{ Have you got colour in your cheeks?
Do you ever get that fear that you can't shift the tide
That sticks around like summat in your teeth? }
Of course, New York would pick today to beam her most blinding smile at the masses. Jessica shut her eyes and dug her fingers into her temples.
It should have been just another cold day in March, barely the start of spring. However, July levels of sunlight darted across every reflective surface in her office—of which she suddenly realized there were far too many—and refracted as laser beams that bore directly into her throbbing skull. It felt like a lobotomy, but not the kind she needed.
Last night. Last night, last night, last night—she wanted nothing more than to obliterate it from memory, but every aching cell in her body refused to let her forget.
Why. Why. Why.
She would reach her grave still asking. The very question might send her there.
It was just… he just… it had felt so fucking good knocking him off-kilter for once. Wiping that smug smirk off his irritatingly handsome face. Fun. Intoxicating. Such deep satisfaction that it almost felt sexual…
"Almost" being the once operative word.
Until the tides of Glendronach flooded that line in the sand.
Her teeth clamped down on the inside of her cheek. God. What an outrageous… appalling… wanton, destructive… fuck, how could she?
For at least the third time today, the skin at her side itched, as though demanding another appointment. She was indeed tempted to have Josie clear her calendar so she could jump in a car downtown to Elizabeth Street… but no. She could not leave the office just yet, not with so much work sitting on her desk. Certainly not with half the senior partners now eying the wall like the host stand at Carbone on a Saturday night, waiting for their name to be called up too. Besides, with a session in this state, she might actually vomit.
At the flashing of her Outlook calendar in her peripheral vision, her stomach twisted. As though her actions had not been bad enough, of all the fucking days for her to…
She had realized as soon as she checked her phone in the taxi back to her apartment and saw "01:38" and "Friday, March 21" glaring in judgment back at her.
If she had remembered prior to, then at least she could have claimed that as better cover for showing up at his in the first place. With a ten-thousand dollar bottle of scotch that had taken her three months to track down for the name partner gift she had planned to give him almost a year ago—which had lay buried in her cellar since then, for obvious reasons. It would have stayed there forever if she knew what would have happened upon unearthing it.
What the fuck was she supposed to say now? 'Happy birthday Harvey, I hope you enjoyed the whiskey and my pussy'.
Oh God.
Well, he definitely would not be getting a birthday gift this year. Jessica had always respected the rule he instated after his 35th about no more celebrations; still, she always gave him something. A rare Yankees card, Montblanc pen, Knicks tickets… on his 40th just before he made senior partner, when he had surely been anticipating something stodgy and serious, she had left a gift box at his condo filled with an eighth of Canadian kush, a gram of pure Colombian cocaine, and Roman candles. He had roared with laughter over the phone and promised to put all of them to good use. "Just not on company time," she had cautioned between her own laughs.
Yet their relationship over the past several months had hardly given cause for celebration. She had found his initial supplication off-putting enough before it almost immediately gave way to even more surliness and sniping. Frankly, it had been a surprise to receive more than an unsigned Duane Reade birthday card from him last October. Besides the fact that she had completely forgotten his this year, what could she possibly give him after last night?
Anal?
Jessica groaned aloud. As though she needed any reminders of her present gastrointestinal distress.
"Ms. Pearson?"
Jessica lifted her head to find her assistant at her door. With leaden fingers, she beckoned her inside.
"What is it, Josie?"
"Just to confirm, will you be taking a car, or will Judge Hartwell-Gerringer be picking you up from the station? With current traffic on the Expressway, driving will take twice as long, so I would need to call your car now."
Oh shit… Philip. And the new prospective client, the Empire City Racing Association. She had almost completely forgotten about that too. God, what was with her lately?
For the first time since her former boss had suggested it, an afternoon in Queens sounded like a decent idea after all. Definitely not via train, though. Those rickety LIRR tracks and all the metal screeching made her stomach preemptively lurch.
