The Love Wars Read Online Free Page A

with you.”
    Nothing. How much ass-kissing did this guy need? “It’s an honor.”
    He looked up from his documents. “It’s an honor?”
    I nodded uncertainly. “Yes, I’m really happy to be here.”
    “An honor?”
    “Yes.”
    “Thank you,” he said in a genuine tone of voice. “Thank you for interrupting my workday with that proclamation.” He was straight-faced, but his eyes betrayed utter ridicule. “Will you be sharing such meaningful sentiments on a daily basis, or just when you’re moved to do so?”
    I did not answer, just slowly backed out of his office, hell-bent on retreating to mine.

2
    ____
the value of hard work
    I surreptitiously check my BlackBerry. Two new messages; one is from an anxious client. A wave of stress makes my stomach clench. I pick nervously at the bent cardboard corner of my legal pad.
    I try to remember the elements of false imprisonment from Criminal Law and wonder whether I have enough for a successful claim against Everett, who is lounged in his chair, making small talk on an interminable phone call with someone named Jim.
    Twenty minutes ago, when Everett started the call—which has nothing to do with any of the mindless assignments he has pelted me with—I tried tiptoeing out of the office. He had put the call on hold and motioned to the chair, telling me to “sit down, Molly, and wait until I’m done.”
    “Oh, I’ll come back as soon as you’re done. I have to—”
    “Sit down. I’ll be off soon.”
    But of course he wasn’t.
    I am certain Everett doesn’t like me, so it never ceases to amaze me how much time he makes us spend together. Now that I am starting to get more substantive work, this togetherness is torture. Every hour I spend with Everett translates into an hour that I will have to stay late at the office, catching up on actual, billable work.
    From my peripheral vision, I see someone stick a head in the doorway. It’s Kim. “Lilliannow.”
    Everett jumps to his feet. “Hey, man, Jim, gotta run, talk soon.” He slams down the receiver, rummages through the piles of paper on his desk to find a notepad and races out of the door, stopping only to turn back to me. “I’ll find you after.”
    “Okay,” I say, silently debating whether I should hide from him in the library or an empty conference room. Before I can decide, Kim nods at me.
    “Sheshouldcometoo.”
    Curious, I follow Everett and Kim next door to Lillian’s office, which anchors the southwest corner of the floor and is the size of two partners’ offices combined. There are huge windows, with city views, and despite its grandeur, Lillian has prioritized the room’s comfort. “Make my guests feel cradled,” I have imagined her directing, pinning the interior decorator’s gaze with the sharpness of her own. And, like everyone else in Lillian’s life, the decorator had complied. It is a place where clients can, over a cup of hot tea, be lulled into telling their deepest secrets.
    Two silver floor lamps with ecru lampshades emit a cozy yellow glow. A plush ivory throw rug cuddles the industrial gray carpet that covers the rest of the law firm. The walls have tasteful prints with safe illustrations of pretty, nonthreatening things found in nature: beaches and mountains, flowers and leaves. Opposite Lillian’s big desk are two guest chairs with garnet-colored seats and backs, and behind them is a beige suede couch with deep cushions and a garnet chenille throw blanket. Hope occasionally naps there while pulling all-nighters and swears by its comfort.
    Lillian sits at her desk peering over chic circular glasses at some papers. She looks up when we come in and pushes her glasses to the top of her head, where they teeter precariously on her expertly blown-out hair.
    “Molly.” She nods to the chair and I sit. “Are you free for lunch after I finish up with Everett?”
    “Of course.”
    Lillian turns to Everett, unsmiling. “Bruce at the Bar Group called. He didn’t get the