Laws of attraction, p.11
Laws of Attraction, page 11
“Yup.”
“So,” Dakota said, clapping her hands together. “Who wants a drink?”
* * *
A mimosa and a half later, Becky finally got the truth out of Dakota.
“Fine, yes, we’ve been seeing each other.”
“How many times?”
Dakota started counting softly under her breath. She looked up at the ceiling as if the answer to how many times she’d gone out with a guy named Bullhorn was written in the stucco.
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe twenty?”
“Twenty? It’s only been a week! What’d you do, go on three dates in one day?”
“Oh! You’re talking about dates! Yeah, we haven’t really been on any dates.”
“Then what are you talking about? Twenty what? Oh.” The mimosas were making her slow. Plus, she was having a hard time picturing Bullhorn in any kind of sexual situation. Fortunately, he had left just as soon as Becky got there.
“Don’t let that frat-boy exterior fool you. Bullhorn has hidden depths.”
“And yet he still goes by the name Bullhorn.”
“He was a cheerleader in college.”
“Wow. I never thought you’d go for a cheerleader.”
“Hey, he’s pretty limber. And he owns a brewery.”
“A cheerleading brewery?”
“No. Ha ha. It’s the one on South Broadway, the one that’s always on the Westword Best of Denver list.”
“He owns that brewery? But that place is, like, cool.”
“Yeah.”
“And breweries are a lot of work.”
“I know. And here’s something else: he reads.”
“Books?”
Dakota nodded. “For fun.”
“Wow.”
“I told you. Hidden depths.”
“So . . . are you getting serious?”
“Serious? Beck, it’s only been a week. People don’t just, like, shack up permanently in a week.”
“I know.”
“Do you? I seem to recall you picking out china patterns before you even sleep with a guy.”
“I do not pick out china patterns.” She was much more interested in casual dinnerware. “Anyway, I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
“Really? So if a guy in a bad suit walked through this door, you wouldn’t jump all over him?”
“No.”
“Not even if he wanted to give you a tour of his house with the white picket fence?”
“The white picket fence is just a metaphor. But I told you, I’m done. Reset.”
“But that was back when he was just an anonymous lumberjack. Now he’s Foster.”
“Yeah, Foster who’s an attorney, and I’m done with lawyers.”
“Foster who adopted a sad old dog.”
“He’s just fostering her. I would have done it if I could’ve gotten out of that part of my lease.”
“Hmm. If only you knew some lawyer who could help you with that.”
“Besides, Foster is a genius, so even if I hadn’t sworn off lawyers—which I have—I will never swear on geniuses.”
“Swear on?”
“That’s the opposite of swear off, right?”
“Not sure about that. Maybe we should ask a genius.”
“He’s not that kind of genius. He’s a legal genius. One of the greatest legal minds of our generation.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, AALL did.”
“Should that mean something to me?”
“The American Association of Law Libraries. And the American Bar Association and the Columbia Law Review and just about every publication that writes anything about intellectual property.”
“So, things normal people don’t care about.”
“I care and I’m normal.”
“You sure about that?”
“Trust me.”
“I’m just saying, it might be okay to bend your no-lawyers rule.”
“Bend it? I just started following it! Because you told me to!”
“Maybe I was wrong.”
“No. You’re never wrong.”
“Say that one more time, for posterity.”
“About love, at least.”
“I am apparently dating a guy named Bullhorn.”
“Besides, Foster is a jerk.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Fine. But he’s condescending at work.”
“So don’t date him at work.”
“This is so unfair. You told me no feelings, so I did it. No feelings! And so even though he’s really great and it was the best sex of my life, I’m not having feelings for him, okay? I’m not.”
“OK, OK.” Dakota got up to refill their drinks. Because Becky definitely needed more alcohol.
“So . . . how was dinner last night?”
She took the bottle of champagne from Dakota. If she was going to get into this, she definitely needed more alcohol.
“That good, huh?”
Becky shrugged. “It was fine. It was the longest we’ve sat together at a table in . . . I think my entire life.”
“Your family. I don’t know how you came from them.”
“Neither do they.”
“Not all geniuses are like your parents, you know.”
She’d known Dakota since middle school, when she was the weird new kid who talked funny. Becky felt bad for her—and was sort of fascinated by her Southern accent—and her pity turned into an unbreakable friendship. Which meant they knew everything about each other. Which meant Dakota had been to her parents’ house and seen the complete lack of comfortable social furniture and the absence of any of that trivial conversation that makes a family feel connected. She’d heard her parents tease her about her C report card and her choice to go to a state school and how library science wasn’t a real science. Dakota didn’t live with it, but she’d seen a little of what it was like to grow up around geniuses.
So despite all the evidence that Foster was a normal, nice guy, she had to be on guard. She wasn’t going to throw her heart out to another genius and have it thrown back in her face because it wasn’t good enough.
