Claustrophobic Page 2

  “Kristine may have been involved with my choice of attire today. That woman can guilt trip like a champ. How could I deprive desperate mothers with screaming children their yearly dose of handsome men easing the pain of their shopping adventures? Ah, what did she call me? I do believe she informed me I was sex on a stick and eye candy. I told her she needed to make an appointment for an eye exam.”

  I loved how Kristine told the truth and nothing but the truth while her ruthless use of clever wordplay hid her true intentions. I choked back a laugh. “We got played. She roped you in and left you to the wolves, too?”

  “So it seems. She’s got me scheduled in for this several more Sundays before Christmas, too. There were tears, Chloe. So many tears. And begging. I couldn’t tell her no.”

  “Damn, she got you good.” I grinned, unable to help myself. “She just begged me for help since she had something come up. I guess that means I’m even more of a sucker than you are.”

  “I prefer to think of you as a good friend. It takes being a really good friend to participate in something you dislike so much.”

  I shrugged. “Kristine promised it’d just be once, and she promised she would owe me. Next time I need a car, I’ve got a favor in my pocket. And when I need a car, I’m going to take her on a tour through hell, also known as downtown at rush hour. Maybe I’ll have her drop me off on Boardwalk?”

  Chuckling, Julian guided me to the elevators leading down to the parking garage. “You don’t get mad; you get even, I see. Should I warn Kristine? Actually, no. When you acquire your payback, drop me a text so I can watch. I’ll give you my number. If you need a ride for something, give me a call. I don’t mind driving you around. Beats letting it rot in the garage. Just, should you feel merciful, perhaps not Broadway at rush hour?”

  “You’re a brave, brave man. I’ll try to resist the urge to ask for a ride to Broadway. It’ll be difficult, but I’ll try.”

  “No such mercy for Kristine, I take it?”

  “She should’ve thought about the consequences of her actions before roping me into facing down my Claustrophobia all day.”

  “I like to think I make a good Santa Claus.”

  “You should’ve seen the other guy,” I muttered.

  “I did. He hit the doors at a run with a bottle of the hard stuff in one hand and a cigar in the other.”

  “He’s going to end up on his ass on the sidewalk. Do you know what happens when you end up on your ass on the sidewalk around here?”

  Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “Dare I ask?”

  “Ask.”

  “Okay. What happens?”

  “You’ll get pissed on by a dog. Hopefully a dog. There are other options.”

  For a long moment, I thought Julian would ditch me then and there for my blunt description of the dangers of snowy New York sidewalks. “I should’ve known better than to ask. It’s a rule. We don’t discuss—or eat—the yellow snow.”

  “Beware of dog, Julian. Beware of dog. They go where no man has gone before.”

  “At least while sober,” he muttered.

  Somehow, I made it all the way to his car without even cracking a grin.

  Julian lived in an entirely different world, one where he took me, who lived in jeans outside of work, to a posh restaurant on Fifth Avenue without any care that I didn’t meet the basic dress code for such a place. The hostess didn’t seem to care I was the only person in the place dressed like I’d just escaped poverty, either, smiling at both of us.

  “Your table is ready, Mr. Carter,” she announced, gesturing for us to follow and snagging two leather-bound menus from the stand. “Would you like your usual?”

  “Up for some Champagne, Chloe?”

  I’d need the Champagne to make it through dinner when I looked like Julian had plucked me off the street and brought me in from the cold, which wasn’t too far from the truth. “Champagne sounds nice, thank you.”

  “A nice Champagne tonight, please.”

  The hostess led us to a table for two alongside a window overlooking Central Park, and in the time it took us to make it from valet parking to inside, a light snow had begun to fall. Julian held my chair out for me, and I did my best to pretend I belonged.

  “That’s going to make the drive to my place unpleasant. I can take the subway if it gets worse.”

