“No, asshole. I want to talk to her about . . .” I trail off, remembering how easy our phone call was. I shrug and hold my hands out wide. “Anything. Just anything.”
“All this from five seconds of you juggling in the park?”
He dribbles then passes the ball to me. I grab it and throw, watching it catch nothing but net. “That, and a phone call yesterday,” I add as he grabs the rebound.
“A two-minute call?”
“Oh, ye of little faith. It was three or four minutes, and we reconnected like that,” I say, snapping my fingers. “She also sent me a thank you note for the lilacs, I’ll have you know. You’re not the only one who has game when it comes to the ladies,” I point out, since Simon recently wooed and won a very special woman.
“What did her note say? Was it demonstrative of her deep and undying affection for you? Like, say, Thanks for the lilacs?”
“Yes,” I admit, annoyed he totally nailed it. “And she said they were still her favorite flowers.”
“Well,” my friend says, raising the ball above his head. “That’s all the proof you need that she wants you to win her back.”
“Hundred bucks says you miss and I’m not wrong. I know the two of us can be good together again.”
Simon laughs as he shoots. “Man, you kill me. Not only are you an entertainment lawyer, but you’re entertaining.”
I’m also damn determined to get her to say yes, no matter what Simon thinks. Especially since he misses the next shot.
The next day, my morning starts bright and early when I meet the top lawyer and an executive at LGO, a premium network that’s been giving HBO a run for its money with its equally aggressive online and on-air approach to programming. Even though Craig Buckley, the dark-haired and famously risk-taking network head, has home-field advantage, since the meeting’s at his office, I win four out of the six deal points I want for my client, the creator of a new sexy show, After Dark.
I thank Craig with a handshake, and his attorney grumbles that he’ll call me soon.
I leave the high-rise building in Times Square, emboldened that I can wrap up the rest of the thorny issues in the deal over the next several days. As I weave through the morning crowds and tourists, heading toward the relatively quieter route up Eighth Avenue to return to the office, I call my client, Jay Benator, a brilliant artist who is poised for breakout success. I update him on the developments.
“That’s great. But what about the final points?” he asks, in a reedy voice, nerves getting the better of him. “I haven’t slept at all since this has been going on.”
“Relax, Jay. Working with me is like an Ambien. I’ll get you there, and you’ll have sweet dreams, too. I promise.”
“You sure?” he asks, his voice wobbling.
“Trust me. I’ve got your back. We’ll seal this up soon,” I say, then reassure him some more as I walk toward Columbus Circle. Sometimes with clients, my job is being their shark, their shield, their lubricant, their hawk, their watchdog, and their therapist. Jay seems to need all of the above, but especially my psychotherapy skills today. Mostly, I manage those by steering him to a heated debate about which NBA team is having the best season so far.
I say good-bye when I reach my building, telling him I won’t even bill him for the head-shrinking.
“Thanks, man. And the Lakers suck.”
“Ouch,” I say, but I’m glad he seems to feel good enough to trash-talk.
Once inside the offices of Nichols & Nichols, I say hello to Holly, our perky new receptionist, who’s studying at night to become a paralegal.
“How’s it going, Holly? Any messages for me?” I ask as I stretch my neck from side to side. Too much time reading contracts makes it stiff. “Need me to quiz you on anything?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “No to both, but maybe later?”
I bang my fists on the edge of the high desk, then point at her. “Count on it.”
“Oh, quiz me now, Tyler. Please, please, quiz me now on intellectual property.”
The deep British voice mocks me as I turn to Oliver, our newest associate, who loves to give me a hard time. Especially since he thinks I flirt with Holly. But I don’t. I respect her—the woman is working her ass off trying to advance her career, and all I want to do is help her.
He walks into the reception area, debonair as always in his suit. The accent helps, obviously.
“Here’s a question for you, Edgecombe,” I say, using his last name as I give my tall, dark-haired colleague a stern look. “If my last name’s on the sign, would that make it my property or yours?”
Oliver clasps his hands to his chest, like I’ve shot him. “Oh, the wound. The intellectual wound. It hurts so very much.”
I wave him off as I head down the hall. “Get back to work on your IP deals.”
A second later, he pops into my office. “By the way, great advice on the Newton deal. The studio loved it, and so did the client.”
I park myself in a chair. “Excellent news. I guess we’ll keep you on staff, in spite of your surly attitude.”
Oliver flashes a huge smile. “So surly.” He blows me a kiss, then whispers, “Behave around Holly.”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to worry about that, Edgecombe.”
After he leaves I settle in at my desk and track down the salad bar next to Delaney’s spa.