* * *
Foster stared at the corner of the couch where a naked mole-rat sat staring back at him.
That wasn’t nice. So Starr wasn’t the fluffball he’d expected when he’d picked her up from a six-hour appointment at the groomer. She did look better without all those painful-looking mats covering her. And once they got back home, her shell-shocked look subsided and she seemed a lot happier. Apparently, she didn’t have a wonky ear; it just needed to be freed from the mess of hair.
Poor girl, he thought as he reached out to scratch her naked little back. She was going to be cold. Good thing he’d bought her a sweater when he went to the pet store to get more food.
A sweater, a puffy vest, a fleece, a dog bed, and a whole bag of toys that turned out to be too big for her. But they were fluffy and she liked to cuddle with them.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked her now. “I used to be a man with dignity.” Now he had a chupacabra who cuddled.
A chupacabra with a wardrobe.
Starr still couldn’t be convinced to put on any of the sweaters, and Foster decided she’d had such a traumatic day that he wouldn’t force her. She’d be cold when they went outside for a walk, but that wouldn’t be for a while. Instead, he just turned up the heat and took off his sweater.
They’d just chill out together, get to know each other a little better.
For Starr, this meant staring at him from the other end of the couch.
“I’m a genius, you know.”
Starr just looked back at him.
Foster sighed. What was he supposed to do with a dog?
“Do you want to play fetch or something?” When she didn’t respond, he picked up one of the squeaky toys he’d bought. This one was in the shape of a football. He squeezed it, then let it sail down the corridor.
Starr perked up enough to watch it go, then turned her attention back to Foster.
“Fetch,” he said hopefully. “I don’t suppose you’ll be one of those dogs I can train to bring me a beer, are you?”
Starr rested her head on her legs, but didn’t take her eyes off Foster.
Poor pathetic little beast, he thought. He wanted to scoop her up and squeeze her and scratch behind her ears. But he’d already tried that and all he’d gotten was a retreat to the other end of the couch and this stare down.
“Do you want to watch TV?” he asked. “Why am I even asking you? I’m the alpha dog here. We’re just going to do what I want to do. Which, fortunately, is not playing fetch. That was just a test.”
He picked up the remote and flicked on the television. Starr didn’t move, but she didn’t seem upset by the noise either.
“TV it is,” he said with finality, because he was the alpha of the house. He put his feet up on the coffee table and flipped through the channels until he found a movie with lots of explosions.
Every so often he’d sneak a look over at Starr, just to make sure she was still there. She was, and she eventually closed her eyes and started snoring.
God, even her snore was cute.
This was all Becky’s fault. She was the one who’d convinced him to adopt Starr. Foster her. Whatever. If Becky hadn’t been giving him that look of adoration, he never would have been coerced.
That wasn’t fair. Becky was more . . . coercion adjacent. Madison was the one who’d really done him in. And now where was she? She’d turned on the waterworks, sent him home with a mop dog, then had the nerve to have an appointment with her math tutor.
Maybe he could call Becky. Maybe he could convince her Starr was her fault, and then she’d come over and they could stare at her cute little hairless face together.
No. That was ridiculous. Of course he wasn’t going to do that. He was just going to sit at home and watch this explosion-heavy movie and let his temporary dog get acclimated to his sublet apartment.
Foster put his feet up on the couch and stretched out. Starr immediately moved from her perch on the pillow and climbed across his body.
“I thought you were asleep,” he accused her, but she just stared back at him like he was missing the most obvious point in the world. Then she squished herself between his body and the couch and rested her head on his ribs. She closed her eyes. So did Foster. And in a minute, they were both snoring.
Chapter Eleven
It had been a pretty good week. Nobody sent her any last-minute urgent research requests, three of her dogs got adopted, and Foster sent her a picture of Starr and said he hoped she’d recovered from the dinner-that-shall-not-be-named. She probably owed him an apology, but because they were more or less normal and professional around each other, she just kept her head down. She didn’t need to see him any more than was absolutely necessary. Not because she was falling for him, but because every time she talked to him, he seemed to do something that annoyed her. Like show up and try to charm her parents into being nice to her.
The nerve.
Then, over the weekend, she hadn’t run into him at the shelter, which wasn’t disappointing at all. It was a relief. The week before, she’d seemed to run into him everywhere she went, so this was a nice change of pace.
Because she didn’t care about seeing him. Also, because no Foster at the shelter meant he hadn’t had some kind of breakdown and returned Starr. In fact, Maddie said Foster was embarrassingly in love with the dog, even though he denied it. He’d bought her sweaters. Plural.
So when she happened to be on his floor to deliver some misdirected mail, she just poked her head in to ask how Starr was doing. That was it. God, like there was another reason she would talk to him?
