The World According to Vince - Jane Harvey-Berrick Page 0,1

about Mr. Vincent I’m-always-right Azzo.

First, he’s a jerk.

Second, he makes me so mad because he never listens.

Third, he’s a douche.

Fourth, he can never get my name right.

Fifth, he’s a knob-head.

He just doesn’t listen to me—and I’m his lawyer and OMG how on earth did that happen?!

Well, I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to believe me—Vince was a law unto himself and I was supposed to uphold the law. He made it so darn hard. That man … that jerk made me crazy.

He’s an opinionated, rude, crude, knob-head, whose every-other word is ‘fook’, ‘fooking’ or ‘fooker’. Yes, that’s what he is—a giant knob-head. And a manwhore, don’t forget that. Tinder was invented with him in mind. His Tinder account includes ‘dates’ with dozens of models, actresses, A-, B-, and C-list celebrities.

‘Dates’? Yeah, that’s a euphemism for ‘slept with’ which is a euphemism for ‘brought to a screaming orgasm’—allegedly. He’s the one alleging, obviously, so the evidence is circumstantial, subjective and therefore to be struck from the record. I’d call it a mistrial. He’d call it, “’avin’ a laff”. Because he’s a stupid British knob-head. Case dismissed. Or so I thought.

Any redeeming characteristics, Your Honor?

He’s kind to animals. And that’s where this story starts. With a dog. Seventeen dogs, to be precise. You kind of had to be there. Seeing is believing, right? And that sums up Vince—he had to be seen to be believed, and then you had to look again to make sure you weren’t having a daytime nightmare, and that he really was that much of an jerk.

You needed the full surround-sound 360o version to really understand the extreme level of his knob-headishness. That’s his word of choice to describe himself, by the way, but my gosh, it fits him!

Oh, what does he look like? Well, 6’4” with abs that you could use for a ladder. It pains me to say it, but he’s gorgeous, a former Armani catwalk model (yes, really). But when he opens his mouth, which he invariably does at exactly the wrong moment, his personality screams knob-head.

Mostly, I just ignore him—or try to—but right now, he’s my problem.

He’d been arrested on serious charges, and I knew for a fact that he was supposed to be having a suit-fitting with Rick at Armani’s Fifth Avenue store tomorrow afternoon for their wedding suits—and they didn’t reschedule appointments for anyone.

The clock was a-ticking and I hurried to dress.

It was cold out, the temperature dropping like a stone as a freezing wind howled down from the Arctic threatening snow, and I was not relishing a hike across the city at this time of night, checking on his unruly hounds, then schlepping back to the Manhattan Detention Centre on White Street.

Although the possibility of snow was the least of my worries. Besides, as a kid from the mid-West, snow was just a fact of life for four months of the year.

Fascinating factoid: Minnesota averages 110 days of snow annually.

I was just as happy driving with chains on a truck as tires. I’d even driven a snowplow the winter I’d dated Paul Lund.

But in New York City, it’s different. Sleet, snow and puddles outside; Savannah-heat on the Subway and in buildings; and the next Polar-vortex could arrive anytime through April.

In short: it was ass-freezing cold.

I bundled up with layers, pulled on my trusty Ugg boots and slid on a quilted down coat that was more duvet than item of clothing. A knitted hat and gloves came next, but it was my Maxwell Scott chestnut tan briefcase that completed my ensemble—and screamed lawyer. No, it hadn’t been a gift from my parents when I graduated law school a decade ago because although I received hugs and good wishes, they would have thought spending that sort of money on a bag as frivolous. I agreed, but still enjoyed the frisson of guilty pleasure every time I touched the butter soft leather. It was a man’s briefcase, or so the saleswoman had told me when I’d bought it for myself.

“But, madam, ‘The Lorenzo’ is a briefcase for a gentleman!”

Which made me love it even more, and now it went with me everywhere—and especially to chilly police stations in the middle of the night. It was part of my armour, my shield of justice … and I say that with just a hint of irony.

I’d never wanted to work in criminal law—it was too messy, too unpredictable, too ugly. I preferred corporate law where I understood the intricacies, the loopholes, the ways another lawyer

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