“Absolutely do not apologize,” he said, giving in to the rare urge to slump back against his chair and close his eyes. “Believe it or not, I wish more of my cases worked out this way.”

Liv laughed softly. “I have to doubt that. You wouldn’t make a living!”

“There will always be divorces,” he said, lifting a hand and pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a surge of pain and dizziness. “I’m just glad you and Chris won’t be one of them.”

And though he wasn’t thinking entirely straight, he meant it. Liv was sweet, if a little self-indulgent, and though he hadn’t met Chris, he was too much of a Yankees fan to not root for the center fielder.

Sure, their deciding to patch things up wouldn’t mean the fat check the firm had been expecting, but he’d gotten his retainer, been paid for the work he had done on Liv’s case.

And there were more than enough high-profile clients banging at the door to make up for it.

“Look, I know this might be a little bit odd,” Liv was saying, “or a lot odd, but I really enjoyed working with you, despite the circumstances, and I actually think you and Chris would get along really well. . . .”

Andrew opened one eye. Surely she wasn’t . . .

“And you can absolutely say no, but Chris and I would really love to have you and Georgie come over for dinner some time.”

Andrew wasn’t sure which part of her statement was harder to absorb: the fact that one of his clients wanted him to talk baseball with the man he’d helped her almost divorce or . . .

“Georgie?” he managed.

“Just so you know, I’m totally taking the credit for introducing you guys that day at Del Frisco,” she said. “I had no idea you guys hit it off after. You’re so different, but I guess that’s the way it works sometimes.”

His eyes closed again. “Did she—did Georgiana tell you that we were—”

“Making out on sidewalks?” Liv said in a teasing voice. “Nope, she’s not answering anyone’s phone calls, but it’s all over TMZ. Georgie’s hardly ever attached to a guy, and you, well . . . you’re never connected with anyone.”

This was it, Andrew thought as nausea and pain rolled over him. The part where he died, with the world thinking he was dating a fluff ball named Georgiana Watkins, all while she was bringing engaged men home from the nightclubs.

“Anyway, talk to her, let me know!” Liv said. “Talk soon!”

Andrew didn’t even remember hanging up, and he had no idea how much time passed before he registered an insistent knocking on his door.

“Yeah,” he managed, pulling himself upright.

Shelley was standing in the doorway watching him with alarm. “Are you okay? I tried buzzing you, but you didn’t pick up, and—”

“Fine,” he said, running a hand over his face. “What’s up?”

“Your three o’clock’s called twice and is on hold. I told her she needed to wait until her scheduled time, but she said it was urgent.”

He sighed heavily. Might as well get it over with. The sooner he ended his meetings, the sooner he could go home and crawl into bed.

“I’ll take it,” he said, reaching for the phone. Then paused. “Actually, Shelley . . .”

She turned.

“Got any painkillers? Tylenol, Advil . . . morphine?”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “Absolutely. And after this call, I’m clearing your schedule for the rest of the day. You’re sick as a dog.”

He tried to tell his suddenly bossy assistant that he was just fine. That he didn’t get sick. But he couldn’t muster the energy.

Instead he managed to prop his forehead up on his right fist while he reached for the phone with his left. “This is Mulroney.”

Georgie

WEDNESDAY, 5:20 A.M.

In all the months we’ve been playing our early morning game of cat and mouse, I’ve skipped plenty of times, but never Andrew. Not on a weekday.

But he didn’t show yesterday morning.

I figured he was pissed, and since he had a right to be, I let it go. Gave him a day.

Today is Wednesday, though, two days after we made out on the sidewalk and then broke the Manhattan gossip circuit, and he’s still not at the front desk.

I was willing to give him one day to lick his wounds and come to grips with what was going on with us, but two?

Not a chance.

I’ve been waiting here in adorably matching workout clothes for twenty minutes, and there’s no sign of his red shoes or his boring travel mug.

“You know, Charles, I just realized I forgot something,” I say.

He gives me a slightly puzzled smile, probably wondering why it took me twenty minutes of making small talk to realize that.

I give him a little finger waggle and head back to the elevators. Charles has already hit the eighty-sixth floor for me, but I hope he’s not watching the elevators too closely, because I take out my key fob and swipe it so that I can access the seventy-ninth floor.

A few moments later, I’m stepping onto a floor that looks exactly like mine. I scan the discreet numbers until I find the one I’m looking for: 79B.

Home of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

I knock.

No answer.

I knock louder.

Nothing.

I give in to the immature urge to put my thumb on the doorbell and press it over and over and over and—

The door swings open, and I barely have a chance to register what I’m seeing before I hear an exhausted groan. The second he sees me, the door starts to swing shut again.

“Wait—” I press my palm to the door, a little surprised by how easily I’m able to push it back open considering the man works out like a Viking and definitely doesn’t want to see me.

I push the door wider, and let out a little sound of dismay as I absorb the reality of what I’m looking at.

The man looks terrible.

“Oh, Andrew,” I murmur, stepping into his apartment uninvited and dropping my bag on the floor.

His hand is gripping the door, and he rests his forehead tiredly against it, eyes closing. “Is there any chance that you’ll go away now?”

“Absolutely none,” I say, prying his fingers away from the door and feeling his forehead with the other. “How long have you looked like this?”