  Julian took his seat and aimed his lethal smile my way. “I have snow tires on; I prefer safe over sorry, and despite being sporty, my car handles well in the snow. I’ll take you home, so don’t worry about it. My limit is one glass at the start of dinner, but we’ll be here a while. The food is great, but it’s meant to be enjoyed and the waitstaff knows it. I’d already been planning to come here tonight, so I thought I’d treat you to it. I figured if I had to play Santa all day, I’d reward myself afterwards.”

  My version of a reward involved a pint of ice cream and a spoon, but I would do my best to squish my stubborn New York pride and enjoy a night on the town without the burden of a slutty elf dress. “Thank you.”

  If Kristine found out I could thank someone without trying to repay the favor immediately if not sooner, she’d faint—or refuse to believe it. Probably both.

  Julian needed to stop smiling at me before I melted off my seat and made a fool of myself. He opened my menu, flipped it around, and pointed. “The salads are a lie, and so is the rest of that healthy crap on the other side of the menu. Healthy crap is for lunches during the work week when we’re trying to convince ourselves we don’t go home and cry into our ice cream.”

  When Julian had still worked at the firm, he’d caught me muttering over how my salad would inevitably rise up, kill me, and feed me to the food I really wanted to be eating. I’d almost died of mortification, but he’d found the whole thing hilarious.

  I latched onto my one hope of escaping with my pride somewhat intact. “You do not go home and cry into your ice cream.”

  “Chocolate with a large dollop of peanut butter slapped on top. Warmed caramel syrup if it’s been a bad day. It’s my nightly reminder of why I need to go to the gym. The crying, truth be told, is usually from having gone to the gym. Apparently, exercise is mandatory, but exercise is pain. I’m not sure who made it mandatory, but they deserve a fate worse than death.”

  “I agree.” My form of exercise involved running from the bus stop to the subway before sprinting an extra quarter mile to make it to work. I counted my blitz to the lobby bathroom to restore myself to presentable state as exercise, too, after which I pretended like I hadn’t run a marathon to get to work on time. A gym membership seemed nice in comparison. “Kristine keeps telling me if I stopped eating the ice cream, I wouldn’t have to exercise.”

  “Kristine keeps telling me that, too,” Julian complained. “What did ice cream ever do to her?”

  “I’d say she’s lactose intolerant, but I’ve seen what she can do to a gallon of milk given five minutes and a lack of supervision.”

  That got Julian’s attention. “What did she do?”

  “I had an untouched gallon of milk in the fridge. I left her alone for five minutes and returned to her passed out on my couch with the empty jug dangling from her hand.” I laughed at the memory, but I also flushed I’d blurted it out without thinking first.

  Oh, well. Kristine might forgive me for tattling on her to a mutual friend. Maybe.

  “She went on a milk bender in your apartment and passed out with a jug of milk in her hand?”

  On second thought, I wouldn’t believe it either. Unfortunately for Kristine, I’d taken pictures, and I retrieved my phone, pulled up the evidence, and showed it to Julian. “Think this would make good blackmail material?”

  “I know so. You better take Kristine for at least two car rides for making you work as an elf. You might even get three out of her with that shot. How the hell did someone that small drink an entire gallon of milk?”

  “I still haven’t figured that part out.”

  A waiter brought a bottle of Champagn
e, and he popped the cork with far more grace than I could ever manage. On a good day, I left a divot on the ceiling. On a bad one, I broke something. After I’d broken my mother’s television with a cork, I’d abandoned anything sparkling if it didn’t come in a can or have a twist-off cap.

  I didn’t belong in such a nice restaurant, but I’d do my best not to completely humiliate myself. Fortunately for me, the waiter poured, Julian tested his, and I made it to the part I could handle without prompting: the drinking.

  As a lady didn’t guzzle her Champagne, I took my time with it, taking the chance to read the menu. I inhaled my first sip at the price of the appetizers, forgot how to breathe, and given the choice between choking or spitting my drink on Julian, I choked, coughed, and somehow managed to recover without drawing the attention of the entire restaurant.

