Читать книгу The Best Laid Plans - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 8

ALEX’S MOOD OF GRIM resignation held sway until she stepped out of the shower later that evening. She’d made herself dinner when she arrived home from the gym and eaten it mechanically, then she’d settled on the couch and determinedly worked her way through the contracts she’d brought with her. She didn’t let herself think. She was good at that—it was one of her most successful survival techniques. It wasn’t until she’d showered and was toweling herself dry that she caught sight of her naked body in the bathroom mirror and stilled. She let the towel fall to the floor and pressed her hands against her belly, spreading her fingers wide, feeling the resilience of her own skin.

How many times had she imagined what it would be like to grow big with her child? To smooth her hands over her swollen belly? How many times had she tried to imagine what it would feel like to have a small, new life fluttering inside her?

Time to put that dream away.

She let her hands drop, but unlike earlier when she’d first confronted her brutal reality, a small voice piped up in the back of her mind.

A voice of defiance. A voice of hope.

You could still meet someone. You’ve got a few years. And it’s not like you’ve been knocking yourself out trying to meet anyone. If you really put your mind to it, you could still have a chance.

For example, hadn’t she flicked past three whole pages of singles ads in the back section of the daily newspaper this morning? She’d always turned her nose up at the idea of advertising for a partner, no matter that she’d heard plenty of first- and second-hand accounts of how people had met their husbands and wives via dating sites. She’d been convinced that someone would come along through the normal routes—friends, or work or some other social event. But maybe it was time to make things happen instead of waiting.

She shrugged into her dressing gown and headed for the kitchen, her mind teeming with plans. She’d join every dating website she could find. She’d place her own singles ad. She’d date her ass off, make it an absolute priority in her life until she met the right man. Surely, if she committed herself to the task of finding a partner, treated it like a project, she’d be successful. After all, when hadn’t she achieved what she wanted once she put her mind to it?

She’d held the household together after her mother’s accident through sheer grit. And after her mother’s death she’d bulldozed her way through law school, then put her head down and bulldozed some more until she’d made partner in one of Melbourne’s top law firms a mere seven years after graduating. When she wanted something in her professional life, she was formidable. So why couldn’t she transfer that ethos to her personal life?

Her jaw was tense with purpose as she rescued this morning’s paper from the top of the pile in the recycle bin. She crossed to the kitchen table and spread the paper wide, thumbing through until she found the classifieds section. She stared at the columns of small print, aware of her heart beating a determined tattoo against her rib cage. Then she ran her finger down the page until she found the Male Seeks Female section and began to read.

After a few minutes she grabbed a pen from the caddy on her kitchen counter and started to circle the likely suspects.

Male, mid-forties, good sense of humor, professional, seeks woman in mid- to late-thirties, attractive, good sense of humor. Enjoys movies, hiking, reading biographies …

Man, 30s, seeks woman for potential relationship. Should enjoy outdoor sports and overseas travel …

Successful professional male seeks mature, attractive woman no older than 40 with strong sense of self and independence. You should enjoy dining out, weekends away and the theater.

By the time she’d finished she had a list of eight possible prospects. Response was via email so she hauled out her laptop and fired it up. There was no reason she couldn’t send the same response to all eight men. Coming up with that response, however, that might take some time.

She called up a document program on her computer and sat with her fingers hovering over the keyboard. How to best describe herself? She needed to sound appealing but not desperate. She’d never considered herself a great beauty—her jaw-length dark hair was thick and healthy but nothing spectacular, and her mouth was too wide and her eyes too large for conventional standards—but she was attractive enough and Jacob had always said that he loved her plush mouth and full breasts. But she could hardly put that in an ad. She typed a few lines, then immediately deleted them. How to get the essence of herself across in a few short paragraphs? How to cut through all the other responses these men might receive and stand out from the pack? Because the more men she met, the higher the chance of finding someone compatible and the sooner she could sound him out on the subject of children.

She jotted down some sums in the margin of the newspaper. Say it took her six months to find someone. Then another, say, four months before she felt comfortable broaching the subject of children with him. Or was four months too soon? It was hard to know.

Maybe she’d have to simply play it by ear, see what came up in conversation. But if the man was keen for a family, then they should probably wait another six months before attempting to get pregnant. Just to consolidate the relationship. In the meantime, she could talk to Dr. Ramsay about all the things she needed to do to be in tip-top condition to conceive—folate supplements and whatnot—so that she would be ready to go at the drop of a hat.