"Call the car, please. Thank you."
Seeing the other woman turn to exit, Jessica started.
"Oh and Josie?" Jessica chewed the inside of her mouth. "Another glass of my health tonic as well."
Josie nodded with the faintest hint of a smile on her pale face. "It's already waiting for you in the fridge, Ms. Pearson. I'll bring it right over."
Jessica nodded with a blank expression as Josie finally left. She would express gratitude later; for now, it took everything not to sink from her chair and wobbly desk—yet another thing that needed fixing—into a hole in the floor. God, she couldn't keep doing this shit…
Despite herself, a smile crept across her cheeks. At least for the rest of today, she would not have to think about it. Perfect. She would leave early, bring in a lucrative new account, catch up with an old friend, breathe some relatively fresh air, and get the hell out of this corporate cárcel where at any given second, the last lawyer in Manhattan she ever wanted to see could storm into her office for cross-examination.
Better to give him—this—space. That was the only way she knew how to deal with him anymore. With time and silence, just let the chips fall where they may.
And if he was pacing across the hall in his office panicking and wondering what the fuck was going on, then to hell with it. Let him wonder.
A little suffering wouldn't kill him.
It was killing him.
Sunlight stormed through the glass and onto a dizzying glare of notifications on his screen: the orange calendar bell, his inbox flashing red with demands from other partners and the dozen motions Mike had prepared for him behind Louis's back… as his feet abused the carpet in circles around his desk, he wanted to shut out all of it. He needed blackout curtains for his eyes, his office, his… life…
His stomach assaulted him in waves that made his eyes water every half hour. They were kinder than the pounding in his head, which offered no respite despite two rounds of Advil. But his migraine's true mercilessness lay in its failure to distract him from what the fuck happened last night.
He'd cum. God. So hard that his body still trembled at the ghost sensation of her on his lap.
Of her. On his lap.
Of her. On his lap…
The point of weekday sex was to energize him for the following workday. Enjoy a noncommittal "evening engagement" with a beautiful woman—maybe even a "morning meeting" if she looked as good in the daylight—to release the valves, prepare him for a new day. Unfortunately, the only morning meeting he'd had today was between his face and the toilet bowl, and that particular release had left him with a distinct lack of preparedness to stand upright, much less face a new day. Thank God it was Friday, at least.
His heart sank when his roaming eyes fell on his clock. If it was barely past 9am, then how the fuck was he supposed to make it until tonight?
God, he was never this sick after whiskey. Did she poison him?
He supposed she hadn't shoved the gift down his throat. No one told him to sit there in his own home and suck down a $10,000 bottle of scotch like a freshman with jungle juice at his first frat party.
And she'd been necking it too. Unless she truly was a vampire, shouldn't she be dying too? Was she even in yet?
He peered out the office glass, but of course. She was never there when he actually needed her.
What had she been doing there last night?
The binge had destroyed every part of his body but his memory. Images flashed through his mind of her eyes, her mouth; his skin still flushed at the mere thought of her feather-light touch.
Goddamnit. But this wasn't some waitress or kindergarten teacher. It was Jessica. Jessica.
This was never supposed to have happened.
And the question he couldn't shake from his mind since stumbling bleary-eyed into consciousness this morning and seeing the used condom in his trash again was—
Why?
He could hardly say that he had never imagined it.
Especially when he'd first started at the firm. God, especially then; he used to spunk his sheets just dreaming about it then. He'd never met anyone like her. She was just so much; had so much more of everything than any other human woman seemingly could: brain, class, ass, legs, hair, eyes, wit, lips, power. She could overwhelm a room without entering it. Leave men and women alike in her wake wondering whether they wanted to fuck her or be her.
So yeah, he'd thought about it.
But not in ages.
So why now?
They'd been drunk together before. Innumerable times. Rendered insensate. All innocent. Well… at least in that respect. Nothing ever got past… that night way back when didn't count; she would've fucked a tree on that much ecstasy, and still, they never even kissed.
