Unbreakable (City Lights, #2)(7)
A mahogany teller counter stretched across half the main area’s length—buzzing with personnel. To the right, rows of desks bearing green-shaded lamps were occupied with bankers and customers who had come to discuss loans or mortgages. The waiting area before these desks was also filled with people. The tall-ceilinged room echoed with at least fifty voices.
I took my place in the teller queue behind a tall blond man in jeans and a rugged brown jacket. The whiff of perfume—I recognized Burberry—filled my nose as a beautiful, immaculately dressed young woman of Indian heritage stepped in line behind me. She spoke animatedly to seemingly no one; her Bluetooth device hidden underneath her shoulder-length hair.
I settled in to wait, wondering if I should be making my own calls to Abed, to make sure nothing was going haywire with any of my cases. But he knew me well: waiting until I came into the office to give me news was a bad idea. I checked my cell phone for messages and saw none. No word from my team, and nothing from the court’s clerk that told me a verdict had been reached.
I eased a sigh and then tightened up again when I realized I hadn’t filled out the withdrawal form, or whatever the hell it was I needed, to get the cashier’s check out of my firm’s expense account. Isn’t all banking electronic by now? I wondered, irritation mounting.
The line behind me had grown and the line in front wasn’t moving. I made a questioning motion to the young woman behind me to save my place. She nodded and waved a gold-ringed hand absently without interrupting her conversation. I hurried to a wooden bank of slips, grabbed one, and stepped back in line with a brief smile of thanks.
Another problem presented itself: I hadn’t a writing surface. The man in front of me had a broad back. Maybe he’d let me make a desk out of him. I smirked and admired his physique from behind. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. His jeans fit him rather nicely. Nice ass, I thought and tingles of a very real, likely very bright blush colored my neck.
Oh, grow up, I laughed at myself…and stole another quick glance before rummaging in my bag. I pulled out a small stack of engagement party invitations, figuring the thick stationary would make a sufficient backing. I fished out a pen and started to fill out the little withdrawal form when woman behind me issued a sudden laugh and bumped my elbow. The little stack of envelopes flew out of my hand to scatter around my feet and that of the man in front of me.
“Sorry, so sorry,” the woman muttered to me but didn’t cease her conversation.
“Honestly,” I muttered, and knelt to gather the envelopes. The blond man in front of me turned and knelt to help. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I looked up and might have gasped. I prayed I hadn’t but someone issued a sharp intake of breath, and my neck went beet-red again. I could feel the fire of it burning my pale skin.
Hello, gorgeous.
The face bent close to mine was ruggedly handsome with a strong jaw, chiseled chin, broad mouth with full lips, and—most surprisingly for a man with lighter hair—rich brown eyes, which were sharply intelligent and soft at the same time. I smelled his clean scent—aftershave and something like freshly chopped wood—and it seemed that scent settled into my chest and remained there, warm and clean.
Wow, you’re being extra ridiculous right now.
“Have I got something stuck in my teeth?” the young man asked, amused. His voice was deep, gravelly…
Sexy.
I gave myself a mental shake and gathered the rest of the spilled envelopes. “No, I just…I thought I recognized you from somewhere. Are you an actor?”
He made a face. “Not remotely.”
“Oh. Well, you never can tell around here. And you look like you could be one. An actor.” Or a model. Jesus, those eyes…
He shrugged and smiled crookedly. “I think I look like me.”
I smiled back. Good answer. I had never seen a man as good-looking—on screen or in real life—as this man in front of me. If I were a romantic sort—which I wasn’t—the word breathtaking would not be overstating it.
We both rose from the floor. His eyes were warm but he seemed to stiffen slightly as he took in my suit, my jewelry, my bag. He ran a hand through his unruly blond hair and handed me the envelopes he’d gathered. “Yeah, so. Here you go.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Sure thing.”
He turned his back to me and I wondered at the small twinge of disappointment that nipped at me. Focus, Gardener, I admonished. Judge Kirkpatrick could call us back at any moment. The thought wasn’t a millisecond old when my iPhone chimed an incoming text from Abed. I’d told him to loiter around the courthouse after lunch in case anything of import occurred.
The foreman has requested the jury see Exhibits 14 and 23 again.
“Damn.” Those exhibits: Munro’s toxicology report, and the deposition of the eyewitness who had seen the idiot climbing the shelf to get at a brass doorknob he didn’t even need. They were the weakest aspects of my case. I wanted to demand from my paralegal when deliberations would wrap up, but of course there was no way to tell.
I sent: Thnx. Keep me posted, and dropped my phone back in my bag along with the invitations.
The blond man in front of me sighed impatiently and checked his watch—a nice looking silver timepiece with a beat-up leather band. He carved a hand through his hair. “Is it just me or has this line come to a complete standstill?”