So adding the six-month search time to the four-month vetting period, then the six-month double-check time—

What are you doing? Can you hear yourself?

Alex stared at the figures. A formula for desperation—that was what she’d calculated. A formula for a woman who was terrified that she was going to miss out.

Was this what she really wanted? Did she really want a baby this much? Was motherhood so important to her that she was prepared to put it at the forefront of any potential connection she developed with a man?

She was no psychologist, but she didn’t need to be to understand that embarking on a relationship with someone while her biological clock ticked loudly in the background wasn’t exactly the ideal way to go.

But what choice did she have? It was this, or leave it to fate to throw the right man in her path before it was too late. And at the end of the day, she’d never believed in luck. She’d had to fight for every good thing that had ever come her way. Why should this be any different?

What she was planning wasn’t particularly pretty or dignified, but if it helped her reach her end goal, then so be it. Life, as she well knew, was often not pretty or dignified.

She stood and grabbed the scissors from the kitchen drawer then cut the relevant pages from the paper. She’d start a folder to keep track of the ads she’d responded to, in case she doubled up.

She was about to close the paper and return it to the recycle bin when her gaze caught on a small, neat ad in the bottom right-hand corner.

Sperm Donor Wanted

Our client is an independent woman with her own home and business. She has a wide support network and wishes to become a mother. She is seeking a donor with a clean bill of health and no family history of major illness. If you are a male between the ages of 18 and 45, you can help her attain her dream of motherhood by contacting Fertility Australasia at O2 9555 2801. Interstate donors welcome, travel payments available.

Alex stilled. For a moment there was not a single thought in her mind. Then she reached for the newspaper and read the ad again, and again. A sperm bank.

It simply hadn’t occurred to her before. She stared at the kitchen wall. Not five minutes ago she’d decided that she didn’t believe in luck and that she was prepared to fight for what she wanted, even if it smacked of desperation and meant loosening the tight grip she’d always held on her pride.

A sperm donor was a dead cert. There would be no equivocating or pussyfooting around worrying about compatibility if she went the route of sourcing frozen sperm, bought from a suitably qualified clinic. There would be no responding to want ads and waiting anxiously in coffee shops for her date to show up, no awkward first, second, third dates. She’d never have to judge when it was appropriate to sound out a man on whether he wanted children. She’d never have to worry about the relationship being based more on a biological imperative than mutual attraction and shared feeling. It would be clean. Direct. Honest. Best of all, it meant she was in control of her own destiny—as much as any person could be. Her body might not want to cooperate, of course, but at least she would have tried. Given it her best shot. Several best shots, depending on the costs.

She waited for her conscience to catch up with her, to sound a warning chime. But there was nothing.

This was not the way she’d wanted to have a child. She’d wanted to be one half of a couple, two people working together to bring new life into the world. A family.

But she was thirty-eight years old, staring down the barrel of her thirty-ninth birthday. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting for Mr. Right anymore. Not if she wanted to be a mother.

How much do you want this? Enough to do it alone?

She didn’t have to stretch her imagination to know what it would be like to have to cope with the pressures and stresses of raising a child on her own. She was all too familiar with the sense that there were not enough hours in the day, that she was utterly alone, with no help in sight, and that the only thing that stood between her mother and herself winding up on the street was her determination. She knew what it was like to live with the constant fear that there wouldn’t be enough food for tomorrow or that her mother would do something that would bring the wrath of social services down upon them.

She’d survived eight years of loving, nursing, corralling and policing her brain-injured mother after the accident. She could be a single parent. Absolutely she could.

She had money—more than enough to ensure she and her child would never want for anything. Years of obsessive saving had seen to that. She could easily afford to take a year off work, two years, even. She was resourceful and determined. And she wanted this. She wanted this with every fiber of her being.

Picking up the scissors, she sliced the ad neatly from the page.

ETHAN LEANED on the doorbell of his brother’s Blackburn home and waited. Sure enough, a small face appeared in the window beside the door, grinning like crazy.

“Uncle Ethan!”

“Hey, matey.”

There was the sound of fumbling from behind the door, then it was open and his eldest nephew, Jamie, was sticking out his tongue and making fake fart noises.

Ethan waited patiently for Jamie to get it out of his system. He could only blame himself, after all, that the first thing his nephews did when they saw him was to break out the noisiest, wettest raspberry they could come up with. His sister-in-law, Kay, had warned Ethan when he’d started teasing the kids with raspberries.