So then why the fuck…
Yes, they flirted. Well—he flirted; she teased or ignored.
Even in those younger fantasies, the rare times he let himself indulge, a kiss was always where things stopped. Where she'd pull back, protest that they couldn't do this, that she was his mentor, his boss, that… In the one fantasy he'd allowed himself to take further, when high on some particularly potent bud from coffee cart guy's competition, he'd grabbed her wrist, massaged her pulse point, and those large brown eyes had melted into his until her body followed suit and he carried her into his bedroom.
But neither in fantasy nor reality heretofore had she done that. Not only had she not pulled back; she'd started it.
Except that it made no fucking sense. In nearly 20 years, Jessica had never indicated the remotest actual interest in his sex life much less wanting to participate in it. The most she'd ever said to him was during a law school visit when she saw how he looked at Scottie and warned him to "wear protection", because "your allowance doesn't cover abortions or daycare."
Oh God. Scottie. His stomach churned.
Fucking every petite brunette south of 96th Street for the past several months hadn't burned her from his memory. Albeit no longer every night, he could still see her little lopsided smirk when she beat him at Jeopardy or the Black's Law trivia they would play during commercials; her hazel eyes sparkling when he woke her with her favorite coffee… but above all, what haunted him was that last image of her beautiful, crushed face hardening into resolution the night she left. And now this…
This was so wrong. Jessica and Scottie knew each other. They liked each other. Or at least had, before the cancer of Edward Darby killed that too. Back in law school, his assurances about the innocence of visits from his long-legged mentor had finally convinced Scottie to go on their first date. How could he ever look her in the face again after…?
But there would never be any looking Scottie in the face again. He had ensured that. When she turned to him after shutting off the lights in her now empty office, and despite the weight of "I love you" and "I'm sorry" and the truth about Mike crushing his tongue, all he managed to choke out was, "Let me know when you land in London." She didn't.
Since then, any woman who as much as swept floors in a nearby building was verboten. Transgressing the personal-professional divide in the first place had landed him into that mess and he swore never again to test fate.
Yet here he was.
With Jessica of all people. Dear God, the only worse person in Manhattan he could have gotten piss-drunk and slept with was Rachel Zane. Still, he would almost rather face Mike's wrath than Jessica's. She could probably hit harder.
He snuck another glance outside his office. Either she still hadn't come in yet, or she'd arrived at her usual cock-crowing hour and had been calmly signing checks or whatever in her office this whole time. He'd been too afraid to check.
Not afraid. Fuck that. Just…
He hadn't wanted to.
Jessica squinted at the sun even from behind her shades. "How often do you come out here?"
More like why. She had never before visited this racetrack, which looked dull and barren even for winter. She had kept this assessment from the owner of course, who had just added $60M to her ledger after her grim analysis of his antitrust exposure, balanced with some kindly "indignation" at him being "robbed" of victory at the Preakness Stakes in '84. Fear and the male ego were always such a powerful—and more importantly, profitable—combination.
However, her old mentor's reasons for introducing them here, as opposed to any of the other and much lovelier properties—or literally anywhere else in the city—remained as much a mystery as Philip's new retirement venture in the first place. The architecture of this place reminded her of a prison yard. Even worse, her Giuseppes were caked in dirt after the tour, some of which she strongly suspected was horse dung. The smell was turning her stomach.
Philip's laugh tinkled in the air like silverware against fine china. "Don't worry darling, we'll be gone soon."
Shit. Surely, she had not been that transparent. It was just harder to control her facial movements when the longer they stood there at the edge of the track, every muscle, especially those of her stomach, rebelled against her. Not to mention those sore ones further down. Thank goodness that the meeting was over and she wasn't heading back into the office today.
"I just need to have a quick chat with the jockey, and then we can go for lunch—"
Shit. Jessica took an involuntary step back. Why was it coming so close towards them?