  Julian ignored my antics, reached across the table, and pointed at my menu. “The good stuff, which is appropriately unhealthy, is generally here. When I get the steak, I go home with leftovers. They mean serious business here.”

  At the price they were charging, I hoped the restaurant meant serious business. Aware he meant to spend more money than I cared to think about for dinner, I concentrated my attention on the section he’d recommended.

  A heaven of steak, seafood, and pasta waited for me, and the more I read, the harder it was to avoid drooling.

  A proud, stubborn New Yorker would not be reduced to drooling. I absolutely wouldn’t, under any circumstance, be reduced to a drooling mess of a woman. I could handle ordering a meal fit for a king, slaughtering Julian’s wallet in the process. If Julian didn’t want his wallet murdered, he wouldn’t have directed me to culinary heaven. “How do you recommend the steaks?”

  “Medium-rare, and their garlic mashed potatoes are worth writing home about. In good news, the valet will bring my car right to the doors, so we won’t have too far to waddle after dinner.”

  Salads could rot in hell. If Julian intended to waddle out the doors, I’d follow his lead and enjoy every last bite of dinner, have a few extra bites because I could, and indulge in a food coma that would last until I began my work marathon for the week.

  And I’d only blackmail Kristine a little for her ruthless cunning. I could ignore the stares from the wealthy. They could keep their snooty prejudices to themselves, and if they didn’t, I’d give them a taste of their medicine with a snooty comeback I’d learned from a bunch of sharks disguised as lawyers. “If you’re not waddling out of a good restaurant, you’re obviously not eating out right.”

  On second thought, perhaps I would’ve been wiser to keep my mouth shut.

  Julian didn’t seem to mind. “The grilled shrimp cocktail is good, and it’s big enough for two.”

  “I seem to have developed an aversion to salads this evening, but beyond that, if you bring it, I’ll eat it.”

  “Even heart?” Leaning closer, Julian pointed at something on the menu, and upon closer inspection, I discovered the restaurant served an entire heart of a cow, a dish designed for two. “There’s other stuff, but I’m not brave enough to try it.”

  “If you bring a heart out, I’ll try it, but I’ll be very disappointed if there isn’t a steak to go with it.”

  “Should I just order the entire cow?”

  “Better not, they might bring it to us live like some places do with the lobsters. I’m concerned they might introduce my dinner to me by name.”

  “They bring the lobsters out live so you pick the one you eat, and if you’re particularly brave, you can catch it yourself.”

  My brows rose at that. “They let you stick your hand in the tank to catch the lobster?”

  “I tried it once. I’m pleased to report I didn’t lose any fingers to a cranky lobster, but my suit was never quite the same. I figured if I was paying market price for a lobster, I’d enjoy the whole experience.”

  “Dare I ask how much market price is for a lobster?”

  Julian winced. “Let’s just say I could fit my hand in the lobster’s claw and leave it at that.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You could fit your hand in the lobster’s claw?”

  Holding up his hand, he curled his fingers and thumb into a claw. “They packaged it to go after cleaning it. I still have it.”

  Julian had a huge lobster claw at home? “You have got to be shitting me.”

  “I do have it! At the risk of being inappropriate, I’m happy to swing by my place on the way to take you home and show it to you.” He grinned and relaxed in his seat. “It’s a great conversation piece.”

  “Are you using it as a conversation starter or a deterrent?”

  He grinned. “Whatever benefits me most at the time.”

  “Next you’re going to tell me you hum the Jaws theme while approaching other attorneys to piss them off.”

  “I do try to embrace my inner shark at least once a month. It’d be a shame if people assumed I was a gentleman all the time.”

  “How the fuck are you single?” I blurted.

  His brows rose, and my face burned from embarrassment. The waiter saved me from an uncomfortable situation, as he returned ready to take our order. Julian took the lead, ordering the grilled shrimp cocktail, specifying we’d share it. Then he ordered the most expensive steak on the menu and flashed me a grin. “Ditto, Chloe?”

  In his tone, I could hear his challenge.

