Chapter 23
Daniel
Prescott glimpses down at the screen of his tablet and frowns. “We can’t use this case as precedent. It was overturned by the Supreme Court six months ago.”
“Are you serious? How did I miss that?” I flop back against my chair and massage my temples.
I glance up at the clock on the wall just as its hands inch past 11:30 a.m. I’ve been here since 4:00. Couldn’t sleep. Thinking about my fucked up marriage kept me awake.
But I’m used to the sleep deprivation. I’m a lawyer, after all.
This profession is draining. The Shinewell vs. Town of Reyfield case is only the most recent file to take over my life. And it probably won’t be the last. I’m not sure that the fat pay check makes it all worth it. Especially when I think about nights like last night and the look on Grace’s face as I jumped into my car.
"We don't have enough jurisprudence to support our arguments." Prescott’s glare rips through me.
I slam my fist onto the conference table. “Then, we’ll have to find some more.”
A set of quick knocks draws our attention in the direction of the door. Sanaya, my new assistant (who happens to be Prescott’s old assistant), pokes her head into the room. She has a stack of papers tucked under her arm and she’s wearing designer stilts that look like they should probably come with an insurance policy and mandatory user training.
Prescott grows even angrier. "You two figure it out. I'm gonna go call my pregnant wife." He edges by her and storms out of the room.
Sanaya chuckles. “Y’know, he’s still bitter that you stole me from him.”
I shrug. When my original administrative assistant retired a few weeks ago, I went in search of the best that our office had to offer. I quickly realized that Sanaya was it. One little problem – she was Prescott’s secretary. So I gave her an offer she couldn’t refuse. A 20 percent pay hike and a new, splinter-free desk. Now, she works for me.
If I were Prescott, I’d be pissed too. The girl is on the ball. But he’s gonna have to deal with it. I have seniority over him. Plus, my life is pretty shitty in every way right now so I get sympathy points.
“What is it you wanted, Sanaya?”
“Mr. Trotten, a Brittany Delaney has been calling you all day. Something about wanting your services to file a paternity lawsuit. She just left another message and I swear to god, I’m about to lose my ever-living cool with the woman.”
I wave a dismissive hand at her. “Ignore her. Block her number or something. Come over here. I need your help.
She steps into the room. “Yes?” she says, hitching a hand on her hip.
“I need some more precedents for the Shinewell case. We’re heading to the court of appeal soon and we have nothing to counter the motion.”
Her smirk deepens as she drops the folder in her hand onto the table. “Got ya covered, boss.”
“Phew!” I blow out a sigh of relief, lifting and dropping my shoulders to relieve some tension.
See? Sanaya’s on top of things. She’s excellent at her job. It all most makes up for her irreverent sarcasm, her shocking impropriety and her blatant insubordination. I’ve clearly won the administrative assistant lottery.
“At least, something is going right today.”
I can feel her pitying stare on me.
"What is it?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "It's just so sad seeing you like this, Mr. Trotten. I heard that you and your wife split. Look – if you've already started dating, my sister Priya would love to go out with you. She always likes a guy with a tan line on his ring finger, if you know what I mean."
"Thanks for the offer," I smile tightly, "but you focus on managing my legal briefs and I'll focus on managing my personal life."
She laughs. "Wow – I've never been told to fuck off in such a diplomatic way before."
I wink. "That's the way I roll."
“Anyway, your legal briefs are all handled. Maybe I’ll go to an early lunch,” she muses.
“If you’re looking for something to do, I need you to go online and order me some yoga-man pants.”
She hitches her eyebrow, casting me a suspicious look. “Why would you ask me to buy you yoga-man pants? Is it because I’m Indian?”
“No, Sanaya. It’s not because you’re Indian. I’m just incredibly busy and it’s your job to help make me less busy. So I can go to this god-forsaken tantric yoga retreat with my wife on the weekend.”
This couples’ yoga retreat has to go off without a hitch. It’s my last chance to save my marriage. Talking to Grace last night made it clear to me that she doesn’t trust me not to hurt her again. She’s afraid that I won’t keep the promises I make to her. I understand where she’s coming from. The last time I told her I was ready to fix our marriage, I cancelled our date at the last minute because I had to work. That night, I really had no choice – I had just learned that Prescott’s little sister, Evangeline, had (unbeknownst to her family) gotten herself caught up in a bizarre sex trafficking ring and I had to help her. So, I was justified in canceling my date with Grace that night but I hate myself for hurting my wife in that way.
That won’t happen again. Nothing’s going to stop me from going to this yoga retreat. Especially not my secretary’s taunting.
Sanaya smirks. “Ah, tantric yoga! Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a weekend of vigorous, nude genital bumping in a room full of complete strangers getting their bodily fluids all over your yoga mat while Enya plays on low in the background of the incense-and-perspiration-scented room.” Grinning breathlessly, she throws me a wink. “Things are about to get sticky, if you know what I mean!”
I scowl at her. “Stop trying to scare me. I’ve done my research. That’s not what it’s like.” I hope.
“Shoot!” she mutters, punching the air and feigning disappointment. “Why do I always get stuck with personal assignments for you lawyers, anyway?” she grumbles under her breath. A few months ago, Sanaya took on the project of turning Prescott’s not-yet-fiancee into the belle of the ball for an important event they had to attend. “I’m an administrative assistant. Not a personal shopper.”
It’s my turn to smirk. “Well, as far as I know you’re not a matchmaker either but yet here you are trying to couple me up with women you know. Apparently you like to take initiative. Good trait to have.”
She rolls her eyes.
I like this girl. Keeps me on my toes. Much more entertaining than my last secretary.
After rifling through my wallet, I hand her my American Express card. “As a matter of fact, order me whatever the hell I’ll need for the weekend. Just take care of all the details. Toothbrush, deodorant, yoga mat, everything. Have it all shipped to my apartment. I want to wake up on Saturday morning, grab the bag and be out the door.”
I don’t exactly like the glint in her eye as she grabs my outstretched credit card or the sugary way she says, “Sure, Boss.” But right now, I’m way too swamped with work to worry about her motives.
The little voice at the back of my head warns that I may end up regretting that decision.