Philip paused and his steel blue eyes followed her curiously. "Jessica… I thought you liked horses?"
Jessica steeled her jaw and kept her eyes steadily on the spotted beast approaching from the track with the jockey. Leah had been the Annie Oakley of the family. Not her. To be fair, being the only black girl at a boarding school in Connecticut in the 1970s, shooting arrows and galloping off into the woods had probably comprised her older sister's few limited ways to cope. But Jessica? A thoroughbred Manhattanite.
"I'm not particularly fond."
"Oh dear, I never would have had us meet here if I had known! It's only that Graeme was on site today for inspections, so he offered the time for us to chat and for my girl Gemini here to get some extra training in… and oh yes, you did so well baby, yes you did!" The horse neighed loudly as Philip stroked her mane, and Jessica's disgusted incredulity at his baby talk vied for control with her fight-or-flight response. "I thought you might want to meet my sweet girl before we take the Triple Crown."
Her gaze flickered briefly over to his face. "You qualified for the Kentucky Derby? Already?"
Through the corner of her eyes, she saw Philip give her a roguish wink. "Darling, you of all people should know of my prowess when I set my mind to something. Surely, your time working for me at the Third Circuit was not so long ago that you forgot?"
"Of course not, my darling," she returned as evenly as possible while her brain calculated at which angle she could survive a horse kick to her thoracic cavity. "You were full of horseshit then too."
He burst into laughter. "I suppose there are a few loose ends to tighten before it's official. The judges from our last race still need to finalize the qualifying points. Would you believe what one of the jockeys did at Tampa Bay? Kicked my sweet girl right in her bits! He claimed it was an accident, but I called immediately for a Stewards Inquiry… egregious sportsmanship, that…"
Goodness, Gemini's eyes were large. Jessica's heart raced. Oh, she did not care at all for the way its eyes kept boring into hers as its hooves pawed the ground… could horses sense human emotions?
"… So how does that sound?"
"Excuse me?"
"Leaving now for lunch," Philip repeated, amused. "Unless you'd prefer a liquid one?" He gave her a once-over. "Some hair of the dog?"
"Here you go!" His head jerked to the door as Donna strutted into his office, her scarlet mane bouncing behind her, and plopped a paper takeout bag onto his desk.
He opened it with a scowl. "Donna, what the fuck is this?"
"Sweetgreen's Guacamole Greens salad. It's delicious! You'll love it." At his face, her façade dropped and she planted her hands on her hips. "Okay, I also have a Shake Shack Smoke Shack burger and Oreo milkshake for you at my desk as your presents, but you're not getting them until you finish at least half of that."
"Donna…" He inhaled sharply through his nose and pushed the bag aside. "I am not in the mood to play games today—"
"Nor am I! But you're 43 now; it's time to start taking better care of your health. And you clearly went on a bender last night. When was the last time you ate a vegetable?"
He was—
Holy shit.
It was his birthday.
He had forgotten his own birthday.
He glanced again at the door.
Had she known? Was that what last night had been—
Of course not. His pride shot that thought dead in its tracks. He'd seen her stride for the elevator about two hours ago in an all-black battle ensemble, without so much as a pause or sideways glance. His insides were already too chaotic to make sense of how that had felt.
Donna's brows knitted as she read his face. "Oh my God. Harvey." She peered down at him. "You got so fucked up last night that you forgot your own birthday? Which twenty-something NoLita bartender managed that?"
Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know I don't give a shit about birthdays, Donna. And I'm not hungry."
"Well you're going to need to eat something before your meeting."
"What meeting? I'm not seeing Judge Carlin until 4pm."
For drinks. Oh God no. His stomach lurched.
"No, but your charity board meeting is all the way in FiDi. At 1pm."
Goddamn it. Another wave of nausea rolled through him.
Well, fuck that shit. Stupid charity board. Harvey waved her away and reopened his inbox, determined to accomplish something of actual value this morning. The motions, the partner replies, something. Time to get his shit together… he was now 43 years old, after all.