“You’re making a rod for your own back, Uncle Ethan,” she’d said. “You know you’re going to be Uncle Raspberry for the next ten years, don’t you?”

She’d been spot on, but he figured there were worse things in the world.

Stepping over the threshold, he grabbed Jamie around the waist and tucked him under his arm.

“Now, where’s your mom and dad?” he asked as Jamie bellowed a delighted protest.

He hefted his nephew up the hallway to the kitchen where Kay was stacking dishes in the dishwasher. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a tie and she was wearing her tailored work shirt over a pair of seen-better-days tracksuit pants.

“You just missed dinner. You should have called, I would have saved you some.”

“I’ve got stuff at home for dinner, but thanks anyway. I thought I’d drop in and see if Derek had finished with that boxed set of The Wire yet.”

“He’s finishing up some end-of-quarter figures for one of his clients in the study.” Kay wiped her hands on a tea towel and gave him an amused look. “Let me guess what’s on the menu tonight—wagyu beef, fresh green beans, potato dauphin, maybe some red wine jus. For dessert, vanilla semi-freddo with poached seasonal fruit.” She cocked her pinky finger in the air as though she was having high tea with the queen.

His love of good food and wine had always been a source of amusement for his family. He set Jamie on his feet.

“As a matter of fact, it’s chicken stir-fry. What did you guys have? Fish fingers? Mac and cheese? Beans on toast?” Two could play at that game, after all.

Kay laughed and threw the towel at him. “Walking a fine line there, buddy.”

“Uncle Ethan, come and see the new trick I can do on my bike,” Jamie said, tugging on his hand to drag him toward the door to the patio.

“Hold on there, mister. Didn’t I ask you to put on your jim-jams? It’s too cold and dark out there for you to show Uncle Ethan anything,” Kay said.

“But—”

Kay put her fingers in her ears. “Nope. Can’t hear it. We don’t have that word in this house.”

Jamie’s sigh was heavy with resignation. “All right. But you are one tough customer, lady.”

Kay and Ethan exchanged amused glances as Jamie slouched off to his room.

“Apparently I’m a tough customer,” Kay said. “And a lady.”

“Who would have thunk it? Where’s Tim?”

“In the bath. You can go wrangle him if you want.”

It wasn’t until he was helping his wriggling five-year-old nephew into his pajamas that Ethan understood why he’d come to his brother’s house instead of going home after racquetball. It had shaken him, hearing the longing and yearning in Alex’s voice tonight. Reminded him of his former life.

Because once, a long time ago, he’d wanted kids, too. He’d wanted to hold his sons or daughters in his arms. He’d wanted to dry them like this after the nightly bath. He’d wanted to teach them to read and kick a footy or ferry them to ballet classes. He’d wanted to guide them and help equip them with the skills they’d need to grapple with the challenges life would throw their way. He’d been so bloody certain that children would be a part of his life.

He smiled a little grimly. Alex would probably wet herself laughing if he told her that. She’d think he was being ironic or making fun of her. She didn’t know about his marriage. She only knew him as a guy in a slick suit with a fast car and a reputation for churning through women.

But then he didn’t know much about her, either, did he?

If anyone had told him that formidable, sharp, street-smart Alex Knight was even capable of breaking down the way she had tonight he’d have laughed. As for the surprising revelation that she wanted a child … He’d always thought of her as the consummate career lawyer, a woman who’d dedicated herself to the job and moving up the ladder.

Yet she’d cried tonight as though her heart was breaking because she was afraid that she’d missed the opportunity to have a family of her own. Again he felt the echo of old grief as he remembered the way she’d curled into herself, her shoulders hunched as she tried to contain her pain.

Tim’s pajama buttons were misaligned and Ethan fixed them. He didn’t let his newphew go immediately. Instead, he tightened his grip for a moment, hugging his nephew close, inhaling the good clean smell of him.

“Love you, little buddy, you know that, don’t you?” he said quietly.

“I know,” Tim said. Then he wriggled, a signal he was over the hug, and Ethan released him.

“What’s wrong with you tonight?” Tim asked, his big eyes unflinching as they studied Ethan.

“Nothing.” Ethan dredged up a smile and used a corner of the towel to flick his nephew on the leg. “Time to hit the sack, matey.”

