Page 50 of Fallen Angel

Mallory, running on three hours’ sleep, swipes her ID card into the office lobby turnstile. She’s considered not going in at all, but after a lengthy middle-of-the-night conversation with Julie, she changed her mind: She’ll officially resign her legal job in person.

She made the right decision going to Julie’s, even though taking a late-night emergency cab had been a lot less mortifying when Julie had her own apartment. Now that she’s engaged and living with her fiancé, Mallory’s late-night, emergency visit feels a little juvenile. Yet another reason for her to get her act together.

The elevator is full and seems to stop on every floor on its way up. Usually this is frustrating, but this morning it gives her time to think, to fortify herself.

As always, talking with Julie gave her clarity: No matter what the future holds in store for her, she can’t rebound from Alec by falling into bed with her boss. Not even if he’s no longer her boss.

“There’s no universe in which that ends well,” Julie said. And she’s right. She’d been right about things at brunch the day Mallory got angry and didn’t listen. But she’s listening now.

Since Gavin Stone & Associates only has one associate—her—there’s no room to hide, no place to stall. She walks in and Gavin is standing right beside her desk at the copy machine.

“Good morning,” he says. His expression is pleasant, almost neutral. It’s not as if nothing happened last night—there’s some frisson—but it’s close. As she stands there in the clear light of day, it’s hard to believe that less than twelve hours ago they were wrapped around each other.

“Gavin,” she says, making no move to put her bag down or get closer to her desk. “I need to talk—”

He puts one finger to his lips and gestures to his closed office door. “Client,” he whispers. “Let’s talk at lunch.”

She shakes her head.

“I’m not staying.” She walks to her desk and starts opening drawers, tossing some things in the trash and others into her oversized shoulder bag.

Gavin watches her, not saying a word. When he retreats down the hall to his office, she thinks, Well, that’s the end of that. Her heart starts pounding, and she feels like an idiot. She doesn’t know if this situation is his fault, or her fault, or both—but she does know she’ll be the one who pays for it.

She checks the file cabinet where she stashes her emergency lipsticks and pasties for show nights. This, too, gives her a pang. So much change.

“Mallory.”

She looks up: Gavin is back. He hands her a business card. “I told them I have a great candidate for their opening. You have an interview on Friday if you’re interested. And if that’s not the right fit for you, just let me know. I’ll keep paying your salary until you find something that is.”

She takes the card, and their fingers brush. He gives her an apologetic smile, and it brings out the dimples in his cheek.

“Thank you,” she says. They lock eyes, and she can’t look away. She waits for the client to emerge from his office, or the phone to ring—anything to sever the electrical current running between them.

Instead, Gavin asks, “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

And she says yes.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Violet lets herself into Billy Barton’s apartment with her key. She finds him standing at a desk scrolling through a large monitor filled with digital Gruff page mockups.

“Jesus! What the hell are you doing here?” Billy gasps like she’s an armed intruder. She supposes that in some ways, she is just that.

“It’s four in the afternoon. Our standing weekly appointment,” she says calmly, as if his reaction is confusing to her.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Did you leave me a message to cancel?”

“Actually Violet, no, I did not. I thought calling to cancel would be redundant, given the fact that you’re blackmailing me.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Violet says, shrugging off her coat. “It’s just a simple business negotiation. And frankly, I thought you’d show a little more appreciation. I’m handing you a great opportunity. What are you going to do—publish that stupid rag forever? Magazines are so 1997.”

Billy takes a breath, as if counting to ten before scolding a child. He starts to say something, stops, and then, in a measured tone, says, “Fine. But give me my apartment keys.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I accept our new business relationship. But that means our old one is over. So give me the keys.”