Solomon vs. Lord by Paul Levine

sometimes do, she seemed to read Victoria's mind. “You could always work for Bruce.”
    “I've thought about it.”
    “But . . . ?”
    “Wouldn't that be cowardly? I get smacked around in court, so I hide in a back office?”
    “C'mon, Vic. You don't have to prove anything. You're marrying Mr. Perfect. Let him pay the freight.”
    Sure, it would be so easy, Victoria thought. Take the pressure off, slide papers from the in-box to the out-box. What's the most stress she'd face?
    “There's a problem, Ms. Lord. That signature from the bank isn't notarized.”
    Maybe she should just say yes. Who could blame her?
    But she said: “Can't do it.”
    “Okay, but if I were marrying a guy like Bruce, I'd never work another day in my life. 'Course, you don't know what it's like in the husband hunt these days.”
    “You'll find someone.”
    “Easy for you to say. You've bagged your big game. Nothing out there but Peter Pans, commitment phobes, momma's boys, and brats. Sometimes all in the same package.”
    “Just take your time,” Victoria said.
    “Did I mention guys who don't know they're gay?”
    “Is that possible?”
    “Or guys who expect blow jobs if they splurge for stone crabs?”
    “No way.”
    “It's true. Right after the key lime pie.”
    “I'm lucky to have Bruce,” Victoria said. “I know that.”
    “Lucky? I'm so jealous, my contacts are turning green.”
    Relationships were based on good fortune—or bad—Victoria thought. What were the odds she'd be reaching toward a high shelf for Lisa Scottoline's latest courtroom novel just as a tall, blond man walked by? Bruce had plucked
Killer Smile
from the shelf, insisted on paying for it, and invited her for coffee. Books & Books, she now figured, was a better place to meet a guy than a South Beach club.
    Jackie was right. Bruce was a prize. Handsome and stable, kind and giving. And literate, even if his reading habits gravitated toward
Saving Taxes Through Offshore Trusts.
    “I'll bet you don't even have a punch list for Bruce,” Jackie said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Change orders. Every guy I meet, I write down all the changes he needs to make to meet Minimum Husband Standards. Say a guy's favorite music is the theme from Monday Night Football.”
    “You're making this up.”
    “Last Friday. Blind date at the Blue Door. It's gotten so bad I'm gonna stay home and pet the kitty.”
    “I give it a week.”
    “I mean it, Vic. No more dating. Just me and my . . .” She made a buzzing sound. “
Leetle
friend.”
    Again, the doorbell rang, and Victoria headed for the foyer. “Maybe
that's
George Clooney.”
    This time, it was a deliveryman bearing gifts: a tropical bouquet, a bottle of Cristal, and a mystery box wrapped in silver foil. Victoria carried the goodies back to the dining table.
    “Bruce is the most thoughtful man in the world,” Jackie said.
    “True,” Victoria said, fishing the plastic spear out of the flowers and examining the envelope. “But it's not from him.”
    “Who, then? Open, open!”
    Victoria tore open the envelope, pulled out the card. “The most irritating man in the world.”
    “Solomon? That defense lawyer?”
    “He's been leaving messages, asking me out to lunch. He says he's going to help me find a job, but what he really wants is for me to get him the Barksdale case.”
    “All the more reason to get it for yourself.”
    Could she do it? Victoria wondered. Grab the phone and solicit the case? It would be so unlike her. . . .
    “So what's in the box?” Jackie demanded.
    Victoria removed the foil, opened the box, and pulled out a single Gucci snakeskin pump. “My left shoe,” she said.
    “If the right one's under that bad boy's bed, I'm gonna tell Bruce.”
    “I left the shoes in court. Solomon won't give me the other one unless I return his calls.”
    “Does he have a foot fetish?” Jackie examined the two-and-a-half-inch heel with a critical eye. “And more important, is he cute?”
    “I suppose, if you