Page 58 of Go Back to December
“After everything lands with the merger, you’ll stay with the firm?”
“If they keep my practice.”
I snort. “You negotiated their deal. Of course they’re keeping you.”
“No guarantee.” He clenches and unclenches his jaw. “I offered to negotiate as an inoculation strategy. I knew there would be more risk if I didn’t. It was a price I would willingly pay again if it meant I could continue managing my practice without the senior partners interfering. So far, they’ve been happy to do that, as long as I jump when they tell me.”
“You enjoy your work that much?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, and with so much confidence, it rouses a roaring sense of envy deep within me.
“Your turn at the confessional,” he teases. “Who told you about the judge’s service?”
Stick to the truth. As few details as possible. “No one. I ran into your mom at the club.”
“The one you’re not a member of. And why exactly were you there?”
If necessary, redirect. That tip I got from Lacy. “The important point is not why I was there, but who I saw before I ran into your family. Denny Blackhart.”
Baz shrugs. “He plays squash there every week.”
“The day after Christmas?”
“He’s a man of routine and a complete fucking weirdo.”
His tone is unimpressed, bored. I laugh at how much I agree with him.
The delicious food and wine are having a melting effect on my limbs, and the pungent perfume wafting off the Christmas tree erodes my resolve to leave this cozy scene, talking and laughing over a meal, in easy coexistence with Baz.
It would be entirely too easy to stay. The realization makes me so agitated that I stand up in a rush to clear the table.
When I’m finished in the kitchen, I search for the wine bottle and find it in the grip of Baz’s long fingers. He refills my glass, pours a splash in his, and places them on the coffee table.
I sink down onto the other end of the couch. We both stare quietly at the fire. The silence between us is comfortable, when it has no business being that way.
“What did you want to talk about?” he finally asks.
I sigh. “Our arrangement. It’s not working.”
“I’m not holding up my end.”
We’ve been too busy dealing with his family drama to focus on the café, but he’s only partly right. “That’s not what I meant. Today was…intense.”
He grunts his agreement.
“When we made our deal in the hospital, I don’t think either of us thought through how complicated this would get with your family. This con is causing damage.”
“It’s not a con. And my family adores you.”
“They hardly know me.”
“They know plenty,” he argues. “In the last three days, you took out an armed mugger. Stripped the clothes off your back to help a recovering alcoholic. Crashed a funeral, and ended up the star attraction.”
“And covered your ass.”
“That was a nice hustle, incidentally.”
It’s high praise from him, delivered with pride, and the compliment wreaks havoc on my resolve to leave.
