page 44 of Best Offer Wins
She spins around and purses her glossy lips. Her collarbone lifts then falls; she holds up a burgundy-manicured hand and waves me in.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, I have to jump. But we’ll get a release drafted for you before the weekend, okay?” Jordana nods toward one of the ivory leather chairs in front of her desk and I sit. “All righty, thanks much. Ciao for now.”
She removes her earbuds and holds me in an icy stare. “Go on then. Tell me what you’re doing here.”
I cross my legs and straighten my back, self-doubt suddenly pinballing around in my chest. “I mean, I, um, came here to apologize to you, face-to-face. Over the phone didn’t feel like enough.” I clear my throat, hoping my tone has hit the right balance of contrite and assertive. Veering too far into the groveling end of the spectrum will only annoy her. “I’m embarrassed that I let you down at The Bexley, and I know you’re too smart to buy that it was only because of food poisoning,” I continue, my voice steadier. “I won’t bore you with the details, but our fertility issues have become a bit of a distraction lately. Which is not an excuse, Jordana. I know that. I just want you to have some of the context.”
It’s subtle, but I think I see her face soften.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Margo.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it. But I don’t want to dwell on that. I really, sincerely just want to tell you that I’m sorry, and that I hope we can move beyond this. We have so much history together, Jordana, and I’ve learned so much from you over the years. It would be a real shame, in my opinion, to throw that all away.” I pause to let that last bit breathe. “Of course, I respect that the final decision is entirely up to you.”
Jordana’s never easy to read, but I think I sound pretty convincing. She rocks back in her chair and crosses her arms.
“I agree, Margo. That would be a shame.”
A spark of relief catches inside me.
“But what happened to you yesterday?” she continues. “You practically hung up on me.”
“Right. That.” I sigh, offering just a hint of an exhausted smile. “I was driving, and about to pull over so I could give you my full attention, when I got rear-ended. The guy was a huge jerk about it, and by the time I was off the phone with the insurance company, I just felt like it would be much better to come in today and talk to you in person, when I was in the right headspace.”
Jordana appraises me, twin creases appearing between her perfectly gelled brows. I fold my hands in my lap so she doesn’t see them shaking.
“I would recommend at least sending a text next time,” she says finally. “Not that there canbea next time.”
I give a small laugh. “Of course not.”
“I do have some good news for you, though,” she says. “Mythos Group signed a retainer on Tuesday, and they were adamant that you be a part of The Bexley’s ongoing representation.”
I’m not sure I heard her correctly. For some reason, I look over my shoulder. Maybe I’m expecting a camera crew, like I’m being punked?
“Um, wow” is all I can get out.
“Chef was thrilled about his little feature in thePost,and Serina was flattered that you asked her to show off for those reporters before the event,” Jordana says. “Fortunately for you, I’m working on generosity with my life coach this month. So I resisted telling her that the cocktail tasting was my idea.”
“Thank you, Jordana, that’s amazing.”
“It is, isn’t it? Chef wants to do a seated media dinner soon, so you’ll need to start putting together an invite list and figuring out possible dates. We’ll need to book a photographer, too.”
I nod eagerly. “Absolutely, no problem.”
“Okay, well, congratulations,” she says. “Time to get back to work, I guess.”
She opens her laptop, my signal to leave. As I walk back to my office, it occurs to me that my job hasn’t been in jeopardy since Tuesday. Jordana let me sweat it out—for what? Her own amusement?
The lump stirs.
Taylor glares through the glass as I pass her again. I know she thinks she’s better than me. She always has. But I can’t get sidetracked with that nonsense now. I’m almost an hour behind schedule.
Tucked into my own office, I pull the list of Georgetown names from my work bag. I get up once more to double-check that my door is completely closed, and create a spreadsheet titled “Rivière Media Dinner” so I have something to click over to if Jordana drops by. Then I begin to dial.
I get lucky on the first call. Hunter Bennet works at a hedge fund in Connecticut. He answers from a treadmill in the company gym.
“Yeah, I took a couple classes with Professor Bradshaw,” he says, panting. “A lot of people thought he was kind of an asshole. Maybe your tipster is just bent out of shape over a bad grade or something.”
“Could be, but I really don’t think that’s it,” I say. “What about you? Did you think he was an asshole?”
