Dream On(85)

She did this on purpose. I know it. When she overheard me talking in the bathroom about the festival she must have connected the dots to Szymanski Enterprises. She probably thought she was pretty smart filtering the festival idea through Andréa so I wouldn’t find out she proposed it for our social. She didn’t count on Andréa handing the credit back to her at the moment of truth though.

The elevator dings, and the next group shuffles in. When the doors close, there are only four of us left in the lobby: me, Mercedes, and two junior partners I don’t know well. Narrowing my eyes at her, I pull my phone from my pocket and text Perry and Devin.

Just found out where my firm’s social is tomorrow, and you’re not going to believe it…



WE’RE GOING TO THE FESTIVAL



Perry

Are you serious??



Yep. The big boss just announced it.



Me and 20+ other attorneys from Smith & Boone will be there starting at noon.



Devin

Sweet, ’cause we could sure use your help



My gut twists.

I have to keep my participation on the DL, remember?



Perry

We can’t let anyone find out Cass helped plan this thing. Her job might depend on it. Got it, Dev?



Devin

Right, sorry. I forgot.



I’m in the middle of tapping out a response when the elevator doors open once again. Reluctantly, I return my phone to my pocket and step inside. The two junior partners are talking with their heads bent together, so Mercedes and I wind up standing next to each other in the back. She takes half a step away from me when the doors close. The elevator ascends.

“Congratulations on the winning idea, Mercedes,” I grate.

“Thank you,” she says primly, squeezing the small, narrow box in her clasped hands.

The elevator dings when we reach the second floor, and the junior partners step out. As soon as they’re out of sight and the doors close, I drop the fake smile and turn on her. “What are you playing at?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean suggesting the flower festival to Andréa for our summer social?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

I narrow my eyes at her. Is she trying to make me confess? Is her phone in her pocket set to secretly record me? At this point, I can’t count anything out. Shrugging, I turn away from her to face straight ahead. “Nothing, I guess.”

Staring resolutely at the elevator buttons, she licks her red lips. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t think Andréa would take the idea to Glenn. She asked me the other day if I had any fun plans for the weekend, and I mentioned I might swing by a flower festival in Ohio City, and she ran with it. I wasn’t trying to… make anyone’s life harder. I swear.”

I study her out of the corner of my eye. Her expression is as smooth and serene as always. But then she swallows, and I notice the tightness around her lips and the quiver in her jaw.

Is she… telling the truth?

The number three appears above the doors, and the second they open she fast-walks out without a backward glance. I stare after her for so long the doors start to close, and I have to shoulder my way through to force them to open again.

I am suddenly so over it. Over everything. The long hours, the cutthroat competition, the untrustworthy colleague who has me questioning her intentions when I have so many other, more important things to worry about.

Tonight—and the final surprise I have in store for Perry and his business—can’t come soon enough.

And then I just have to get through tomorrow.



* * *



“How did I let you talk me into this?” Brie mutters later that night, pulling her baseball cap lower down her forehead. Crickets chirp from the overgrown side yard, while the Twenty-Eighth Street warehouse’s white exterior shines in the dim streetlights.

My heart sinks. “If you’re having second thoughts, I don’t blame you. What we’re doing isn’t exactly legal, and—” I say, but she cuts me off.

“Oh no. Bring on the misdemeanor. I meant that.” She wrinkles her nose at the jars of paint lined up on the grass as though they hold arsenic instead of acrylics. Brie’s artistic skills extend to mathematical modeling and the occasional whimsical cross-stitch, and that’s about it. Art—more precisely, paint—has never been her thing.

“I’ll handle the painting. If you could just hand me what I need as I go and keep a lookout for bystanders, that would be great.”

Grinning, Brie rolls up the sleeves of her loose long-sleeved shirt. “No problem, boss. Bystanders, get ready to check yourself. Move along!” she shouts into the night. Her words bounce down the empty street, echoing off the darkened windows of Blooms & Baubles next door.

“Shhh. Are you nuts? I don’t want to get caught!”

“Oh, we’ll be fine. You’re not robbing an ATM, you’re painting a wall. Banksy does it all the time.”

“Banksy is an international icon. He can paint whatever and wherever he wants.”

She swats the air at what’s probably a mosquito. “Why are you doing this, anyway? I mean, it’s awesome, but this is the biggest risk I’ve ever seen you take—trespassing, defacing private property. Why do it? Do you like Perry that much?”