“She said something about a week.”
“So talk to her again and get the details this time.”
“Then she’ll know I wasn’t listening, and as you know, I’ve been accused of being a bad listener before. Not by her because she’s too nice to say that, but by others.”
Fucking hell. I take a deep breath to try to keep my cool. Me coming at Marlow in anger won’t fix the situation or cure her narcissism. “This is ridiculous. You know that, right?”
“Ridiculous is losing my best friend when we have a chance to stop that from happening. Will you talk to her? Yes or no?”
Of course, I’d be happy to . . . if I thought she wanted my help. But instead of asking for it, she asked me to help someone else. But that was typical of Tealey.
Clenching my jaw, I tick through her visit. I was listening, offered to help her case, and participated in the conversation, which is more than she can say for Marlow. Yet she told her.
Still, despite my frustration, no way can I watch her move across the damn country. No. Fuck that. “You know I will.”
“Great! I think the sooner, the better.”
“She'll be home tonight?”
“Yes. Cammie and I were supposed to go over and help her pack, but it sounds like she has it handled.”
“All right. I’ll stop by and check on her.” I glance at the file. “I need to drop something by her place anyway.”
“Good. Now let’s talk about me because I need to get going.”
Clicking on my schedule, I double-check the appointment time for my next client, hoping to avoid her drama. “What is it? I’m swamped today.”
Her hand lands on my file, her manicured nails tapping the papers. “I need a favor. An itsy, teeny, tiny favor.”
“No.”
She pouts. “I haven’t even asked yet. You’re in such a mood today.”
“I’m in a mood every day, so if you’ll excuse me.” Despite her tailored pink suit, she relaxes in the chair like the indulged daddy’s girl she is, apparently making herself at home.
“I thought you had to get going?” Marlow doesn’t take hints very well, but let’s pray she does today.
I need time to debrief the last few minutes before I walk into my next meeting. Usually, my post-Tealey ritual is to commit everything about her to memory.
Her pink-colored lips. An insight gleaned from our conversation. But today? Today, I’ll be trying to make sense of this moving mess.
“Radcliffe?” Marlow snaps her fingers, pulling me back to reality
“What?”
She sweeps her long hair off to one shoulder and then leans in. “I need a favor.”
Rolling my hand in the air, I encourage her to get to the point. “What is it?”
As if I have nothing better to do this afternoon, she opens a compact and eyes her brows, taking her time. Annoyance flickers in her eyes as she smooths a finger over it. “There.”
“I have a meeting with a client soon, sooo . . .”
A smile rolls into place. “My dad is in town, and he wants us to join him for dinner tomorrow night.”
“What’s the catch?”
My desk phone rings. “Yes, Ashleigh?”
“Your next appointment is here,” my assistant says.
“I’ll be right there.” I hang up and stand, reaching for my jacket hooked on the wall. I mentally calculate how long this meeting will run and how soon I can get to Tealey’s for answers. “I need to go.”
Marlow takes her bag and slips it to the crook of her elbow as she walks toward the door. “So that’s a yes?”
“Sure. Fine.” Just fucking go.
“Thank you, Rad. I can always count on you.” She taps her Rolex before opening the door. “I have to run. My personal shopper is waiting. I’m already fifteen minutes late, so I’ll text you the details. Ciao, darling.”
Like a hurricane, she whips in here, destroys any plans I might have had, and races back out. I should protest, rushing to firmer ground to stand on, but she’s gone, leaving me just enough time to check my schedule. As if I didn’t have enough Marchés for the day . . . Speak of the devil.
I walk out, and Ashleigh flanks my side, handing me a file. She gives me the rundown at the pace of our fast walk. “Robert Marché. Movie producer with credits for three of the biggest films in the past five years. Net worth $350 million. Homes in Sun Valley, Los Angeles, Cabo San Lucas. A condo in Miami, and apartments in Manhattan and Paris. One daughter. Grown. Twen—”
“Twenty-eight,” I fill in, “Robert Marché is Marlow’s father.”
With wide eyes, she asks, “Marlow, who just left Marlow?”
“The very one.”
“Oh. Wow. Does she know he’s getting a divorce?”
“After the conversation we just had, I’m thinking she doesn’t.”
Gripping a small laptop to her chest, she takes a deep breath just as we round the corner. “This should be interesting.”
Maybe that’s why he invited all of us to dinner tomorrow. He’s going to tell her but wants her surrounded by her friends for support. That makes sense. And more so, maybe being surrounded by friends will remind Tealey this is where she belongs. We’re basically a dysfunctional family, but we’re family. “My thoughts exactly.” I stop abruptly and lower my voice. “She can’t find out from us. If she comes by for any reason, make sure we keep this under wraps.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’ve told her a million times, but I tell her again, “It makes me feel like my dad when you call me sir.”
Ashleigh laughs but quickly quietens as a few eyes rise above the edges of the cubicles. “Unless the senior partners are around. It’s just a hard habit to break. Anyway, I’m hoping you’ll take me with you to the top when you make partner, and that means calling you sir, sir.”
“You’re my secret weapon. I’m not going anywhere without you.” I push through the conference room door. “Mr. Marché, it’s been too long.”
Bob is a big man. From his shoulders to his hands, he loves to intimidate others with his large build. “Rad, you’re always welcome to get some sunshine in California.” Patting my arm, he almost knocks me to the side with his hearty hits, but I stand my ground because he’s never intimidated me. “Palm trees. Beautiful women. Blue skies and the ocean. You need to come out for a visit.”
“I do. But you’re here now. Marlow mentioned you were visiting, but I assumed for pleasure.” He’s gone completely gray since I last saw him with white taking over the hair around his ears. Too tan to be a New Yorker, he fits right in with the Hollywood elite.
I refer to my right-hand woman. “This is Ashleigh Walters, my assistant.”
“Hello,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Glancing at me, he lifts a brow. “I was hoping to speak to you alone.”
Ashleigh doesn’t need to be asked to leave but waits for me to confirm before exiting. I nod. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” When the door closes, and we sit, I look across the table at him. “It’s always good to see you, but I’ll admit this comes as a surprise. Usually, when someone sits across from me during business hours on a Tuesday, it’s to discuss divorce proceedings.”