Walk of Shame
Page 8

Still, generally speaking, I know I’ve got it pretty good, so I try not to dwell.
I refocus my attention on my dad, who’s talking about some new deal he just signed for a multiuse high-rise on the West Side.
“That’s awesome,” I say, meaning it.
I didn’t get the real estate bug, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t see how hard he works. I appreciate that the empire he sits on—yes, the very empire that made it possible for me to afford my apartment, courtesy of the inheritance my grandmother left me—came from sweat and tears and long hours.
“What have you been up to, Georgie, sweetie?” Mom asks, practically the second my dad stops talking to take a sip of coffee.
“Oh, same old,” I say.
She glances up and gives me a sly smile. “I don’t suppose you’re going to bring a guy around one of these days? You haven’t dated anyone seriously since Marco.”
“Eh.” I lift my shoulders and spin my champagne flute on the table. “Nobody interesting enough to hold my attention.”
“Nobody?” my dad asks, giving me a curious glance.
I exhale through my nose, wondering how to explain that Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t count.
He’s interesting, but not for me.
“There’s just this guy in my building. Getting under my skin a little,” I admit.
Both parents fix their attention on me at the same time. A rarity, trust me. They both love me, but usually they seem to take turns looking my way, perhaps to avoid eye contact with each other.
“Need me to beat him up?” my dad says.
My mom wrinkles her nose. “Jack, please.”
I tense at her snotty dismissal of him, but he gives me a wink. “Okay, fine. I know a guy. Better?”
I smile back. “Nah, he’s not worth the effort.”
“Who is he?”
“Andrew Mulroney, Esquire,” I say in a hoity-toity accent, miming the motion of drinking tea with my pinky finger in the air.
“Ah, a lawyer,” Dad says dismissively. “I know the type.”
“Wait, I know that name,” Mom says, tapping her black-manicured nails on her notebook. “Why do I know that name?”
I wave her comment away with the stem of my champagne flute. “He’s some celebrity divorce lawyer. Makes obscene amounts of money from busting up marriages.”
“Yes!” my mom says in recognition, pointing her pen at me and waving. “I know him. He handled Gwen Vanderman’s divorce last year. She ended up getting everything.”
“Everything but Bob, and he was the most decent thing about her,” my dad mutters.
“Gwen called him a boy genius. Made partner at an exceptionally young age,” my mom says, shifting attention back to her iPad. “He’s a good connection for you to have.”
“For what?” I ask incredulously. “I don’t even have a boyfriend, and you’re already planning my divorce?”
“This city’s all about networking,” Mom says distractedly. “Never hurts to align yourself with powerful people.”
“Oh, Andrew and I are aligned, all right,” I say, standing to refill my mimosa. “Him at one end of the battlefield, me at the other.”
“My money’s on you, sweetie,” my dad says loyally.
I turn back around, intending to ask if they want to go see the new exhibit at the Guggenheim.
I open my mouth, then shut it again when I see that my mom’s on the phone and my dad’s face is buried once more in his newspaper.
I head with my mimosa toward the kitchen to chat with Linda.
I’m not sure either parent notices when I leave.
Andrew

MONDAY, 4:45 A.M. Andrew Mulroney pushed through the revolving doors of his apartment building and out into the dark Monday morning drizzle.
It was one of the few times in his adult life that he was off schedule, fifteen minutes earlier than usual, but if he had to be out of his routine, better to be ahead of schedule than behind.
One of his clients was in Bali on her “divorce-moon,” whatever the hell that was, and the time difference necessitated him getting into the office earlier than usual if he hoped to catch her on the phone before her cocktail hour.
He didn’t mind. Fifteen minutes were nothing in the grand scheme of things.
Although . . .
These days, fifteen minutes in the early morning hours meant the difference between seeing Georgiana Watkins and not seeing her. His earlier-than-usual morning meant that he’d miss her today, and thank God for that.
The socialite was everything that he abhorred. Self-indulged, flighty, useless . . . ridiculous.
And yet . . . Andrew took a sip of his chocolate protein shake, pausing to dig his umbrella out of his bag, trying to ignore his inconvenient thoughts.
Thoughts that told him his feelings about missing Georgiana this morning had a lot more to do with disappointment than with relief.
It wasn’t like he wanted to see her, and yet there was just something about the woman that got to him. He had no use for pampered princesses who shopped during the days and partied their nights away. And yet there was an irritating kindness to her—a warmth that she bestowed upon everyone who crossed her path.
Except for him.
He popped open his umbrella, annoyed with himself.
Andrew had just started in the direction of his gym when a flash of yellow caught his eye. He glanced up, watching as the taxi door opened and one high-heeled sandal emerged, followed by a shapely female calf.
The woman stepped onto the sidewalk, wobbling just the slightest bit on the skyscraper heels as she slammed the taxi door shut.
Andrew dragged his gaze up the slim legs and mostly bare thighs, all the way up to the light brown waves.
His throat went a bit dry. Apparently he wasn’t going to miss Ms. Watkins this morning after all.
Georgiana was waving goodbye at the departing taxi. No doubt she’d become best friends with the driver. She was also holding her usual pink box filled with donuts, or cupcakes, or whatever junk food nightmare she insisted on stuffing the front-desk guys with.
Andrew watched her for a moment and contemplated crossing the street to spare them both. Yes. He’d do that.
Just as he was about to turn away before she could spot him, she took a step forward, not quite stumbling, but not exactly steady either.