“Are you going to read me my bedtime story?”

“I thought I was doing that tonight,” an aggrieved voice said from the doorway.

Ethan looked up to find his younger brother wearing a mock-hurt expression on his face. Shorter than Ethan, he had the same strong cheekbones and dark hair but a slightly bigger nose and paler blue eyes. Just enough ugly to save me from being a pretty boy like you, Derek always joked.

“You can do it any old time,” Tim said airily.

“Nice to know I’m so easily replaced,” Derek said drily.

“I’m not replacing you, stupid, you’re my daddy,” Tim said, as if that explained everything.

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Derek asked.

“Just in the neighborhood,” Ethan said.

“What’s with the Bjorn Borg outfit?”

Ethan glanced down at his black midthigh-length shorts and charcoal hoody and raised an eyebrow at his brother’s derisive description. “Racquetball.”

“Ah. Still playing with that guy from work? Adam or whatever? “

“Alex. And he’s a she.”

“Really?” Derek’s expression turned speculative.

Ethan stood, shaking out the towel before arranging it over the rack. “You’re like a hairy, much less attractive version of Hello, Dolly, you know that?”

“What’s she like?”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “I’m not in the market. And even if I was, she’s a partner. And a friend.”

“So you’re seeing someone else? When can we meet her?” Derek asked.

For a moment Ethan considered lying, simply to get his brother off his back. “The tap’s leaking on the tub, by the way.”

“No shit. We could do dinner, the four of us. It’s been a while since Kay and I ate somewhere where they don’t have cartoons on the menu.”

“I’m not seeing anyone. I’m just not in the market.”

“Still racking up the notches on the old bedpost. What a challenge.” His brother’s tone was flat, unimpressed.

“Not everyone can have the white-picket dream, mate.”

Ethan had deliberately kept the uglier details of his divorce from his family, figuring there was no need for the world to know exactly how spectacularly his marriage had failed. The downside to that bit of self-preservation was these little pep talks his brother pushed on him periodically. Just as there was nothing worse than an ex-smoker, there was no one more pro-kids and pro-matrimony than a happily married man.

Even though he’d never admit it to his brother, Ethan’s social life was a lot less hectic than anyone imagined. Sleeping around had gotten old quickly after the divorce. Like drinking till you passed out and bragging about your exploits, being a man-slut was apparently something that a guy grew out of. Go figure.

“You seen The Girls Next Door lately? Hugh’s looking pretty tragic, shuffling around in that smoking jacket,” Derek said.

“Will you let it go, Derek?” Ethan said, an edge in his voice.

Most of the time he didn’t mind his brother’s old-lady nagging, but tonight … tonight it was really getting up his nose.

“Just trying to save you from yourself.”

“Yeah? Ever thought that maybe I don’t need saving?”

“Nope.”

Ethan turned his back on his brother and walked to the living room. If he stayed, they were going to wind up in an argument. Derek had good intentions, but he needed to let go of the idea that Ethan was going to meet a good woman and marry again. It was never going to happen. Ever.

Kay looked up from tidying the coffee table when he entered.

“Better get home to my wagyu,” Ethan said. “What time’s Jamie’s party again?”

“Midday. It’s on the invitation. You don’t want a coffee?”

He forced a smile. “I’m good. Got to go home and poach that seasonal fruit, remember?”

He blew her a kiss as he headed for the door.

ALEX WOKE with a thump of dread. Something terrible had happened …

Then it all came back to her. Jacob, the doctor, the singles pages, the fertility clinic ad.

She lay in bed for a moment, thinking about the decision she’d made last night, walking around it, examining it from all sides, prodding it, seeing if she still felt the same way in the cold, hard light of a new day.

The answer was yes. She still wanted a child. And her smartest, most guaranteed, no-muss, no-fuss way of getting one was through a sperm bank. Which meant she had some work to do.

Ever since she could remember she’d been a facts-and-figures person. It was one of the reasons she’d opted for corporate law rather than criminal or family. She liked detail, and research, and she excelled at pulling together all the relevant information to make rational, smart decisions then going over and over and over the fine print until she’d plugged every hole, taken advantage of every opportunity.

As she rolled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom, she started strategizing. First, she needed to find a reputable clinic. She needed to explore the ins and outs of sperm donation, the screening process and the success rate for artificial insemination. Then she needed to get her life in order. If she was going to be pregnant in the foreseeable future, there were a lot of things she needed to get sorted.