  “I’ll have the same, but make mine rare.” If he wanted to challenge me to eating a massive steak, I’d play his game, and I’d take a bloodier approach. “Can I have a side order of the asparagus, please?”

  “Of course, ma’am. Would you like anything else?”

  “That’s all for me, thank you,” I replied, handing the waiter my menu.

  “I never thought you’d be the type to get your meat rare.” Julian chuckled. “To answer your question, I’m sure I’ll willingly evict myself from the bachelor pool the instant the right woman comes around and shows interest. Why are you still single?”

  Did Julian count as rare meat? I’d pay a lot more than menu prices to erase my dumbass commentary from his memory and be able to enjoy an evening with him. At least I had a canned answer for my state as a single woman. “I’m too damned poor, I think. Welcome to New York.” Realizing I’d just made a dumbass out of myself again, I sighed. “Scratch that. It’s because I say stupid shit. See? Just like that. That’s why I’m single.”

  “I sometimes date, but it rarely goes well. Every time I bring someone here, guess what they do?”

  I could make a few guesses, especially if they were close to him in income. “Dress up, order salad, some ridiculously healthy dinner they don’t even like, and refuse to enjoy the evening because they’re too busy trying to impress you with their manners and money?”

  “Have you been shadowing my dates?”

  “No, I just listen to Kristine when she’s bitching about how her latest date got pissy she wanted a real meal.” I shrugged and took another sip of the Champagne, eyeing the bottle and wondering if I could reach the bottom before I made too much of a fool of myself. Since I couldn’t manage dinner sober, a buzz might help me get through it. “I’ve tried dating, but I’ve learned it’s better to just swipe left. Anyway, with my schedule, I don’t have time.”

  “As I said before, give me a copy of your work records. I’ll talk to my employment attorney friend; if he can’t help you, no one can. Do you have a copy of your employment agreement? It should have the terms of your overtime pay listed, when you qualify, and the number of hours and time off you’re owed.”

  “I have it. I just haven’t had the money to file a case,” I admitted. “I read that a lot of the self-filed claims don’t work out well.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about any attorney fees. He’ll enjoy tangoing with your firm. He’s been waiting for a chance for years.”

  “How’d you meet an employment attorney with a grudge?”

  “He works for a few of the local firms, including min
e; his job is to make sure his clients keep everything ethical on the employment front. He’ll also handle any cases for spouses and family of the other attorneys. It works well; while he’s technically a billing attorney, most of the firms he works for essentially pay him a yearly salary. He hates managing billed hours. He’d probably make more directly billing, but he’s got some damned good job security. HR can’t take a piss without him being in their business. Right now, I think he’s overseeing four firms.”

  Billed hours drove the attorneys where I worked; as a non-billing employee, I enjoyed some luxuries—assuming they ever paid me for my hours. “How would it work if I have a case?”

  “Well, they’d be fined per incident, which is typically counted in weeks. You’d potentially get damages, depending on how the case works out. I’m specialized in criminal law, so it’s not really my area of expertise. I’ll ask him and have him offer you advice on how to handle it. But considering you’ve asked for payments you haven’t received, he can probably build a case around those requests.”

  “They owe me time and a half for up to forty-eight hours a week, double time for any hours beyond forty-eight.”

  “Are you working more than forty-eight hours a week?”

  “I’m working nine hours a day right now; the daytime receptionist was shifted to starting an hour earlier and she stays for only eight. She refused to do any overtime. I’m the only one who works Saturday, so I’m in the office for nine or ten hours. Usually ten. Depends on the week.”

  “You’re working fifty-five hours a week? You really have to work tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I am. And I do. I get a half hour dinner break; one of the assistants watches my desk while I’m gone. On Saturdays, I eat at my desk.”

  “I’ll let him know he’ll be looking for every infraction he can find. Do you have records of who was behind the specific infractions?”

  “I recorded who my contacts were, yes.”

  “Obviously, I need to hire you to be my legal secretary.”

  “I’m not qualified.”