Christ.
"Well?"
"What? I dunno… decline it."
"I can't."
His eyes snapped up to hers, already annoyed that she wasn't yet at the door. "I can't?" he mocked. "Who are you and what have you done with Donna Paulsen?"
She rolled her eyes. "Harvey, this isn't Hoops for Hope. The Chairman warned you after missing the last three board meetings that they would kick you out if you missed another. And Jessica said—"
His eye twitched. "I do not give a damn what Jessica said—"
"Oookaaaay…" Donna narrowed her eyes at him. "But being on this board is a big deal, and you'll lose your membership if you don't start—"
"So be it," he muttered, staring miserably between his inbox and the salad. He genuinely couldn't say which looked worse.
"Harvey, this is New York Cares—"
"Well, I don't!" he snapped. "Goddamnit Donna, fix it or fuck it and just leave me alone!"
He was surprised to see a rare cloud of hurt cross her face in his peripheral vision. Come on… normally, she'd just ignore him or throw it right back in his face, but…
Shit. She did get him a birthday meal. Two, in fact: one to keep him alive and the other to stop him from killing himself.
"Donna," he said, softer. "You're right. I've had a—I've got a lot on my plate today. Can you please sort this out for me? Sprinkle your magic on it?" He gave her a Boy Scout smile. "For my birthday?"
She contemplated him for a moment before crossing her arms across her chest. "Fine. But it's your fifth present of the day, so make sure you pay me back in kind come June." She paused. "At Barneys."
"Fifth?" He counted on his hands. "The salad, the burger, the shake…?"
She tossed him a smirk on her way out. "The fourth was me not calling you a dick on your birthday."
His smile faded once he sank back into his chair and considered it.
His birthday.
Another year older.
Fuck.
Well, thankfully, Mike was out of the office with Louis doing whatever the fuck today. This time last year, after both Harvey and Scottie had arrived conspicuously late, Mike had insisted on playing him this song called "Birthday Sex". Even worse, it had burrowed into his eardrums for a good three weeks. At least he'd be spared this year—
His iPhone vibrated.
Spoke too soon.
There weren't even any words in Mike's text. Just a YouTube Vevo link to some shit called "Birthday Song"… what was this shit? Okay, he knew Kanye West, but who the hell was '2 Chainz'?
The first two seconds already pissed him off. His head throbbed. God, this song was so fucking stupid. Mike and his entire generation were doomed.
Goddamnit.
…It was catchy, though.
Even the sun seemed eager to gift him something; it dimmed its glare so that he could finally review the motions in peace.
He and '2 Chainz'.
"They ask me what I do…" he mumbled along quietly through a mouthful of spinach as he added edits. "All I want for my birthday is a big booty ho…"
He was locked in concentration with the song on its umpteenth replay until the ping of his BlackBerry yanked him out of it. His eyes widened as he snatched up the device, only for them to narrow when he saw the sender.
Hardly the big booty ho he'd had in mind.
Louis Litt (Work) 12:39 PM
At the client site. Jessica requested that I update you on the Harvard trip earlier this week. Student interest is up ~33% from the fall. Prof Gerard sends his regards. LL
Hm. He must not have made up with Sheila's ass or whatever on this trip. All periods and not a single emoticon.
Harvey was just about to toss the device aside before a compulsion reeled it back towards him.
Harvey Specter (Work) 12:13 PM
Thx for the update. Speaking of Profs, how is Hawthorne HS
Louis Litt (Work) 12:13 PM
Is that a joke LL
Harvey Specter (Work) 12:13 PM
? HS
Louis Litt (Work) 12:14 PM
Do you not follow CrimsonLaw on Twitter? Professor Hawthorne died early this morning. His widow is organizing a
Whatever she was organizing, Harvey didn't bother to finish reading before he slid the BlackBerry back across his desk and turned up "Birthday Song."