A nursery, for starters.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

Dear God, I’m really going to do this.

Pointless to deny that there was a definite thread of sadness mixed in with the determination and excitement. She’d grown up without a father. She would have preferred for her child to have one. But there were hundreds of thousands of single-parent families in the world. She would do her best by her child, if she was blessed with one, the same as any other mother. That would have to be enough.

She dressed in one of her dark tailored skirt suits, matching it with her steel-gray suede pumps, then brushed her hair until it fell smoothly to her jawline. She never wore much makeup apart from a dusting of powder, mascara and lipstick. Five minutes later, she was on her way to work.

It wasn’t until she was about to slide out of her car in Wallingsworth & Kent’s underground garage that she spotted Ethan in her rearview mirror and remembered the other part of last night—the embarrassing, revealing part where she’d lost it and somehow wound up confiding in him. She’d been so caught up in her plans this morning, so determined not to waste another minute, that she’d forgotten how thoroughly she’d exposed herself.

Instinctively she slunk down in her seat, waiting for Ethan to reach the elevators before checking the rearview mirror again. Only when the doors had closed on him did she sit up straight, feeling absurd and foolish and relieved all at once.

Why, oh why, hadn’t she gone home instead of giving in to obligation and playing that stupid racquetball game with him last night? She had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, that was the problem. And look where it had gotten her.

There were plenty of women, she knew, who would line up around the block to take solace in Ethan Stone’s arms. But he was Alex’s colleague and fellow partner, and while she was prepared to privately acknowledge that he was an extremely attractive man, she had never, ever allowed herself to do more than that. She valued her hard-earned reputation as a professional who knew her stuff and who didn’t let emotion get in the way, far too much to indulge in office flirtation. Especially with a man who went through as many women as Ethan did. As for blubbering all over him like a histrionic schoolgirl, moaning about her declining fertility …

Aware that she’d been hiding in her car too long, Alex made her way to the elevators. She told herself that when she saw Ethan this morning, she would simply pretend it was business as usual. He’d have to take his cue from her and follow suit. A few days from now, he’d have written off her confession as hormones and they’d be back to their old footing.

Except the moment she exited the elevator on the fifteenth floor she heard his voice and spotted him standing in the kitchenette, chatting with Franny while he poured himself a coffee.

Do it. Grab a coffee, talk about the weather. Show him that you’re back to your mouthy, smart-ass self and normalize the situation.

She took a deep breath—then pivoted on her heel and walked the long way to her office. Which made her an enormous chicken, she knew, but she was only human.

She ducked him twice more that morning, bowing out of a meeting she was supposed to attend with him and taking the stairs when she saw him heading for the elevator. She told herself she was merely buying herself time—for her to get over her self-consciousness and for him to forget the details from last night.

She had half an hour free before the partner lunch at midday and she spent the time checking out fertility clinics on the internet, one eye on her office door the whole time.

She found a number of information pages, complete with testimonials, and she followed the links to yet more sites. She bookmarked a few, then found a recent newspaper article reporting that there was a drastic shortage of sperm donors in Australia, particularly donors who were willing to offer their sperm to single women or same-sex partners. According to the article, for some time Australian women had been ordering sperm from banks based in the U.S. Curious, she clicked on a link and found herself staring at literally hundreds of profiles on a U.S. website. She scanned the first one with growing incredulity.

Donor 39 is five foot eleven inches, average build, blue-eyed, blond hair. His background is Russian, German and English. He is a professional, tertiary educated …

It was a little shocking to Alex that all this information was so readily available and that the ordering process was so easy. She’d assumed she’d have to jump through more hoops, but according to the website all she had to do was supply her credit-card number and she could purchase the specimen of her choice and have it shipped out to a clinic in Australia within the week.

Feeling a little dazed, she hit the print button so she could take the donor profiles home and read them in privacy. It wasn’t until she closed the screen down that she jolted back to reality.

She was at work, for Pete’s sake, and she shared her printer station with her legal secretary and two other lawyers. All of whom could be standing around the printer right now watching her profiles spit out of the machine. Shit!

She was on her feet and rounding her desk in seconds. Her high heels dug into the carpet as she bolted for the door. She raced past Fran’s desk to the printer alcove and sagged with relief when she found no one there.

Thank God. Thank. God.

