But I was a little attached to my appendages, so I kept my hands to myself.
“So, Lena works for you now?” Meg asked, dipping her brush into the paint, giving it a swirl before tapping off the excess.
“Yeah. I hired her last summer. She only works part-time while she finishes up school.” I tapped my foot against one of the full paint cans, feeling slightly restless.
“She’s going to be a lawyer like you, huh.” Meg stretched up on her feet to run the brush along the wall. I couldn’t help staring at the long, lean lines of her body. The way her back arched as she reached over her head. How she bit down on her bottom lip in concentration. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“That’s the plan,” I responded distractedly, my eyes running the length of her. “Though I think when it’s all said and done, she’ll wipe the floor with me.” I chuckled. I had no doubt my little sister would give me a run for my money at who would be the best lawyer in the Ducate family.”
Meg dropped the brush into the paint can and picked up her coffee, taking a sip. “I don’t know about that. Mom tells me about all your case wins. I’ve heard you’re pretty impressive.”
I grinned, wiggling my eyebrows at her. “Pretty impressive, huh? I love to hear about all of my impressiveness.”
Meg groaned, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “You have to make everything sound sexual. It really is an underrated art form.”
This time I allowed myself to reach out and flick a piece of hair away from her face, brushing her skin only slightly. Was I imagining her shiver?
“You’re in the presence of a master, Meg,” I joked.
Meg shook her head, drank the rest of her coffee, and then handed me her empty mug. “Thanks for that. My brain refuses to engage unless I’m at least 50% caffeine.”
“I know the feeling.” I grinned, reaching for the cup. Our fingers brushed. I swallowed around the inexplicable lump in my throat. We lingered a bit, neither of us moving. I realized we were standing close together. So close that our shoes were almost touching. She was still short, only coming up to my shoulders. I used to tease her about fitting into my armpit, which usually earned me a punch to the gut.
Her head was tilted back, and she looked up at me with a distinct lack of hostility. It was a nice change.
“It’s really nice having you back here, Meg,” I found myself saying.
Her face was flushed. Was it from the heat? Something else? I liked to think it was because of me, but that was me being delusional.
“I would never have believed it, but I’m glad to be back,” she said, her eyes on mine.
This was a moment. I could feel it. She could feel it.
What the hell was I going to do with it?
“Did you know old Grandy’s Cinema is showing a Lord of the Rings marathon all weekend?” I knew how to push her nostalgia buttons. I was using it mercilessly against her.
Her eyes widened. “No freaking way! Are you serious? How many times did we watch those movies?”
“At least a hundred times. Give or take.” I was smiling. She was smiling. I reached out and touched her hand. Just a brush of fingers. “What do you say we make it a hundred and one times? For old times’ sake?”
Her smile widened, and taking a gamble, I hooked my pinkie with hers the way I used to do when we were kids. I was hoping she wouldn’t break my finger.
She gave it a little squeeze and didn’t pull away. Emboldened, I took her other hand in mine. I started to lace my fingers with hers. “What do ya say?” I asked softly. I couldn’t look away from her. She couldn’t look away from me. There was only Meg and me.
This was it.
She opened her mouth...
“Adam! There you are! I’ve been calling all morning! Did you get my message?”
The sound of Chelsea’s voice had the same effect as dousing ourselves with ice-cold water.
Meg literally flinched and all but jumped backward. She ripped her hands away from mine, her expression shuttered, and her eyes went cold. She looked over my shoulder, her face stony.
I cursed loudly and violently in my head.
“Meg—” I started to say something—anything—to salvage the moment.
But it was too late.
A bomb had been detonated, and its name was Chelsea Sloane.
I felt my ex’s taloned hand on my arm, giving me a tug. “Adam, look at me, damn it. You’re being very rude. Why haven’t you called me back?”
Meg had climbed back onto the platform and went straight for the lever, turning it on so she could lift herself into the sky far away from Chelsea. And me.
Fucking hell.
Chelsea didn’t even look Meg’s way. Because Chelsea only had enough of an attention span for one thing—herself. And me if she was in the mood.
She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, positioned in a way that exposed an ample amount of cleavage. The shirt she was wearing barely covered up anything anyway. And the tiny shorts she wore looked more like underwear. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and I noticed her forehead was much smoother than normal. I guess I had paid for another round of Botox.
“I only just got your message, Chelsea. And I know Lena told you I’m busy until next week.” I instantly felt tired.
Chelsea pouted like a five-year-old. “But I need to speak to you now, so I thought I’d come on over.” She poked my chest playfully. “Then you can’t run away like the naughty boy you are.”
“Jesus, Chelsea. This is my place of employment. You can’t waltz over here whenever you get a brain fart,” I snapped.
Chelsea flicked her ponytail over her shoulder. “Don’t be so crude, Adam,” she chastised. “Can’t a woman see her man when she wants?”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I knew that would only exacerbate the situation. “I’m not your man, Chelsea. There’s a big pile of paperwork with your attorney that should spell that out pretty clearly.”I glanced up at Meg, but she was now engrossed in painting yellow with big, angry strokes.
Chelsea, finally realizing that she didn’t have my undivided attention, looked up at Meg on the scaffold. “Why are you having your office painted? And why that god-awful yellow color? It looks like something a cat threw up.” She made a face.
“It’s for the bicentennial. I told you about it months ago,” I explained to her through clenched teeth.
Chelsea squinted up at Meg. “Oh, right. The mural thing. Is that the artist? Let’s hope she paints better than she dresses.” She giggled meanly. God, she was such a bitch.
There was a clatter as Meg’s brush dropped onto the ground, landing only a couple of inches from Chelsea’s feet. Bright yellow paint splashed Chelsea’s legs—her designer wedges now stained.
“Oh, my God!” Chelsea screamed, scrambling backward. “You fucking bitch! You got paint all over my five-hundred-dollar sandals.” My soon-to-be-ex-wife turned to me in indignation, her overly endowed chest heaving with fury. “Do something, Adam. Fire her! She’s a liability!”
I shrugged, trying to stifle my laughter. And it was hard. “It was an accident.”
“It was not an accident. That horrible woman did it on purpose,” Chelsea whined, wiping her legs.