He was staring at his computer. He wasn’t exactly pulling his hair out, but he was definitely using lots of force to push it out of its normal, neat position.
She shouldn’t bother him.
But then he looked up at the doorway.
And smiled at her.
Well, it would be rude to walk away now.
“Hi,” she said. “I was just . . . passing through.” Like a stalker. To be fair, she was stalking the dog.
“Come on in. Sit down.” He stood up and walked around the desk and pulled out a chair for her. His hair was still sticking up. Without thinking, she reached up and brushed it down.
“Oh! Sorry. You’re, uh . . . it’s better now.”
He frantically flattened out the rest of his hair. “I was concentrating. Sometimes I . . . you know.”
Why were they acting like two kids who’d never spoken to someone of the opposite sex before?
“So . . . how’ve you been?” he asked.
“Fine, good.”
“Convincing.”
“No, I’m fine. And . . . Sorry about last weekend. After the dinner with my family, I mean.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Okay, thanks. I appreciate that.”
“Unless you want to reconsider your opinion that I’m not good with parents. For the record, I am.”
“Despite all evidence to the contrary?”
“Hey, you’re the one who insists your parents aren’t normal.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” she said, but too late. She was laughing.
He didn’t say anything for a minute, just watched her. She was starting to worry that there was something on her face when he said, “Your family is terrible.”
“Tell me about it.”
“They don’t deserve you.”
And now she was sure there was something on her face because it felt all hot and weird.
She cleared her throat. “So that’s why I want a normal life. Because for me, that’s not normal.”
“No kidding.”
“Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about my family. I came here to talk about your dog.”
“Oh! She got a haircut!” He took out his phone and started scrolling through the dozens of pictures he’d taken of . . . well, she assumed it was Starr. Starr looked a little . . . naked. Except for in the pictures where she was wearing a sweater.
“You’re really smitten with that dog, aren’t you?”
“What? No. She just needed to be taken care of, that’s all. It was a favor to Madison. And to you.”
“Really?”
“Really. So you owe me one.”
“Oh really. And what do I owe you?”
He tapped his finger against his chin and made a maniacal face. Still cute, though. “I’m going to hold on to that marker for a bit.”
There it was again. That thing on her face making her feel all hot.
“Well, um. I should let you get back to work.”
“Sure. Thanks for stopping by.”
“Thanks for showing me pictures of your dog.”
“Foster dog.”
“Foster’s dog.”
“Ha ha.”
She turned and was almost out the door when he called after her: “Normal’s overrated.”
Ha. What did he know? He wasn’t normal at all.
* * *
The first thing Foster wondered was whether he could bring Starr to the office because he was going to be working such late hours. But Claire—who was an intern, not a clerk—was allergic to everything, so that probably wouldn’t work.
The second thing he thought was that he had a long way to go to get this team up to speed if they were going to start giving evidence later that month.
The third thing was whether he could get a specific librarian assigned to their case.
Better focus on thing two. Especially because they had just finished a conference call with Goliath.
Goliath was based right outside of Denver. He didn’t know why his folks couldn’t go across town to meet with them, or the team couldn’t come here and meet in one of P&G’s conference rooms, but that was the way they wanted it and they were the client. The junior associates had a pool going about the reason they wouldn’t meet in person. So far his favorite was that Goliath was just a cover for a superhero conglomerate and their identities couldn’t be compromised. His least favorite was that they were nudists.
Whatever it was, they weren’t messing around. Which was good; he didn’t waste his time on clients who messed around. But that also meant his team had to stop thinking about superheroes and start thinking about document review.
Boxes and boxes of document review.
“OK, let’s divide this up.” He pointed at the junior associate who thought the people at Goliath were nudists. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us. Order us some food.” He flipped through what he thought was the newest box. “Claire, is this stuff we just got from the library?”
Claire looked a little nervous. “About that . . .”
To: Rebecca Schrader
From: Foster Deacon
Subject: Articles
Hi Becky,
I just spoke to Claire and she said you had trouble getting the issues of National Geographic we need. Can you help me out?
Foster
To: Foster Deacon
From: Rebecca Schrader
Subject: Re: Articles
Foster—
As I explained to Claire, we don’t subscribe to National Geographic, nor do we subscribe to Modern Homesteader. I sent on all the articles we have access to.
Becky
To: Rebecca Schrader
From: Foster Deacon
Subject: Re: Re: Articles
Can we get a subscription?
To: Foster Deacon
From: Rebecca Schrader
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Articles
Are we doing this again? I can get electronic access to back issues of NG, which I gave to Claire.
R
To: Rebecca Schrader
From: Foster Deacon
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Articles
What about Modern Homesteader?
F
To: Foster Deacon
From: Rebecca Schrader
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Articles
Modern Homesteader isn’t available online.
To: Rebecca Schrader
From: Foster Deacon
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Articles
