The Fastest Way to Fall(107)

Twenty-five minutes later and before rushing back to my office, I smiled at Maddie, whose philandering ex-husband was not as covert in his affairs as he’d hoped. He’d chosen the wrong woman to underestimate.

“Everything should be finalized by the end of the month.” I shook Maddie’s hand to interrupt the hug coming my way and shared her smile. One point for the wronged woman and one more win for me. I popped a Butter Rum LifeSaver in my mouth and rushed down the hall, trying not to look like I was rushing, even though it was four fifteen and there was no way I was going to be the usual fifteen minutes early I considered to be on time. The candy gave me the quick rush of sugar I’d wanted all afternoon and a brief moment of bliss. The moment didn’t last long.

“RJ.” The smoky voice of one of the senior partners left me cursing in my head as I turned to greet her. Gretchen Vanderkin-Shaw would have scared the crap out of me if I didn’t admire her so much. Okay, she still scared the crap out of me, but as a named partner before forty with a success rate through the roof, she was a force to be reckoned with, and she liked me. Gretchen was the lawyer I wanted to be, and I was gathering my courage to ask her to be my mentor.

She nodded toward the conference room. “The Anderson case?”

“We were able to come to a resolution that worked in our favor.” That was code for crushing them like tiny little bugs and then doing a victory dance that involved some light professional twerking.

She nodded, a faint smile on her lips, because I’d learned the victory dance from her. “Excellent. Eric mentioned you wanting to talk to me. I have a free hour now.”

I stole a quick glance at my watch, because nine times out of ten, if Gretchen asked to meet, we did. Hell, if she’d asked me to hop, I would have.

“Do you have somewhere to be?”

I could have lied and said I had a conference call or a client meeting, but what was the point? Everything I was doing was because the firm wanted to keep a client happy. Well, mostly. “I have to be downtown at five.”

Her mouth formed into a thin line, and I knew she’d decoded my reason for needing to be downtown. She nodded. “Well, you better go. You know how I feel about this, though, RJ. You’re better than some publicity stunt.”

I fumbled with a response, biting my lower lip. That wasn’t characteristic for me—I embraced the power pose, I held my shoulders back and chin up on the regular, and I never backed down from anything. I made powerful people want to cower, and I was good at it. She was right, I was better than a publicity stunt; but I had to admit, I enjoyed this particular stunt. “Thank you for checking in. I’ll talk to your assistant and make an appointment.”

I hurried into the back of a waiting Uber, with plans to change clothes modestly in the back seat. Was I telling myself I would be modest knowing that I was about to give anyone looking a bit of a show? Absolutely.


Penny: Where are you?

RJ: On my way. There’s traffic.

Penny: You’re killing me.



I sent her the knife emoji. This is my life now. Event planners harassing me as I strip down in the back of an Uber. I was going to have waffles for dinner, my favorite, and I had a bottle of special maple syrup a client had given me as a thank-you. I had to get through this thing, and a relaxing night was ahead of me. My phone buzzed again from the seat as I brushed powder onto my cheeks and checked my edges in a compact.


Penny: But I love you.

RJ: I know.

RJ: You have the mic set up how I like?

    Penny: Yes, but if you’re late, you’re getting a handheld with a tangled cord.



I pulled out the binder where I’d prepared my script. All the pages were in plastic covers, a copy of all pertinent information in the back folder and a Post-it note reminding me of everyone’s names tucked in the front. I climbed from the car and repeated the opening phrase to myself as I hurried toward the stairs of the venue. I spoke part of the line to myself. “. . . the promise of hope between two people who love each other sincerely, who—”

Without warning, I was hurtling toward the sidewalk, not sure whether I should try to save myself, my bag, or the notes. I clutched the binder to my chest as I hit the concrete, my leg scraping and my palm stinging with the impact. The clothes I’d hurriedly shoved in my bag after changing fluttered around me, and I took in the large form of the man who’d run into me.

In a movie, this would be a charming meet-cute. The tall guy, his features obscured by the sun at his back, would lean down and help me up. Our eyes would meet. He’d apologize, I’d take note of something like the depth of his voice or the tickle of the hair on his forearms, and we’d be off. That might have happened for other people, but I was not in the market for cute, and now I was about to arrive late and bruised to perform this couple’s wedding.