Read Online Love Proof (Laws of Attraction) by Elizabeth Ruston - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Ruston
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conditioning, treating, blowing it out with the dryer,
then straightening it with the iron. It was a process that could take as long
as an hour and a half sometimes if her hair was being particularly difficult.
She hoped today wasn’t one of those days. Angie was right: she needed more
sleep. Sleep and a long weekend off.
And a break from looking at Joe across a table all day long every day.
***
“Beautiful, huh?” the court reporter, Marcela, said as Sarah gazed at
the Wasatch mountains from the window of the hotel conference room. “Have you
ever skied here?” she asked.
“No, I don’t ski,” Sarah said. “Do you?”
“Once,” Marcela said. “That was enough. I forgot snow was so cold.”
Sarah smiled, just to be friendly, even though she didn’t really feel
like it. She hadn’t slept well. She felt edgy, irritable.
Joe’s Salt Lake City client was a woman in her thirties, well-groomed,
but with an unfortunately short haircut. It wasn’t the woman’s choice.
“I used to have hair down to here,” she cried, tears slipping down her
cheeks. Chapman had finally gotten around to asking a few relevant questions,
and was rewarded with copious weeping.
Oh, boy, Sarah thought, this one’s going to kill us in front of a jury.
And then the room started to go black.
It started at the edges of Sarah’s vision, like black bars, slowly
closing in. Then her ears began to buzz. She could feel sweat beading on her
face.
Sarah glanced down at her legal pad and tried to concentrate on the few
words she had written there, but the letters swam and wriggled out of focus.
When Sarah looked up again, she found Joe staring at her. She scowled,
but he wrinkled his forehead and kept looking.
“Off the record,” he said. Marcela stopped typing. “Sarah, are you
all right?”
“Of course I’m all right.” Even though she could feel the sweat
covering more of her body.
“Come with me,” Joe told her. To the rest of the people in the room he
said, “We’re taking a break.”
When Sarah didn’t immediately stand up—and why should she? He wasn’t
in charge of her—Joe came over and clasped her by the arm. “Come on,” he
said. “Now.”
Sarah slowly rose to her feet. “What are you—” But she couldn’t get
the rest of the sentence out. Because suddenly the room swayed, and Sarah
swayed with it. Joe braced his arm around her waist and escorted her out into
the hall.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Joe said, “You’re sick.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Sarah, look at you. You’re bleach white. There are black circles
under your eyes. You’re dripping sweat. Come on, where’s your room?”
It was true, she didn’t feel well—at all. But he had no right taking
charge of her like this. Sarah wrenched herself away. “I’m fine. I just need
to rest for a few minutes.”
As if accepting that as a signal, her legs began to give way. She
leaned back against the nearest wall and started to sink down.
Joe bent over, scooped his arm behind her knees, and lifted her off the
floor. Sarah drooped in his arms. Joe wrestled open the door of the
conference room and called to Marcela, “Get her things. Come with me.”
“What’s going on?” Chapman called, but Joe let the door swing shut
again.
“What room are you in?” he asked her again.
Sarah shook her head weakly. She wasn’t trying to be difficult, she
just honestly didn’t remember. After staying in so many different hotel rooms
over so many weeks, she had no hope of keeping it straight. She started storing
each day’s key inside the little envelope the clerk at the front desk gave her.
That way she could always refer to the room number written on the outside.
Marcela now joined them, holding Sarah’s purse and laptop case. Sarah
pointed to the purse.
“Key.”
Even that much effort felt monumental. Sarah had to rest her head
against
then straightening it with the iron. It was a process that could take as long
as an hour and a half sometimes if her hair was being particularly difficult.
She hoped today wasn’t one of those days. Angie was right: she needed more
sleep. Sleep and a long weekend off.
And a break from looking at Joe across a table all day long every day.
***
“Beautiful, huh?” the court reporter, Marcela, said as Sarah gazed at
the Wasatch mountains from the window of the hotel conference room. “Have you
ever skied here?” she asked.
“No, I don’t ski,” Sarah said. “Do you?”
“Once,” Marcela said. “That was enough. I forgot snow was so cold.”
Sarah smiled, just to be friendly, even though she didn’t really feel
like it. She hadn’t slept well. She felt edgy, irritable.
Joe’s Salt Lake City client was a woman in her thirties, well-groomed,
but with an unfortunately short haircut. It wasn’t the woman’s choice.
“I used to have hair down to here,” she cried, tears slipping down her
cheeks. Chapman had finally gotten around to asking a few relevant questions,
and was rewarded with copious weeping.
Oh, boy, Sarah thought, this one’s going to kill us in front of a jury.
And then the room started to go black.
It started at the edges of Sarah’s vision, like black bars, slowly
closing in. Then her ears began to buzz. She could feel sweat beading on her
face.
Sarah glanced down at her legal pad and tried to concentrate on the few
words she had written there, but the letters swam and wriggled out of focus.
When Sarah looked up again, she found Joe staring at her. She scowled,
but he wrinkled his forehead and kept looking.
“Off the record,” he said. Marcela stopped typing. “Sarah, are you
all right?”
“Of course I’m all right.” Even though she could feel the sweat
covering more of her body.
“Come with me,” Joe told her. To the rest of the people in the room he
said, “We’re taking a break.”
When Sarah didn’t immediately stand up—and why should she? He wasn’t
in charge of her—Joe came over and clasped her by the arm. “Come on,” he
said. “Now.”
Sarah slowly rose to her feet. “What are you—” But she couldn’t get
the rest of the sentence out. Because suddenly the room swayed, and Sarah
swayed with it. Joe braced his arm around her waist and escorted her out into
the hall.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Joe said, “You’re sick.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Sarah, look at you. You’re bleach white. There are black circles
under your eyes. You’re dripping sweat. Come on, where’s your room?”
It was true, she didn’t feel well—at all. But he had no right taking
charge of her like this. Sarah wrenched herself away. “I’m fine. I just need
to rest for a few minutes.”
As if accepting that as a signal, her legs began to give way. She
leaned back against the nearest wall and started to sink down.
Joe bent over, scooped his arm behind her knees, and lifted her off the
floor. Sarah drooped in his arms. Joe wrestled open the door of the
conference room and called to Marcela, “Get her things. Come with me.”
“What’s going on?” Chapman called, but Joe let the door swing shut
again.
“What room are you in?” he asked her again.
Sarah shook her head weakly. She wasn’t trying to be difficult, she
just honestly didn’t remember. After staying in so many different hotel rooms
over so many weeks, she had no hope of keeping it straight. She started storing
each day’s key inside the little envelope the clerk at the front desk gave her.
That way she could always refer to the room number written on the outside.
Marcela now joined them, holding Sarah’s purse and laptop case. Sarah
pointed to the purse.
“Key.”
Even that much effort felt monumental. Sarah had to rest her head
against
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