Bad Manners - Single Mom Fake Fiance Office Romance

On the way into the office, I stopped by a burger place, personally recommended by my new boss, Jim Howell himself, that offered a Keto-friendly option — wrapping their burgers with lettuce rather than putting them on buns. I figured that was the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast, double cheeseburgers with a chocolate shake. All the food groups covered, I embarked on the daring-do of eating while driving, steering a route I had been using for literally three days. Robbie Knievel couldn’t have done better.

Still chewing the second of my crunchy, meaty victims, I walked my way to the five-story red brick building that housed the Howell and Howell Law Firm from the miracle of a parking spot a mere three blocks away. An assigned spot in the company parking garage was still but a distant dream. One didn’t quite have to make partner to attain the level of free and secure parking but pretty close.

Unlike most such firms, Howell and Howell had no security to speak of, aside from cameras. This was likely to re-enforce the friendly, family feeling, which wasn’t hard to do. Most of the lawyers were married and/or had kids.

After taking the stairs, I dropped my briefcase next to the generously large wooden desk in my new office and sat down. There was a large window in my second-floor office, and I tried to ignore the view. Most people in L.A. would metaphorically kill for a corner office with a view. I honestly found it somewhat distracting, my passion for skylines being what it was. It would have been worse had there been a green belt anywhere in the immediate area.

The computer was a new model which contrasted sharply with the renovated Victorian office — despite desktops getting to be anachronisms in themselves. At thirty-five, I was still old enough to remember when they were one of the two models available before laptops took over. There was nothing like technology to make one feel ancient.

Sliding into my black, leather office chair, I switched on the computer. The work of the day involved a dubious copyright claim against a rock band. The accuser was trying to claim that one of their songs was a ripoff. After some digging, I had found the alleged composer making the claim was an ex-groupie of the lead singer, infamous for several similar stunts. The case would be thrown out quickly, and with that research done, I could move onto my next task of the day. I felt for the accused though, it’s never fun getting into a legal dispute with your ex. I had more experience with that than I ever wanted.

Trying not to think about my past, I decided to go for a pick-me-up. One of the advantages of working at this firm was that you didn’t have to wait for a coffee break to silence the caffeine monkey on your back.

The coffee here wasn’t even that bad, which was really saying something. In most offices I had worked at, one of the company coffee dispensers seemed to be specially designed to be disgusting. That was not the case here. The Howell siblings sprung for a proper espresso machine for when you were too busy to get down to the coffee shop next door.

Turn-of-the-century factories ran on tea. Howell and Howell ran on coffee.

It was a bit of a learning curve working out the controls on the big chrome contraption sitting in the designated break room, which was decorated with classy art reproductions and leather furniture. The firm was very posh. The more I was there, the more it became clear why hiring was so selective. Anyone would be dying to work in such a place.

The machine started its crafting cacophony, and I sat down. As I waited for the coffee to be done, Vicky, one of the assistants, came swishing into the room with that exuberant way of hers.

The vibrant redhead was one of the few coworkers I had gotten to know in the short time I had worked here, although I got the feeling it was almost impossible to not get to know the infamous Mrs. Howell. She was one of the chattiest people I had ever met.

“Morning, Russ,” Vicky said, going to the cabinets and grabbing a mug of her own.

“Vicky,” I said, staring at the floor, trying not to engage with her too much.

I wasn’t exactly shy; I just didn’t want to get close to those I worked with. In my mind, there was no need to be friends. Work did not require learning the secrets of everyone’s lives.

“How are you settling in?” she asked, leaning against the counter. Apparently, Vicky was not going to be deterred by my lack of eye contact. Maybe she didn’t read body language very well.

“At the office?” I asked dumbly, still not looking up.