DANIEL'S POV
The heavy rain knocking on the windows nearly drove me out of my mind, making it even harder to focus on the excruciating, boring brief I was currently reading. When I passed my bar exams eight years ago, I somehow dared to imagine a fancy career. One full of dramatic court performances and exciting moments worthy of Oscar-winning movies, not this tedious litigation crap orchestrated by rich men and women who had way too much
money and time on their hands.
It almost sounded like I wasn't one of those people with fat bank accounts and a comfortable life. Considering my job, my town house on the Upper West Side, and the additional one in the Hamptons, it would be safe to say I was wealthy. Disgustingly rich would be more accurate, but over my dead body would I ever file a million-dollar lawsuit seeking compensation for the emotional distress caused to my pet poodle after the neighbor's dog… well, mounted her? I wasn't even sure that was the correct term, given the fact that those were two dogs.
"What a joke," I huffed, tossing the files on the desk.
Having had enough, I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. The rain still pounded against the glass, creating a sound so annoying I feared a nerve in my brain might burst. With a heavy grunt, I spun my chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me. In clear weather, I could see about half of New York City from my office on the fifty-seventh floor of this skyscraper, which just so happened to be owned by my father. My dear old man, who was the sole reason I was here, dealing with crap like the lawsuits
laid before me.
I'll drop them later on some legal associate who's thirsty to impress me.
I held much respect for my father, the great Theodore Williams. A respect I only sometimes—and with great effort—received back. Neither he nor Mother was the type of person to spread compliments around. Growing up, I'd had to earn every good word or a tap on the back. Nothing came free in the Williams dynasty, love included. Life was nothing if not a job that needed to be done properly, and God forbid I failed. So far, I hadn't. Unless you counted the one tattoo I had on my arm. It was a cliché design of a tiger, which I thought was cool back in my late teens. Only it nearly cost me my inheritance and my place at the family table.
I folded the sleeve of my shirt up to reveal the tattoo. By now, more than fifteen years later, the ink had spread, and the lines weren't as sharp.
What a ridiculous cause for a feud, wasn't it? To my parents, not so much.
In their narcissistic eyes, this laughable tattoo was nothing if not a stain to our family's name. A sign of rebellion that should be nipped in its bud. If, in my youth, I suffered from fleeting thoughts of going against them, they'd successfully made me succumb to their whims, considering I was now
exactly where they wanted their eldest son to be—a senior partner at the family law firm, one of the largest in the state, established years ago by Father.
Now running the rest of his multi-million-dollar business, Father left this firm to me. Of course, he was still here, walking down the halls every now and then, ensuring everyone remembered who the real boss was. Did it
bother me? Not so much, as I knew better than to challenge his might at this point in life. It wasn't that I didn't like my father. In fact, I cared deeply about him, but after thirty-three years on this planet, I was sick of his competitive nature that constantly sought to make everyone around him smaller. His children in particular. You could never win against Theodore
Williams. You could either obey him or stay out of his way.
Three knocks intruded on my thoughts, and I quickly straightened up.
I pulled my sleeve down and coughed to clear my throat before turning in my chair to face the door.
"Come in."
My secretary soon poked her head inside the office. "Mr. Williams?"
"What is it, Sherry?"
Her brows curved in distress before she fully stepped in, closing the door behind her. "Mr. Williams called, I mean, Theodore, your—"
"My father," I finished her sentence, my lips moving with displeasure.
"I'm well aware of who he is."
She swallowed hard, her already pale face looking even paler.
"What did he do now?" I asked, as Father had the tendency to be an asshole.
To say the least. Thus far, he'd made five of my secretaries quit.
"He called to say he wants to meet you."
Not understanding the issue, I raised one irritated brow her way. "So what's the problem? Set up a meeting."
"Today."
"I'm sorry?"
"Today, Mr. Williams," she squealed like a frightened little bird. "Your father wants to see you today."
Oh, for heaven's sake.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose, already tired despite it not even being noon. "Don't we have a full schedule for today?"
"We do. But your father—"
"Insisted," I sighed. "Of course he did."
"So what should I do?" Sherry asked, a line forming between her thin brows.
I never understood this fashion trend of having eyebrows so thin one could think you drew them with a pencil. But then again, the new millennium came with many new trends I clearly wasn't a fan of. Like cell phones that now rang everywhere. While I'd had one for a few years now, I still hated it. Especially with all the texting.
I finally answered Sherry's question, "Cancel my lunch meetings and tell my father I'll come to his office."
"He's working from home today."
