Kiss Me in the Summer - Barbara Dunlop

Chapter One

My presentation was only ten minutes away, and I was nervous. Okay, not nervous—apprehensive. Maybe a little bit apprehensive because this was so obviously a test. There was simply no other reason for the partners to have given me this particular assignment.

My fellow second-year law associate Cecily Green stopped in my office doorway and gave me an upbeat smile. “You’ve got this, Laila.”

Cecily was also my roommate, so she knew how many hours I’d spent preparing.

I couldn’t help but wish this was a morning timeslot. My brain worked better when it was fresh and firing on all cylinders, but our potential new VIP client only took afternoon meetings.

I’d probably do the same if I partied as hard as she did.

Twenty-eight-year-old Annalisa LeFroy was a staple of New York City’s social scene and a favorite subject of its most sensational media sites and influencers. They framed her as a spoiled rich wild child who’d never been given any boundaries.

It might be true, or it might be hype. I wasn’t about to get judgy on her. People glorified anything for clicks these days.

Annalisa LeFroy had been a golden child, cosseted by her uber wealthy parents then orphaned in her late teens. She was now the sole heir of the LeFroy business empire and was looking for new legal representation. Laatz Wallingsford, the law firm where Cecily and I worked, was in the running for her business and intended to land the multimillion-dollar account.

I returned Cecily’s smile, attempting to look calm and composed. It was good practice for the boardroom.

Her grin widened at my efforts. She could tell when I was faking. Luckily, Mr. Laatz and Mr. Wallingsford didn’t know me nearly that well.

The clock ticked down and I toed off my flats, slipping into a pair of stylish black high-heeled pumps. I’d learned a lot about the New York City legal dress code since I’d joined its ranks two years ago after graduating from Columbia.

Today I’d dressed in my newest steel-gray blazer, a scalloped-edge white blouse, and a coordinated skirt—not too short, not too long. My earrings were little diamond chips, while a tiny, star-shaped crystal pendant hung around my neck to subtly tie it all together.

Lawyers weren’t flashy, but we weren’t dowdy either.

I pushed back my chair and lifted a stack of papers from my desk. I’d made handout copies of the presentation in case anyone wanted them. My assistant had set up my laptop in the boardroom, and I had a backup file on a memory stick in my pocket just in case.

“Nervous?” Cecily asked.

“Absolutely.” I wasn’t about to lie to Cecily, not that I’d get away with it anyway.

Beyond the importance of Annalisa LeFroy’s extensive jewelry, clothing, and accessories empire, this was my first presentation in front of both name partners Harold Laatz and Roland Wallingsford.

“You know you know it all,” Cecily said as I stepped around the end of my desk. She was my biggest cheerleader, and I loved her for it.

“Thanks,” I said, grateful for the last-minute pep talk.

I knew the LeFroy divisions and companies backward and forward: their successes, their failures, their current objectives. And I trusted the expertise and experience Laatz Wallingsford could offer. I’d come up with a variety of relevant examples of the law firm’s success with other corporate clients. My secret plan was to pretend I’d remembered one or more of them on the spot if the conversation steered itself in the right direction.

I liked to plan my spontaneity.

“Rock and roll, you,” Cecily said, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze as I passed by.

“Thanks,” I said again, then I practiced my calm, composed smile.

She laughed at my effort. “Keep it up, Laila.”

I left her and headed for the eighty-ninth floor. It was the executive floor and accessed by a special elevator with polished gold doors. Mr. Laatz and Mr. Wallingsford’s offices were on eighty-nine along with the firm’s executive boardroom.

I’d been up to that rarified air only once, on my first day at the firm when I was given a brief tour of the five floors Laatz Wallingsford occupied in the Berske Building on Madison Avenue. I hadn’t left the elevator then, but I remembered the gleaming oak floor, the arched windows and brickwork, and the stylish burgundy furniture grouping beside a hand carved wooden reception desk. The tone had been hushed and the air had smelled of fresh citrus.

Now the elevator rose smoothly up to the inner sanctum.

Executive receptionist Marcy Blackwell was waiting for me when the doors slid open.

I recognized