Page 58 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Optimistic, aren’t we?” Bernadette teases.

I flip open the folder, scanning the intake form. It looks like a run-of-the-mill divorce consultation. She’s claiming at fault. I could do this in my sleep. In fact, lately, I have been doing these in my sleep. Apparently when I finally crash into my oversized bed alone each night, discussions about financial assets and equitable division are all my subconscious can come up with. Unless you count the occasional appearance of a very shirtless dream-like version of Quentin Maxwell, which I do not.

“The benefit of doing these nonstop is that I’m getting good enough to shave precious seconds off my time,” I smirk. “If I’m not done in twenty minutes, order me the cobb salad from the cafe downstairs?”

“You got it,” she grins, simultaneously typing out an email and pressing one of the switchboard buttons on her phone, talking into her headset. “Freeman, Maxwell, and Lewis…” she chirps as I walk away.

I tuck the folder under my arm and navigate toward the conference room near the elevators. It’s the one I shared with Quentin that night we watched the fireworks. Of course it is. As much as I’ve tried to forget about our little run-in, occasionally I catch a flash of that heart-flipping feeling that I got when he looked at me all searching and hungry. I can still hear the sexy tone of his voice, still feel my fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt.

“Things expressly prohibited by our agreement.”

Warmth creeps up my neck as I think about it, partly because I feel stupid for having done any of it in the first place, but also because I desperately want to do it again. Add that to the long list of things I’d fight someone before I admitted out loud. I find myself in the perpetual position of having to break the news to myself.

Sorry, Heidi. Never gonna happen.

Sure, it doesn’t feel fair, but so what? Life’s not fair. And Quentin? Quentin’s definitely not fair.

I’m tucking the thought back into the recesses of my mind as I let myself through the door. Like all of our conference rooms, there’s frosted glass along the bottom half, so I can’t see my client until I’m already in the room. I’m already halfway through introductions when I register that she – Ms. Ashley Kate James, a brunette in tennis whites that I’d place in her late thirties – is sitting beside a very sulky looking elementary-aged child.

“Oh,” I say, coming up short. “And who do we have here?”

“My daughter, Emma,” Ms. James says, waving her hand as if the little girl’s presence is inconsequential.

I glance at her again, taking note of the way her round cheeks are tinged pink. I’d almost think she’d spent too much time in the sun recently, except that this particular color looks a lot more like simmering resentment. Her big brown eyes stare at me somewhat defiantly before dropping to the table.

“How old are you, Emma?” I offer.

“Seven,” she says without looking up.

Chills run up my arms. Seven. It echoes in my ears like a heartbeat.

“I had to let our nanny go recently, you know. I guess that’s what I get for not listening to my mother when she told me the only thing they’re good for is sleeping with your husband behind your back!” Ms. James titters out a laugh with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway, it’s really put a twist in my schedule this summer. This whole thing has honestly been a nightmare, as I’m sure you understand. But Emma’s fine. She won’t be any trouble. Right, babe?”

Emma doesn’t respond. I force myself to arrange my face into something resembling professionalism.

“This won’t take long,” I say amiably. “I can set her up in one of the chairs by reception.”

“Oh no, it’s fine. Really,” Ms. James says. “She’s heard it all before!”

“I’m sure she has,” I say. My even smile adds, And it’s definitely not fine.

“Well, I’m a modern woman. I’m not ashamed to admit it,” she continues. “My husband left us. She deserves to know the truth.”

The truth, I think bitterly.

I lean across the table, pressing a button on the conference phone positioned between us. Bernadette’s voice fills the room a moment later.

“Yes, Ms. Krupp?”

“We’ve got a young guest who’s going to hang out with you while we get through this paperwork,” I say. “Can you send someone to escort her?”

“Yes, ma’am. Be right there.”

I can sense that Ms. Ashley Kate James is not pleased with this. Her expression is wide-eyed and bordering on manic.

“This is really unnecessary,” she tells me. That nervous laugh edges her voice.

A moment later there’s a knock on the door. I expect an assistant. Instead, I see Quentin on the other side of the glass. I blink at him, wondering how or why he’s standing here right now. I will him to go away. Instead, he opens the door.

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