Page 16 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“A written contract,” he observes.

“A simple agreement,” I counter.

Amusement has crept into his features, quirking his mouth enough to hint at a dimple.

“Is this the price every guy pays when he buys you a drink?”

I meet his stare without wavering, though I feel a bit called out. I have in fact been known to establish written guidelines in serious – and casual – relationships, back when I was actually dating. Most guys were skeptical at first. One even tried to turn it into an odd roleplay sort of thing. (“I’ll sign your affidavit, but I can’t pay my court fees. Surely we can work something out?” Wink, wink.) I was game until he tried to get clever with a cringe-worthy pun involving his erection and pro bono, at which point I knew written guidelines weren’t enough to save us. The point is, anyone who can’t appreciate boundaries isn’t the one – or the one-night-stand – for me. It makes me feel weirdly transparent, though, to think that Quentin suspects this about me.

“When he shows up to my office and my apartment building all within the same week?” I challenge. “Yes. Yes, I do. You’re probably lucky it isn’t a restraining order.”

He exhales a mirthless laugh. “I can’t say much about this has felt lucky.”

“What do you mean? You waltzed into town and found yourself in a corner office, already vying for a fancy promotion. Sounds pretty lucky to me.”

“I’ve barely been here a week, and I’m already dodging awkward family situations at a bar and meeting an amazingly smart, sexy woman who I hoped wanted to date me but turned out to be my colleague and now thinks I’m a conniving sleazebag.”

“Sleazebag?” I grimace. I can tell he was hoping I might hang on a few other key words in that sentence.

“You know what I mean.”

I chew the inside of my lip, considering. “You really didn’t know?”

He gives me a desperate look that lets me know he’s done answering this question if I’m not going to believe him.

“I’m a good guy, Heidi. A good attorney. Let me prove it to you. We can go back to the office right now and hammer out the details of this agreement if that’s what you want.”

I don’t know why I’m so tempted. I’ve been looking forward to lounging braless on my couch with a glass of wine, some case notes, and new episodes of my latest guilty pleasure TV show all day. Why am I entertaining walking all the way back to the office in this heat, in these heels, with this guy?

Somehow, I can imagine us settling comfortably into the conference room. Laughing as we make revisions over each others’ shoulders. Ordering in dinner. Putting enough of our expectations on paper that we can turn everything between us into something mutually beneficial. Something straightforward. Something that won’t eventually split us in two.

I swallow past the feeling and swipe my key fob before pressing the button for the seventh floor. I’m relieved when he does the same and makes his selection for ten. At least I can feel satisfied with the knowledge that there are three whole floors between us. The lift begins to rise.

“I’ll have a draft on your desk first thing tomorrow,” I tell him.

“Fair enough,” he says. “Just don’t try to write me off the case, okay? No hidden clauses. No rolling concessions. No bribery. I still want the partnership. There’s no scenario in which you’re changing my mind about this.”

I’m rightfully offended.

“As much as I would love for you to be off this case, that’s not how I do things.”

“Maybe you could tell me how you do things over dinner? Purely professional, of course.”

I get off at my floor and slide the cage door closed behind me with Quentin watching me. His head is tilted slightly to the side, pieces of his hair are falling free, and I wonder if he is thinking some version of the same thing I am: how easy it would have been to continue texting, flirting, imagining that we were the kind of people who could actually keep that rooftop dinner date.

“Not free until September, remember?” I smile.

“Can’t fault me for trying.”

I laugh, calling over my shoulder just before he begins to disappear. “After tomorrow I might.”

5.

Avid Records is tucked into the outskirts of downtown, where the modern touches of gentrification mingle with the squatty, rundown window-front buildings of the 1970s. Basic block lettering stretches across a paneled awning, identifying this as the well-known recording studio and not just another random chicken wing joint or pawn shop, though the place has the same curb appeal. Looking at it from the outside, it might be hard to imagine that a consumer-driven twenty-something like Gigi Russo would be fighting for half of it. The attorney’s fees alone might seem as though they would amount to more than the entire plot is worth.

The reality is that she knows what many in the music industry know, which is that Avid is a hidden gem, one of Memphis’s claims to music fame. These wood-paneled hallways are lined with photos of low-key legends smoking in the live room and behind-the-scenes greats grinning as they lounge around the ancient, Frankenstein’s monster of a soundboard. There’s a reverence to it, and you don’t have to have a well-researched musical opinion to know it. You can sense it in a single conversation with Teddy Glass.

Quentin is waiting for me when I arrive, leaning against the hood of a new BMW with a stack of papers in hand. I park my SUV in what I assume is a designated space, though the painted lines have long since faded into the cracked concrete. I arm myself with the oversized cold brew from my cup holder before climbing out.

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