Reflecting in the black of his computer screensaver was a broad grin.
Happy birthday indeed.
The sole advantage of the garishly lit strip mall sushi spot to which Philip had dragged her deep into the bowels of Queens, gushing that it was "a hidden gem" with "no faff, just flavor," was that no one she knew could ever possibly overhear them here. Perhaps that was why he felt so comfortable switching seamlessly from gossip about other federal judges to his new boy toy's "furry little arse."
"No women at all since the divorce?" Jessica swatted his liver-spotted hand away from her admittedly delicious dragon maki roll. "I thought you were bisexual?"
Philip waggled his bushy salt-and-pepper brows. "You wish."
She gave him a look. "Well. I knew you were… gay… but at the Bar Association gala a few years ago, you—"
He waved her away. "That little tart Amanda could never keep her mouth shut. But darling, just because you try on a shoe at the shop doesn't mean you want to wear it home."
Jessica nearly choked on her shrimp tempura.
"Speaking of ex-husbands." Philip popped another piece of sushi into his mouth. "Do you still talk to yours?"
Her grip tensed on the chopsticks. "It would be a challenge without my sister's Ouija board." At his quizzical reaction, she continued flatly, "Quentin died. Six weeks ago."
"Ohhh. Oh dear." His mouth twisted in sympathy. "I'm so sorry, Jessica."
Her throat thickened, but she forced it down along with a dollop of wasabi that also made her eyes and stomach burn. She forced herself to remember that Philip had not known. Of those who did, Leah was the only one distasteful enough to keep bringing it up.
"Hey, I know that split was rather hard on you… at least this might make it easier to move on. Knowing that he can't ever come back now."
It did not help at all. She nodded, but as she stabbed her chopsticks across the plate, her next piece of sushi bore the brunt of it. Her stomach began to churn and restlessness gripped her limbs. Had she not traveled all the way to the outer boroughs to avoid reality at home?
"When are you leaving that firm, by the way?" he offered.
That was one way to change the subject.
She laughed. "Did you not just help me land a new client today?"
He shrugged and reached across to snatch another piece of her dragon roll before she could stop him. "That was all you. Really, I was doing Graeme a favor."
Jessica shook her head. "I'm the founding partner. I can't just walk away."
"Your last two did."
He raised an amused eyebrow at the look she gave him. "Speaking of which, darling, it hurt my feelings to learn that you had replaced me with a new English barrister in your life. Even if it was for only eleven months."
She suppressed a twitch at the mention of Edward and that disappointing dalliance. She had heard nothing from him for months after the dissolution, save a confusingly chipper "Happy Christmas" mass email in December. At which point she forwarded all email correspondence from him directly to Josie.
"Come now, Philip." She chanced another piece of sushi. "The way you used to eviscerate my draft opinions, how was I supposed to know that you had feelings?"
He grinned. "What is your firm called again now? You will have to tell me how that carousel naming process is going. Think I could get my name up there too?"
Jessica smiled sweetly with a sip of her sake. "Surely I haven't dropped my standards that low."
He laughed. "Oh I know all about your standards, darling." He leaned in over the table. Time may have lined Philip's still-handsome face, but it had not dulled the intensity of that hooded stare. "What I would love to know is when you'll stop debasing them for all this corporate bollocks and get back on track."
She set the sake back down. An abrasion on her right inner cheek stung. Besides, hair of the dog was a terrible idea unless she wanted to regurgitate raw fish all over this plastic table.
"Jessica, that place was only ever supposed to be a stepping stone. You know I always saw you at Justice. Or on the bench." He gave her a meaningful look. "The bench."
Her teeth found the inside of her lower lip. Of course, that was where she had once seen herself too. From the first Black, female President of the Harvard Law Review to the first Black, female U.S. Attorney General. Or Supreme Court Justice. Chief Justice. "Lani Guinier didn't make it, but you could," he had insisted over lunch, swilling gin and tonics, when he first tried to convince her to leave corporate law. In 1993. Of course, Philip would love to see her reach the highest legal professions in the land. Knowing him, he probably sought some share of the glory for her ascent.
