or Peter Sutter was the best damn bullshit artist she’d ever encountered. Because, despite his extremely spotty track record, she actually believed the guy.
Which was a shame, really. Given her mood, she’d rather been looking forward to biting someone’s head off.
“Today, Mr. Sutter,” she said, in no uncertain terms. “It’s a cheek swab, not brain surgery. Get yourself to the lab or I’ll come down to that gym with a Q-tip and get it myself.”
She hung up the phone, debated whether to call Nicole with the update, and then ultimately decided to wait until after lunch to see whether Sutter actually did go to the lab as promised.
Then her mind drifted—as it had several other times this week—to the other Dixon. The one who’d stormed out of her place four days ago.
You don’t want me around, Victoria? No problem. I’ll get the hell out of your way, no more questions asked.
Feeling terrible about their argument, she’d texted Ford the morning after and apologized for the way things had ended. His reply, several hours later, had been short and not especially sweet.
Don’t worry about it.
She hadn’t seen him since, although she knew he was around. She could hear him through their shared wall at night, watching the news per his routine, while she lay in bed trying to pretend she was actually reading whatever the heck book she had open on her e-reader.
She’d thought about knocking on his door to try to smooth over the awkwardness, but in the end she’d decided it was probably better to just let things go. He clearly had zero interest in talking to her, which she undoubtedly deserved. She had ended things out of the blue, after the man had carried her off a train and gone above and beyond to take care of her.
You asked for this, girlfriend.
Ah, good. She and her sassy subconscious were on speaking terms again. Seemingly miffed about the fight with Ford, the pesky voice had been giving her the cold shoulder all week.
But for once, her sassy subconscious was right—she had asked for this. And she still wanted this, she just . . . hadn’t expected to feel so off her game afterward.
Obviously, she simply needed to get back to her routine. She had no doubt that this lingering ennui or whatever would dissipate in a few days, so until then, she would keep marching ahead, doing her thing.
So when Will walked into her office a few minutes later to let her know that her eleven thirty appointment had arrived—the very contentious, snide, and argumentative opposing counsel who’d once called her a “ballbuster” in open court—she smiled and mentally cracked her knuckles in anticipation.
“Send him in.”
* * *
THAT EVENING, FORD nursed a beer at Estelle’s, a neighborhood dive bar. He sat at a high-top, staring up at the small TV above the bar that was playing Vanilla Sky and only half listening to Charlie and Tucker’s latest erudite debate—the animal they’d least like to encounter in the wild: shark, bear, or lion.
“What kind of shark are we talking about?” Charlie asked.
“Great white,” Tucker said.
“How about the bear? Brown or grizzly?”
“Doesn’t matter. Grizzly.”
Charlie considered this. “I gotta say lion.”
“You’d rather face a great white shark than a lion?” Tucker scoffed. “Fuck that. Man is helpless in the water against one of those things.”
“Yeah, but of the three, sharks and bears don’t want to eat you,” Charlie countered. “A lion would.”
Tucker waved this off. “Lions are lazy. And males don’t do the hunting, anyway. If he’s just eaten, I bet you could walk by while he’s chilling and he’d be all, ‘Sup, dude. Got some impala leftovers under that acacia tree if you want them.’”
Ford shook his head, taking another sip of his beer.
“Who said it had to be a male lion?” Charlie asked.
“Um, I did. ’Cause if I meant female, I would’ve said ‘lioness.’”
“What are you, fucking National Geographic? Who says ‘lioness’?” Charlie turned to Ford. “What about you? What animal would you least want to face off against in the wild: bear, lion, or shark?”
“Crocodile.”
“Crocodile. Another contender emerges.” Tucker flagged down the waitress. “I’ll get this round.” He looked at Ford’s beer, only half-empty, and grinned. “You pacing yourself? Got a hot date with my future wife after this?”
Ford gave him a look. “Actually, your future wife and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”
Tucker’s mouth fell open. “What? When did this happen?”
“Dude, she was just at your barbecue six days ago,” Charlie said. “How’d you manage to screw things