The Hot One(12)

“That’s great. But what about the final points?” he asks, in a reedy voice, nerves getting the better of him. “I haven’t slept at all since this has been going on.”

“Relax, Jay. Working with me is like an Ambien. I’ll get you there, and you’ll have sweet dreams, too. I promise.”

“You sure?” he asks, his voice wobbling.

“Trust me. I’ve got your back. We’ll seal this up soon,” I say, then reassure him some more as I walk toward Columbus Circle. Sometimes with clients, my job is being their shark, their shield, their lubricant, their hawk, their watchdog, and their therapist. Jay seems to need all of the above, but especially my psychotherapy skills today. Mostly, I manage those by steering him to a heated debate about which NBA team is having the best season so far.

I say good-bye when I reach my building, telling him I won’t even bill him for the head-shrinking.

“Thanks, man. And the Lakers suck.”

“Ouch,” I say, but I’m glad he seems to feel good enough to trash-talk.

Once inside the offices of Nichols & Nichols, I say hello to Holly, our perky new receptionist, who’s studying at night to become a paralegal.

“How’s it going, Holly? Any messages for me?” I ask as I stretch my neck from side to side. Too much time reading contracts makes it stiff. “Need me to quiz you on anything?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “No to both, but maybe later?”

I bang my fists on the edge of the high desk, then point at her. “Count on it.”

“Oh, quiz me now, Tyler. Please, please, quiz me now on intellectual property.”

The deep British voice mocks me as I turn to Oliver, our newest associate, who loves to give me a hard time. Especially since he thinks I flirt with Holly. But I don’t. I respect her—the woman is working her ass off trying to advance her career, and all I want to do is help her.

He walks into the reception area, debonair as always in his suit. The accent helps, obviously.

“Here’s a question for you, Edgecombe,” I say, using his last name as I give my tall, dark-haired colleague a stern look. “If my last name’s on the sign, would that make it my property or yours?”

Oliver clasps his hands to his chest, like I’ve shot him. “Oh, the wound. The intellectual wound. It hurts so very much.”

I wave him off as I head down the hall. “Get back to work on your IP deals.”

A second later, he pops into my office. “By the way, great advice on the Newton deal. The studio loved it, and so did the client.”

I park myself in a chair. “Excellent news. I guess we’ll keep you on staff, in spite of your surly attitude.”

Oliver flashes a huge smile. “So surly.” He blows me a kiss, then whispers, “Behave around Holly.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to worry about that, Edgecombe.”

After he leaves I settle in at my desk and track down the salad bar next to Delaney’s spa.

An hour later, her lunch is delivered to Nirvana, courtesy of me, and her meal is full of all her favorite things.

Two hours later, I’m rewarded with a Facebook ding and a message. When I open it, I grin proudly. She sent me a GIF of a dancing carrot.

I take that as a cue to call her. “So, is it safe to assume you don’t have a boyfriend?” I say as I kick my feet up on my desk and lean back in the leather chair. Might as well get the possible hurdles out of the way.

She laughs. “I wouldn’t have accepted the lilacs or the salad if I did.”

“Didn’t think you would, but I do like to confirm important details like that. Oh, and while we’re on the topic, I’m one hundred percent single, too, so feel free to say yes to drinks.”

Another laugh lands softly on my ears. “Yes, Tyler. The salad was delicious. Thank you so much for sending it to me.”

I smile. “Fine. Tell me all about that salad before you say yes to the drinks,” I say, with a hint of a dirty tone of voice. “Was it crunchy? Was it healthy?”

She answers in an equally flirty tone. “You know little excites me more than a crisp green salad. It was all of the above, and it had the best Green Goddess dressing in all of a ten-block radius.”

“What more can you ask for when it comes to lunch?”

“Only that it turn into a bowl of cereal,” she says wistfully. “Hey, speaking of cereal, I keep meaning to ask what’s up with your profile picture on Facebook?”

“You like the laser-eyes feline?”

“It’s cute and completely bizarre. Naturally, I love it.”

“It’s a cartoon from one of my clients. Nick Hammer. Creator of The Adventures of Mister Orgasm and—”

“Naughty Puppet Theater Presents Dirty Girl Mechanic. I love his new show. It’s hilarious, and I’ve seen every single episode.”

“I’ll let him know you’re a fan. He loves hearing that.” I set my feet on the floor and spin lazily in my office chair. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I met Nick?”

“I don’t think so,” she says curiously. “He didn’t go to Brown with us did, he?”

“No, he was an RISD guy. That’s where I met him. I saw him drawing at the RISD museum when I was there for a class one day—an art history elective. He was sketching a caricature of a Jackson Pollock.”