My eyes rolled because driving to the Upper East Side in this weather would take at least twenty-five minutes.
I checked my wristwatch before getting up. "I'll get going. Please tell John to wait with the car ready." I put on my suit jacket before Sherry handed me my coat.
"Should I tell John anything else?" she asked.
"Only to make sure the heat is on. I can't stand the cold."
Without further ado, I left Sherry to do her work and took my leave. In the elevator, I put on my gloves. It might not be snowing right now, but it was still freezing. This morning, when I went for a jog in the park, my ears and nose nearly froze. I loathed winter with a passion, especially New York's winter, which made this gray city even colder.
As expected, I was hit with the wind the second I stepped out of the building and into the street. The rain was coming down hard, but standing under the canopy kept me dry. My breath fogged while I looked onto the street until I spotted John, who was waiting for me outside the car with an
umbrella. He started to walk toward me when warm lights coming from the coffee shop across the street caught my attention, reminding me that I could use a shot of espresso before seeing Father.
"Sir?" John asked as he stopped in front of me.
"I'm going to get a cup of coffee first," I informed him, taking the umbrella from his hand. He had another one for himself. "Please have the car ready."
Not wasting time in the cold, I started walking toward the shop. Perhaps it wasn't a smart idea, given how wet the road was, but then again, my throat was dry, and my head ached for its daily dose of caffeine. Since I had a ten-mile run today, perhaps some pastry to go with it would be nice, too.
Freezing my ass off despite the many layers wrapping my body, I quickly crossed the road, jumping over a puddle to get on the pavement without getting my shoes wet. The scent of cinnamon coming from the shop mixed with the one of rain, and I savored it, already hungry to taste something sweet. I'll admit, I have a weakness for freshly baked pastry.
Pleased I managed to cross the street without getting wet, or run over by a taxi, I closed my umbrella and entered the coffee shop. Embraced by the warmth, I took in a deep breath, allowing my nose and ears to defrost when the sound of French piqued my curiosity. Looking ahead, I saw a man standing with his back to me while speaking to the cashier. Although, I couldn't quite call it a conversation, as he was the only one talking. From the confused look on the cashier's face, he clearly didn't understand the man was asking for directions.
What was a Frenchman doing here in this season? Usually, tourists didn't visit the city at this time of the year, and considering his clothes, he definitely wasn't prepared for the weather. I placed my umbrella in the bucket near the entrance while studying this stranger. With a brown corduroy jacket and a pair of dark-washed jeans, he was probably freezing.
Not to mention, he was soaking wet, enough for a small puddle to form underneath his worn-out All-Stars. What an odd man, I thought for a brief second, right before he turned around and I got a glimpse of his face.
And what a face that was.
To say this stranger's striking beauty blindsided me would be an understatement, as never before had my heart missed a beat at someone's mercy. That was, until this very moment, where I found myself captivated by a unique pair of blue eyes, so deep and sharp, enough to shine like diamonds from across the room. Yet his stunning beauty wasn't limited to extraordinary eyes the color of sapphire and the thick eyelashes that framed them; it extended to a chiseled jaw, a sculpted nose, and raven-black hair that fell effortlessly over his thick brows. And lips? Red and plump like rose petals, painfully flawless, as if painted by Caravaggio himself. But despite his rather gentle features, his beauty wasn't that of a woman but a man. A perfect man. The most blunt form of perfection God could have created.
All of a sudden, it had become a whole lot hotter in this shop, and I unbuttoned my coat before striding toward him. Stepping right next to this stranger, I also noticed his clean scent—lavender, maybe? Whatever this floral aroma was, it overpowered the brew of coffee that flooded the shop.
It was so pleasant that I wished to stay longer in his presence.
"Is everything alright?" I asked the stranger in fluent French. Never before had I been this thankful to Mother, who insisted I learned French in my youth so she'd have another thing to brag to her friends about.
The stranger's eyebrows rose as his sapphire eyes locked with mine.
"You speak French?" he gasped, relief vivid through his voice. And God, what a beautiful voice—rich and smooth, reminding me of the melody of a violin.
"Yes, I do." I smiled at him, not bothered by my sudden urge to help him.
Typically, I wouldn't be one to care for others' problems.
"Oh, thank God!"
He reached forward and took my hands in his, and the ease with which he breached my bubble took me by surprise. My only regret at that moment was that I still had my gloves on and couldn't feel his skin.
"Do you know how I get to—" He looked down at something scribbled on his wrist with a blue pen. "—Smith Street?"
My brows knitted close at his question. "Smith? As in Brooklyn?"