Just the Sexiest Man Alive(18)
After hanging up the phone, Taylor leaned back in her chair, suddenly feeling very tired. But right then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Linda hesitating in the doorway.
Seeming to sense she had caught Taylor at a bad time, Linda smiled awkwardly. “Sorry. But Mr. Blakely wants to see you. Immediately.”
A slight pit formed in Taylor’s stomach. “Immediately” never boded well for an associate at a large law firm. It generally meant you had either royally screwed something up or were about to be assigned an emergency TRO.
With that in mind, Taylor nodded. She put her game face back on and quieted the butterflies in her stomach. She stood up and gracefully smoothed out her skirt.
Then she headed down the hallway to the head partner’s office.
Six
SHE COULDN’T DO it.
It was late that evening, and Taylor sat in her car, the silver Chrysler PT Cruiser she had rented for her stay in Los Angeles, outside some bar called Reilly’s Tavern. She tried to figure out if there was any chance she could finesse her way out of her current situation. Thinking back to the stern look Sam had given her, she seriously doubted it.
From the moment she had walked into Sam’s office earlier that afternoon, she could tell they weren’t there to discuss an emergency TRO. Partners doled those out as merrily as Santa’s elves with candy canes, while Sam on the other hand, appeared far from happy when Taylor took a seat in front of his desk.
“I got a call today,” he began in a serious tone. “Would you mind telling me what the problem is with the Andrews Project?” Sam peered down at her from the perch of his desk chair.
Oh, for crying out loud, Taylor had wanted to shout. He’s just an actor.
But seeing the look on Sam’s face, she instead attempted to smooth things over. “Sam, I just don’t think I’m well suited for this type of project. I’m sure whoever you assign next will be far—”
Sam cut her off abruptly. “Jason Andrews doesn’t want anyone else. His people told me that he specifically said he wants to work with you.”
Taylor found herself growing even more annoyed by this. His “people”? Oh, far be it that the mighty movie star actually pick up a phone himself. Lazy, she thought to herself. Arrogant. Self-centered, condescending, patronizing—
She noticed Sam staring at her, and suddenly wondered whether she’d been speaking out loud.
Taylor regrouped. Surely she could make Sam understand the merits of her position. “Look—it’s just some stupid pride thing with him. Trust me, Jason Andrews will get over it. Plus, I’m in the middle of preparing for a trial. I know I don’t need to remind you of the stakes in this case against the EEOC. Now simply isn’t a good time for me—”
Sam cut her off again. “Taylor, I respect you completely. I think you’re the most talented young lawyer this firm has seen, so please don’t take it the wrong way when I say that I frankly don’t give a damn what your issue is.”
He held up a hand when he saw Taylor about to speak. “Jason Andrews is a very important client of this firm. We do his taxes, and we’ve been trying to get his litigation business for years. The guy sues anyone and everyone who prints bullshit about him.”
Taylor looked up at the ceiling, trying to remain quiet. From what she had seen so far, she doubted much of it was bullshit.
Then Sam leaned forward in his chair. He peered down at her with a firm expression and said words that sent chills running down her spine.
“You go back to Jason Andrews. And you fix this.”
AND SO HERE she was five hours later, sitting in her car parked on some random street in West Hollywood. Taylor peered through her windshield to get a better look at the bar, and wondered what kind of name Reilly’s Tavern was for a hot celebrity hangout. She rechecked the address on the Post-it note Linda had handed her to make sure she was at the right place.
Taylor tapped her fingers nervously on the steering wheel. The thought of crawling back to Jason Andrews was just so humiliating. It infuriated her that, due to his “status” (which she doubted was the product of little more than sheer looks and being in the right place at the right time), people automatically gave him such deference—that with one snap of his fingers, she was expected to smile politely and apologize to him.
Hopefully Jason Andrews knows the Heimlich, Taylor thought to herself. Because she most definitely was going to choke on her words.
Realizing she couldn’t sit in front of the bar all night, she got out of her car and strode briskly in her heels to the front door of Reilly’s Tavern. A quick peek in the window told her that she’d been very wrong—the bar by no means was any sort of hot celebrity hangout.
As Taylor opened the door and stepped in, she felt as though she’d been transported back to the south side of Chicago, back to one of her father’s off-duty cop hangouts. Decked out in aging mahogany wood, Reilly’s Tavern was part sports bar, part Irish pub—complete with dartboards, pool tables, and two small televisions (both showing the same basketball game) mounted over the bar. The after-work crowd consisted almost entirely of middle-aged men, many still in their service or government uniforms.
Definitely the type of crowd who wouldn’t notice a celebrity in their bar, Taylor thought, and probably wouldn’t care even if they did. Maybe that was the point.
She stood hesitantly in the doorway, scanning the faces of the men seated at the bar, who in turn stared right back at her. Clearly, womenfolk didn’t often frequent this particular establishment.