However, what he never seemed to consider was how much she relished the thrill of the hunt. The taste of blood, the stickiness of it spilling down your chin, the enemy's flesh tearing in your teeth. Fighting on behalf of—and within the constraints of—the government could just never compare.
Daniel had understood that. Nurtured it. She had seen the same bloodthirst in Harvey.
…Of course, perhaps therein lay the problem.
"Philip, I'm Managing Partner of the most prestigious corporate law firm in the Tristate." Her lilting tone held a hint of bite. "When will that ever be enough for you?"
He watched her carefully. "I want to know when it will ever be enough for you." Her gaze could not help but meet his. "You came to me three years ago keen for a fresh start. Looking towards your next venture when you were, and I quote, 'still young enough to start an entirely new chapter'.
"And unlike you, I still am," she countered as she snatched a piece of his inferior spicy tuna roll out of sheer spite. "And if you recall that conversation so well," she continued, repressed irritation enunciating each letter, "then you would remember that I also said 'in ten years'."
He shook his head. His eyes had not left hers, had not even blinked. "And to think that in only two of those years, you've already had to sully yourself with that nasty infighting business in the papers—"
"Yes, because a career in national politics is so clean."
He held up his hands in mock defeat. "I'm only saying. You've worked so hard just to keep your name on one wall, when you could have your name on dozens of schools across this country."
His words sank into her like a stone in water.
Shit. The inside of her lip had started to bleed. Jessica sucked it in and plastered on a smile. "Well then, you would be happy to know that I have been working on both." Her smile deepened at his widening eyes. "Now that we're flush with cash after our wins on Ellersly and Derringer, this year, I'm launching a charitable foundation at the firm. One mission will include increasing access to legal services for underserved communities."
A grin spread across his face. "Brilliant. That is excellent news, Jessica. Excellent. Brilliant."
She exhaled, and with her breath expelled the past several minutes of conversation. She could never deal with his disappointment, not atop everything else, not today.
Not today.
"So. Care to tell me about that tall, dark, handsome lad I saw you with a few months ago?" he asked after another swig of sake. "You still together?"
He must be back in a good mood if he was talking sex again. "Which one?"
"The—" he paused and his face split into an even wider grin. "You cheeky minx! From that benefit, the erm… Police Foundation?"
"Ah, Jeff… he's fine." Jessica reached halfheartedly for another gyoza but gave up. "He was just my date though; we weren't together."
If fucking once or twice counted as being together, then she was in deep trouble.
"I love how you rule, my darling. That's how you do it; never share a thing. Let the poor sods think you're a, married to the job, and b, that they stand a chance, so they never stop trying to win you over." His slate eyes sparkled like snowflakes on Lake Placid. "How Elizabethan of you."
The praise would have felt much better had it not been for similar words spilling angrily from Quentin's mouth the night he demanded a divorce.
She swallowed hard and forced her mouth into a sparkling smile. "Well, you know what they say. The sun never sets on my empire."
Of course, that sunset loomed rather close on the horizon these days. Looking an awful lot like Mike Goddamn Ross.
"Did anyone at the firm ever learn that you were married?" Philip's chopsticks closed around a clump of violently green seaweed. She averted her eyes. "Besides that prick Daniel."
As though she weren't feeling nauseous enough already.
"I told Harvey," she said carefully as she lay down her chopsticks and took a sip of green tea. "Three years ago."
Philip burst out laughing. "I'll bet he took that one well. How is your sexy little walking ethics violation, by the way? Still trying to get in your knickers?"
A/N: Bit of a different pace, but we'll be switching it up again next time! May need some extra time as I'm currently travelling out of the country, but I'll have plenty more when I return.
Much love and please R/R! xx