Turning away, Max walked to his bed, and leaned against it, seemingly absorbed in thought.
“So, she wasn’t drugged,” he said, almost to himself, his forehead crinkling.
Drew walked over to him, until she was practically standing between his legs.
“No, I don’t think she was.” Max lifted his head, and the two stared at each other for a long time.
“Maybe he drugged her some other way…?”
“I don’t think so.” Drew paused and inhaled deeply. “I think there’s something wrong with Viv.” Max lifted a brow at that and she continued. “Max, maybe Viv’s sick?”
***
Vivienne glared at Max and Drew for what seemed like the hundredth time since she’d awoken that morning.
After stretching and finding her body felt somewhat different—more sensitive—Vivienne had tossed the duvet and headed for the bathroom. Along the way, she’d been intercepted by the two people who were now subject to her glares. They’d asked her how she felt, if she wanted anything, all concerned questions of friends that she’d answered graciously before showering. She remembered being told she’d been drugged last night, but except for the sensitivity of her skin, Vivienne felt nothing that would indicate the remainder of a drug in her system.
Her shower complete, she had gone to the kitchen to find breakfast laid out for her. Quaker Oats, milk, orange juice, egg whites, and a slice of toasted bread, all compliments of Drew. She’d thanked her friend and attempted to eat as much as she could. But after hours of watching them “volunteer” to do things for her or ask after her every five minutes, Vivienne started to grow frustrated. What was wrong with them? And why hadn’t Max and Drew argued once since she’d awoken? This had to be a new record.
She was sitting in the living room, her laptop on the center table before her, when Vivienne noticed that instead of the television, which was playing some sappy Lifetime movie, Max and Drew were watching her.
Sighing, she closed the laptop, causing them to look back to the television. “Okay. What is it? Why are you two acting so strange and don’t tell me that it’s nothing because it’s obviously something.”
Max sighed, running a hand through his hair before rubbing at his brows. “We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, guys.” Vivienne laughed softly, and shook her head. She’d been drugged in the company of the right people, people who loved her and who’d taken care of her. It wasn’t so bad. “I am. I feel fine, and I look fine, don’t I?”
After sharing quick glances with each other, they nodded very reluctantly.
“Good, so stop worrying so much. I’m beginning to think that whatever I was slipped wasn’t really a hard drug, probably a few painkillers. I don’t feel like I’ve been drugged, although it’s not like I have the experience to tell.” She paused and looked between them. Max was on the loveseat, and Drew in the armchair on the other side of the living room. “My point is that I’m fine. I have the most amazing friends, and you guys took care of me last night, but you don’t have to keep hovering, though I love you even more for doing it.” When they both gave her genuine smiles, Vivienne added with mock seriousness, “Plus, I have to get this brief written for Hastings by tomorrow and I won’t be able to concentrate if you two keep hovering.”
***
It was times like these, times when Arnold Hastings was staring down at her with that hard frown and those unflinchingly cold metallic-colored eyes, that Vivienne thought of handing in her resignation.
Why was the man always so cold, anyway? He was one of the equity partners, meaning he had more money than he could spend, and he was the most sought-after attorney at the firm. Almost every case he took turned out favorable for the client, even if the client lost! To make matters even worse, he wasn’t the stereotypical attorney: fat, ugly, awkward or any other socially demeaning things. On a given day, Hastings looked like he’d stepped off the cover of GQ or Forbes. Tailored suits, square jaw, calculating gray eyes, thin lips. He also had a full head of silky white hair, which had to either be a good color done professionally in a salon, or a hereditary gene, because his face belied that hair. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five, if that old.
He probably had a trophy wife, beautiful with Botox and implants, trophy children, all in private schools and geared for an Ivy League education, and a big house, but the man couldn’t manage to crack even one smile on a good day. And up until now, today had been a very good day. She’d been present when he’d closed the deal on behalf of one of his major clients, the Cedar Creek Companies, and had felt a great ounce of pride knowing that she’d drafted part of the now-signed contract.