Meg Cabot - Boy Meets Girl

Then Mitchell said the nicest thing. I mean, seriously, the nicest thing. He said, “I’d be happy to do it at no charge. Why don’t you stop by my office on Monday and we’ll talk about it? Say, lunchtime?”

But then he added, “I know a great place for chicken in garlic sauce.”

I have to admit, for a minute I was so shocked I just stood there staring at him, probably with my mouth hanging open. I was trying to figure out what to do—whirl around and make a beeline for the door, or tell him where to get off—when it was like he realized I wasn’t laughing and he poked my arm and went, “Whoa. Joke. That was a joke. What, they don’t joke in human resources?”

And the thing is, the last thing I want to do is fall for a lawyer. And I seriously don’t want to get a restraining order against Dale—I mean, he isn’t a threat to me—my ego, maybe, but not my body.

But Mitch just smiled so nicely when he said the word joke, and he seemed sincerely to want to help me, and, well, he poked me. Like a friendly poke. How many lawyers give people friendly pokes? I mean, really?

And I will admit that maybe all of that—and the fact that the Praying Mantis was glaring so hard at me—caused me to, I don’t know, lose my head all of a sudden. Because the next thing I knew, I was promising him I would do it, I would have lunch with him on Monday, even though he’s a lawyer and his brother is the most heinous man in the world and he has a seven-feet-tall, hundred-pound girlfriend already and the T.O.D. SPECIFICALLY SAID I WAS NOT TO SEE MITCHELL HERTZOG AGAIN UNLESS SHE WAS PRESENT!

Except that I’m not meeting him about Mrs. Lopez. I’m meeting him about Dale. Which is, you know, totally unwork-related. Well, except for when Dale shows up at my workplace with a bouquet and a new song for me. But whatever.

I just thought that was the sweetest thing—I mean, this very high-powered lawyer, offering to help me with my stupid, boring problem. . . .

Well, I practically started crying right there on the spot. If he had offered me a lease on a studio apartment for nine fifty a month, utilities included, within walking distance of my office, I could not have been more touched.

And then of course, I had to go and ruin the moment by saying, “Well, okay, yeah . . .” and then because he was still standing there and I was still standing there and Miss Praying Mantis in a Dior wraparound evening dress was also still standing there, having seen the whole thing—you know, her date make a date with me, even though it wasn’t really a date, because it was lunch, and work-related—for him, anyway—I couldn’t just leave it, I had to be all, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

And Mitchell looked kind of startled—really, like he’d forgotten she was even there—and went, “Oh, of course. Clarissa, this is Kate Mackenzie. I’m working with her on a breach-of-contract arbitration. Kate, this is Clarissa Doyle.”

And then the Praying Mantis came slinking over and stuck her creepy overlong Ingres-like hand at me and went, “So nice to meet you. You must be with Substantiated Oil, then,” and I went, “Um, no. The New York Journal . Mitchell—I mean, Mr. Hertzog—I mean, Mitchell—is helping us with a wrongful termination suit.”

Which of course caused the Praying Mantis to just look at me and go, “Breach of contract, you mean. There is no wrongful termination in the state of New York.” And then she looked at Mitchell from beneath her eyelashes—she must spend a fortune at Sephora because they were super long . . . her eyelashes, I mean—and then there was one of those embarrassing silences, during which I guessed that Mitch must have met Clarissa through work.

And then I put two and two together, and remembered that the name of Mitch’s firm was Hertzog Webber and Doyle, and that Clarissa had to be the Doyle. Or a Doyle, anyway. And then I thought how happy, you know, it would probably make everybody, if she and Mitchell got married, because then they could start a little lawyer empire, like France, or something, and then, I don’t know, the thought of it made me wish I hadn’t drunk so much champagne, because suddenly I got a very bad headache, which I guess Mitch must have noticed, since he went, “Are you all right, Kate?”

I said I was, because, you know, you have to lie about that kind of thing, and then, to deflect the attention off me, I asked him how his family liked Amy, although I almost called her the T.O.D.

“Uh, everyone seems to like her just fine,” Mitch said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just peachy,” I said. I couldn’t believe those words came out of my mouth. But there they were, floating like a bubble over my head, like in a Peanuts cartoon. It was as though even Clarissa was stretching her Praying Mantis neck to look at them.

And of course that only made my headache about ten times worse, and the damn Brahms didn’t help much, either.

Then it was like a nuclear bomb went off inside my head, because who should I see standing not twenty feet away but Stuart Hertzog and the T.O.D.!!!!

I about swallowed my tongue. I mean, if the T.O.D. caught me fraternizing with Mitch, after expressly forbidding me from doing so, I would be demoted to the mailroom quicker than you could say Staff Assistance Program. . . .

I don’t think Mitchell saw them, but he saw my face, and all of a sudden, he went, “Kate, you look done for. Let me get your coat and a cab home. Clarissa can tell Dolly you decided to go on home without her.”

To which Clarissa replied, looking more like a Praying Mantis than ever, “Yes, of course I will.”

And even though I was all, “No, it’s all right,” he got my coat tag from me. I have to say, I didn’t exactly fight him on the whole getting-me-out-of-there, and-fast thing. We managed to slip right by the T.O.D. without her even noticing (she was busy picking at an hors d’oeuvre and I think mentally tabulating how long she’d have to work out on her treadmill before she’d burn off all the calories in it).

Anyway, next thing I know, Mitch and I were standing in the drizzle in front of the Met, and he was flagging down a cab for me.

“It must be the champagne,” I said lamely, because I didn’t want to admit that it was the sight of my boss that had caused me to go green around the gills. Because, you know, after all, my boss is his future sister-in-law, and even if he will eventually find out for himself how heinous she is, I can’t be the one to tell him. “Really, I’m not used to it. And Dolly and I went on a run around the reservoir today, and I’m not used to that, either, and . . . It must have been the champagne.”

And then Mitch said, “Really? I thought it was the crowd, myself. I can’t stand all the glad-handing.”

And then a cab pulled up, and Mitch opened the door for me and put me inside and told the driver where to go. Then he looked at me, and went, “See you on Monday, Kate.”

I had time to say only, “See you on Monday, and thanks—“ before he shut the door on me. And then the driver took me home.

And so now I’m lying here—Dolly and Skiboy aren’t back yet. Maybe they won’t come back tonight. Maybe they’ll go to his place. Though I can’t imagine Skiboy’s place is better than Dolly’s—and I’m wondering to myself . . .

Well, just how did Mitch Hertzog know Dolly’s exact address, anyway? Because he did. He gave it to the cab driver.

I wonder if HE ever wandered around this place in his tightie whities.

No. Surely not. He is definitely a boxers man.

To: Mitchell Hertzog

Fr: Clarissa Doyle

Re: Your little waif

Well, haven’t you gone all Galahad. Your little Lady Elaine is adorable. But you ought to tell her it isn’t good form to leave the ball before midnight. She missed all the fireworks between you and Stuart. What WAS he so upset about?