The machine was spewing out pages and she collected them anxiously. She checked the first page—one of twenty! And it was only on page nine. She shot a look over her shoulder, then refocused on the machine.

Come on, come on!

She snatched each page as it appeared, adding it to the pile pressed to her chest. By the time she was down to pages nineteen and twenty her armpits were damp with nervous sweat.

“Hey. I’ve been looking for you. You missed our meeting earlier,” a deep voice said behind her.

She started, almost dropping her armful of incriminating documents.

“Ethan, you startled me.”

“No kidding. No more coffee for you today, tiger.”

“Yeah.” She smiled nervously, painfully aware that there was still one page outstanding from her tally. “So, um, how was the meeting? I had a scheduling conflict that I didn’t see until the last minute.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the last page emerge from the printer. She grabbed it as it hit the tray. Only when all twenty pages were pressed tightly to her chest did she give Ethan her full attention.

“Dull, as usual. Remind me again why we volunteered to head the billing-software review.”

“Because we thought we could avoid making the same mistakes that were made last time?” she suggested.

“Right. How noble of us.” He moved a little closer and lowered his voice. “How are you doing today?”

She’d known this was coming from the moment she heard his voice. She steeled herself to meet his deep blue gaze.

“I’m great,” she said firmly. “Really great.”

“Yeah?”

He was standing so close she could smell his aftershave again. Embarrassed heat rose up her face. She dropped her gaze to the lapel of his charcoal pinstripe suit.

“Absolutely.”

She didn’t need to be looking at Ethan to know he was studying her closely.

“Honestly,” she said, forcing herself to make eye contact again. “I had a minor freak-out. I went home, got a solid night’s sleep and now I’m all good.”

He looked as though he wanted to say more and she made a big deal out of checking her watch.

“Wow. We’re both going to be late for Sam’s birthday lunch if we don’t put our skates on,” she said.

“I’m ready to go. I thought we could walk together.”

“Oh. Great idea. Except I’ve still got one last call to make. And I don’t want to make you late, too,” she fibbed. “Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll see you at the restaurant? “

Again, she didn’t give him a chance to object, brushing past him and walking toward her office. She didn’t let her breath out until she was through the doorway and safely out of sight.

This was why it always paid to keep work and her private life separate. She lifted the sheaf of papers and smacked them against her forehead. From now on, anything to do with her personal life stayed at home and was handled after nine to five. No exceptions.

As for Ethan … He would get the message. He’d have to, because she wasn’t exposing herself any more than she already had. The sooner they both forgot her breakdown last night, the better.

ETHAN WATCHED ALEX disappear into her office, a frown on his face. In the two years he’d worked with her, she’d never once had trouble meeting his eye—except for today. Mind you, she’d also never let him as close as she had last night. Prior to that, the most personal topic they’d discussed had been her hatred of black cherries. To be fair, he hadn’t volunteered the intimate details about his own life, either, but he’d always had the sense that even if he’d tried to get closer to Alex she would have kept him at arm’s length. She was happy to joke and spar and compete with him, but anything deeper than that was out of bounds. It had never really bothered him before, but today he felt distinctly pissed that he’d been shut out.

He straightened his cuffs and buttoned his suit jacket and told himself to get over it. It wasn’t as though he was in the market for a new bosom buddy—he had his brother and a handful of mates he could rely on to have his back. And it definitely wasn’t that he was keen to play Dr. Phil and pass the tissues. It was no skin off his nose if Alex didn’t want to share.

He was about to head for the elevator when a blinking red light caught his eye. The printer Alex had been hovering over so urgently was jammed.

He couldn’t say what made him open the various flaps and trays to check for a paper jam. Perhaps it was because Alex had been so jumpy and furtive. Or maybe some other instinct guided him.

Whatever it was, it took him only seconds to find the culprit—a single page that had folded in on itself instead of exiting to the out tray. He pulled it free and straightened it, shaking toner dust off his fingers.

He scanned the first few lines but comprehension was a few moments in coming. His head came up and he turned to stare toward Alex’s office.

What on earth …?

Surely she wasn’t seriously thinking …?

He took a step, the incriminating evidence in hand, then stopped. What was he going to say to her? Hadn’t he just established for himself that their friendship was limited to work and the racquetball court? That she didn’t want to discuss her private life?

He slowly folded the sheet in half, then into quarters before slipping it into his jacket pocket. He went to join the rest of the partners for lunch.

He had it right the first time—this was nothing to do with him.