Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(13)
A yawn escapes me and I taper it off with a loud groan and a mutter of, “Yes to coffee.” It’s going to take time to adjust to early morning starts. After years of crashing with the sunrise and taking only afternoon classes, my body is suffering right now. First things first, though . . . I pick up the phone and punch the keys without thought. I memorized this number when I was four years old and I’ve been dialing it every day for years. Normally around dinnertime, though.
I’m hoping she’s on the back porch, drinking her cup of Earl Grey tea and checking her email on her iPad. I smile at the memory of teaching my fifty-one-year-old mom how to use that thing.
Unfortunately, it’s not she who answers.
Knots instantly spring into my neck. “Hey.”
A grunt responds.
“Is mom around?”
“Out in the grove.”
She should be back by now. She’s always up at the ass-crack of dawn to do her rounds, checking the trees. “Have you gone out to make sure she’s okay?” Ever since that mild heart attack seven months ago, I’ve been worried about her being alone out there for too long.
“She’s fine.”
“All right. Let her know I called.” He won’t. I guess I’ll have to call back later anyway.
“Where are you calling from?”
I wonder what the caller display says. Hell, that’s probably why he answered in the first place. Because he didn’t know he’d be talking to his son. “Warner—the law firm I’m working at now.” Mama probably didn’t bother to tell him that I finished law school.
“Never heard of it.”
I bite back a sigh of exasperation. Despite its small size, Warner is one of the most reputable law firms in the state. Five generations of Warners have owned it, holding some prime real estate in the downtown Miami core. According to my research, Jack brought in a partner—his best friend—and for ten years, they worked together as Warner & Steele, exploding the client list by more than double. They parted ways some years back when he bought the other partner out.
In any case, I wouldn’t expect my dad to know a law firm from a donut shop. He’s just trying to needle me. “Later.” I hang up and head out in search of that cup of coffee before he has a chance to put me in a bad mood. He’s the only person capable of doing that.
The Warner office itself is a mix of new and old—modern light gray walls, mahogany wall-to-wall bookshelves and desks, open-concept desks in the center of the room, fishbowl offices lining the outskirts. It’s as if someone decided to redecorate but ran out of either money or creativity. Jack did mention something about renovating in the winter. The place seems fine to me, but I’m a twenty-five-year-old who lives with five other guys and would come to work in board shorts if he could.
The office isn’t huge or complicated and it takes no time to find the break room, though I play the “first day” card and let an adorable law clerk lead me there, smiling and blushing at me the entire way as I watch her curvy ass sway. I have an appreciation for the many shapes and sizes of the female form. The old me—as in two days ago—would probably have her number by now. The new me is trying something different. Specifically, he’s trying not to hit on every female he finds attractive.
Heading back to my office—a coffee mug in one hand and someone’s homemade muffin in the other—I survey the desks out in the open where the administrative staff sits. From the looks of the pictures and knickknacks, it’s mostly women. Mostly married with kids. Many in their forties or beyond. Man, what a different world this is from Penny’s, where I was taunted by bare tits and ass from every angle! At least that makes it easier to keep my pants on around here and try to act like a responsible adult.
Because that’s what I am. Ben Morris, Esquire. Well, almost. Either way, I like the sound of that.
Passing by a small office almost directly across from mine, a picture on the wall catches my attention. My feet falter as I smile fondly at the framed Pearl Jam album cover, thinking back to that crazy purple-haired fake marine biologist, Jill.
Damn, that girl was something else.
After stripping off my puke-covered clothes and tossing them over the balcony, I stretched out on the bed and waited for her to emerge from the bathroom, dying for a shower. I even considered going over to Kent’s room, but I didn’t want to leave her alone in there. I guess I passed out because the next thing I knew, the sun was beating down on my face through the window and Jill was gone.
Not even a note.
At least she didn’t rob me. Or kill me.
I tried finding her, but after charming one of the front desk girls into searching the hotel guest list, no one by the name of Jill came up. It was obviously registered to one of her friends and I didn’t remember their names. The resort was too damn big to go searching, especially when I had to rush to repack everything she had scattered before catching my plane home.
I’m not gonna lie—for a couple of weeks after, I searched for a purple-haired girl named Jill on Facebook. Partly because I wanted to say sorry for laughing. Mostly because she was a lot of fun and I wouldn’t have minded hooking up with her again. Minus the puke. I didn’t tell the guys what really happened. As far as they know, it was balls-deep as usual for me that night.
The cotton-candy-pink sweater hanging over the back of the chair makes me think this is a female’s office, but everything else disputes that. Folders sit in piles on the desk, on the floor, on boxes, on the spare chair. Where there aren’t folders, there’s scattered mail and junk. Multiple Starbucks paper cups sit by the desk phone, next to an open box of Oreo cookies and a bag of beef jerky. A crumpled bag of chips and crushed cans of Red Bull surround the trash bin.