know how to make plans for a romantic reunion.
Where did that come from?
Libido meltdown, I decided as I returned to my office. I could make a list a mile long as to why I should put Liam in my “don’t even go there” file. But something about those ice blue eyes kept drawing me back.
Putting my fantasies on hold, I sat at my desk and checked my e-mail. I nearly groaned when I saw the one from Mary Beth. She was inviting me to a scrapbooking party at her house Thursday night. Tomorrow. Shit.
After hitting REPLY, I struggled to find a polite way to tell her to kiss off. I didn’t want to lie. First, I’m a terrible liar, and I’d get caught. If I said something like “I’m visiting a sick friend,” Mary Beth would want details, then she’d send flowers and probably host a fund-raiser. I could try the general “other plans” excuse, but a week from now she’d inquire about those plans and I’d probably choke and forget whatever lame-ass thing I’d said.
Thing. I smiled. “Thank you, Liam,” I mumbled as I typed in my reply: Thanks, Mary Beth, but I have a thing on Thursday. Maybe next time. Regards, Finley.
The “thing” was convenient as hell. Vague but effective.
One problem solved. Now on to the other thorn in my side.
Pulling out the file, I dialed Stacy Evans and felt almost giddy with relief when the call went straight to voice mail.
I told her I was sorry I’d missed her and that I’d be in touch in the morning.
My e-mail dinged. It was Mary Beth, letting me know she was sorry I couldn’t attend. Beneath her name was a smiley face with big tears spilling down that made a loud splat sound as they fell.
Stacking the information about José Vasquez off to one side, I went back to the D’Auria estate accounting. I ran the inventory totals a dozen times and still couldn’t recon-cile the numbers. I cursed, tried one last time, then reached for the phone.
Jane Spencer is more than my friend, she’s an invest-ment broker and tax analyst to boot. Jane is a walking contradiction. She’s a card-carrying member of Mensa but looks more like one of the Spice Girls. Posh Spice to be exact. Tall and willowy, with long, dark hair and chocolate-colored eyes. But beneath that never-misses-a-morning-workout, funky exterior is a certifiable geek. A geek who will free me from the shackles of accounting hell.
Her assistant put me right through.
“Patrick cancelled?” she asked.
“No, I’m really sorry about tonight. As I remember, you blew off lunch yesterday.”
“For work. That doesn’t count.”
“But since you brought up work, I need help.”
I heard Jane expel a breath. “It’s tax season, Finley. I’m up to my eyeballs in ten-ninety-nines. Doesn’t your fancy-schmancy law firm have accountants?”
“Not wonderful ones who I let borrow my very favorite pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.”
“That was a year ago,” Jane said on a small laugh. “I think I’ve more than worked off that footwear debt.”
“It’s not a big thing,” I insisted. “I just need you to go over some figures for me.”
There was a brief pause, then she said, “Okay. I can meet you for coffee . . .” Another pause, and I knew she was flipping through her ever present Week-at-aGlance.
“Monday.”
I grimaced. “It’s due to the clerk of court on Friday.”
“Christ, Finley, nothing like waiting until the last possible second.”
“I know, I know. Please don’t make me file an extension. The heirs are expecting their money, and if they don’t get it, they’ll complain to my boss and then I’ll get fired.
I’ll end up homeless, with nothing to eat but government-issue peanut butter and cheese.”
“No, you won’t.”
I relaxed. “Because my dear friend is going to help me?”
“Because the government only gives peanut butter and cheese to WIC families.”
“Please?”
“Actually, peanut butter and cheese would be an improvement over your normal diet.”
“Are you going to help
Where did that come from?
Libido meltdown, I decided as I returned to my office. I could make a list a mile long as to why I should put Liam in my “don’t even go there” file. But something about those ice blue eyes kept drawing me back.
Putting my fantasies on hold, I sat at my desk and checked my e-mail. I nearly groaned when I saw the one from Mary Beth. She was inviting me to a scrapbooking party at her house Thursday night. Tomorrow. Shit.
After hitting REPLY, I struggled to find a polite way to tell her to kiss off. I didn’t want to lie. First, I’m a terrible liar, and I’d get caught. If I said something like “I’m visiting a sick friend,” Mary Beth would want details, then she’d send flowers and probably host a fund-raiser. I could try the general “other plans” excuse, but a week from now she’d inquire about those plans and I’d probably choke and forget whatever lame-ass thing I’d said.
Thing. I smiled. “Thank you, Liam,” I mumbled as I typed in my reply: Thanks, Mary Beth, but I have a thing on Thursday. Maybe next time. Regards, Finley.
The “thing” was convenient as hell. Vague but effective.
One problem solved. Now on to the other thorn in my side.
Pulling out the file, I dialed Stacy Evans and felt almost giddy with relief when the call went straight to voice mail.
I told her I was sorry I’d missed her and that I’d be in touch in the morning.
My e-mail dinged. It was Mary Beth, letting me know she was sorry I couldn’t attend. Beneath her name was a smiley face with big tears spilling down that made a loud splat sound as they fell.
Stacking the information about José Vasquez off to one side, I went back to the D’Auria estate accounting. I ran the inventory totals a dozen times and still couldn’t recon-cile the numbers. I cursed, tried one last time, then reached for the phone.
Jane Spencer is more than my friend, she’s an invest-ment broker and tax analyst to boot. Jane is a walking contradiction. She’s a card-carrying member of Mensa but looks more like one of the Spice Girls. Posh Spice to be exact. Tall and willowy, with long, dark hair and chocolate-colored eyes. But beneath that never-misses-a-morning-workout, funky exterior is a certifiable geek. A geek who will free me from the shackles of accounting hell.
Her assistant put me right through.
“Patrick cancelled?” she asked.
“No, I’m really sorry about tonight. As I remember, you blew off lunch yesterday.”
“For work. That doesn’t count.”
“But since you brought up work, I need help.”
I heard Jane expel a breath. “It’s tax season, Finley. I’m up to my eyeballs in ten-ninety-nines. Doesn’t your fancy-schmancy law firm have accountants?”
“Not wonderful ones who I let borrow my very favorite pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.”
“That was a year ago,” Jane said on a small laugh. “I think I’ve more than worked off that footwear debt.”
“It’s not a big thing,” I insisted. “I just need you to go over some figures for me.”
There was a brief pause, then she said, “Okay. I can meet you for coffee . . .” Another pause, and I knew she was flipping through her ever present Week-at-aGlance.
“Monday.”
I grimaced. “It’s due to the clerk of court on Friday.”
“Christ, Finley, nothing like waiting until the last possible second.”
“I know, I know. Please don’t make me file an extension. The heirs are expecting their money, and if they don’t get it, they’ll complain to my boss and then I’ll get fired.
I’ll end up homeless, with nothing to eat but government-issue peanut butter and cheese.”
“No, you won’t.”
I relaxed. “Because my dear friend is going to help me?”
“Because the government only gives peanut butter and cheese to WIC families.”
“Please?”
“Actually, peanut butter and cheese would be an improvement over your normal diet.”
“Are you going to help
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