purse and slung it over her shoulder. “I may be in touch. We’ll see.”
“I, uh, do private consultations, too.” Her brow rose at that statement. “No money is ever exchanged. I’m not a prostitute. That’s not how this works. In fact, I didn’t get paid for this and never do. I just have an affinity for helping women who can’t seem to help themselves. Every now and again I run into someone I like … someone like you. We’ll definitely be seeing each other again. You can bank on it.” He cast her a wink, then handed her his card and marched to the door, slamming the thing behind him.
Why would a gigolo have a business card?
And then she read it…
Her mouth dropped wide open as she stared in total disbelief…
No wonder he felt familiar. No wonder he used a fake name and was careful about his identity—so very careful. But in this moment in time, he’d opened up. Revealed himself to her, and only her…
The words on the card jumped at her:
CHAPTER ONE
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
The glass vessel was full of ripped little pieces of paper, colorful Post-It Notes, and scraps of stationery with a green trim. Each one had hand-written words, some with penciled-in barely legible scribbles, others eloquently jotted in black ink depending on his mood, sobriety, and temperament at any given day or time. Some were jokes to elicit a smile or memory from his childhood. Others, words of wisdom, though tinged with whimsical doodles. Yet others were quite serious, landing into offensive territory. Crude. Grotesque.
Some were dire; a call to action. Nixon stood in his underwear, his black hair still wet from his long, hot shower and opened his bedroom suite’s double closet doors. Drawing the top black dresser drawer open, he carefully picked up the shiny jar, reverently as though holding a newborn. He set it atop the bureau, removed the lid, reached in, and randomly selected a piece of paper for the day as if it were a treat from cookie jar.
It read, ‘You are a selfish son of a bitch, Nixon. Do something for someone else today that does not benefit you.’ He read it again, grunted, set it aside, and got dressed for his workday, donning one of his favorite Armani suits and a pair dark blue Stacy Adam shoes. Grabbing his keys, he headed out of his apartment with pep in his step, jingling all the way. When he arrived at his office building, he spotted a man he despised.
This must be my cue.
It was a fellow attorney he seldom saw as of late. The bastard was a sniveling snitch, a brownnoser, a liar. Nixon had been promoted in the firm, now a partner, and this fucker had done everything in his power to throw roadblocks in the way, smear his name with mendacities when the truth was far more sordid. But it was truth no one knew but Nixon. Nonetheless, Nixon shoved his resentment out of the way and tugged on the man’s sleeve. He offered him no greeting, no pleasant words, but simply removed his wallet from his pocket and took out a gift card for one of the best restaurants in town. It had been given to him by a friend that past Christmas.
“Here, Walter. Enjoy yourself.” Nixon wanted to vomit as he got onto the elevator and caught the man’s astounded expression as the silo doors closed.
Five-star place that you had to call at least two months in advance to book…
He hated Walter with a million passions at that moment. In fact, Nixon figured he despised a good number of people. I understand human nature. I understand most people aren’t shit. He hated weakness in others, found it nauseating. Trying to stop another man’s success was definitely a weakness, and Walter had it in spades. He was a low-level son of a bitch who’d once been at the top of his game, but had let fame and fortune go to his head. A weakling who didn’t take care of himself, but saw the flaws in everyone else. Judgmental to his core. The kind of person that never swam a lap but told professional swimmers how to breaststroke. But there was always a reason for the behavior, cause and effect.
Nixon also knew that Walter had recently gone through a bitter divorce and the rumor mill had it that his wife had wiped him out clean. Actually, it wasn’t a rumor; they had the documents. The proof was