Julia forgot about Verna as she looked around his office. A heavy golden oak desk was centered on a burgundy-and-blue Oriental rug. Two chairs with wooden frames and blue upholstery sat in front of it, a low table between them. Built-in bookcases filled with official-looking legal tomes lined one wall, while sunlight spilled through a large window on the opposite side. A framed print of what had to be Sanctuary in its earlier days hung over the credenza behind his desk.
She was disappointed. The decor evoked a sense of trust and reliability, but it could have been any successful lawyer’s office. There was nothing distinctive to Paul in it.
“What’s that delicious smell?” she asked, as the waft of something sweet and warm tickled her nostrils.
Paul walked behind her to pick up a tray of muffins from an antique sideboard and offer them to her. “Verna gets them from Tammy’s Place on her way in, so they’re fresh out of the oven.”
She leaned over and inhaled. “I’ll bet all your clients try to schedule morning meetings.”
“On slow days, I open the window and put the muffins right under it. It never fails to bring in some business.”
“Better than chasing ambulances, I guess.”
He handed her a china plate to put her muffin on. “Have a seat. How do you like your coffee?”
She plopped down in one of the armchairs and put her muffin on the table between them. “No coffee, thanks.”
“How do you survive without caffeine?” Paul poured himself a mug of coffee from the pot on the sideboard.
She bit her lip. In her quest for knowledge about her condition, she’d read caffeine might contribute to seizures, so she’d cut it out of her diet. Her doctors pooh-poohed the idea, but she was willing to try anything to keep the terrifying attacks at bay. “I never got addicted.”
Paul surprised her by setting his muffin, his mug, and a bottle of water on the table before he turned the other armchair around to face her and settled into it.
“Aren’t you going to sit behind your desk and be lawyerly?” she asked.
Instead of responding with a quip, he looked somber. “Some things are better discussed on the same side of the desk.”
“It’s Monday,” she said with a sigh.
Even with the prospect of an unpleasant decision looming, she couldn’t help admiring the way Paul’s deep-blue shirt fit over his wide shoulders and tapered along his lean waist, or the drape of his light wool trousers over his long thighs. It was far too easy to picture what was under the fabrics.
“Eat your muffin,” he said, nudging her plate toward her. “You’re distracting me.”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“Those green eyes of yours are very eloquent,” he said, “and they’re saying things I want to hear, but not right now.”
“It’s your own fault for looking so hot in a suit.”
His knuckles went white as he gripped the arms of his chair. “If you’re trying to bypass the subject of your uncle, as your legal advisor, I have to tell you such avoidance would be unwise.”
“Fine.” She broke off a piece of muffin and put it in her mouth.
He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands between them. “I understand you love your uncle, and you’re grateful to him for managing your career up to this point.”
Paul’s voice and eyes were kind, and an upswell of tears clogged her throat as an image of her uncle formed in her mind. For a moment, she felt nothing but deep, untainted love for the man who had guided her for so many years. Which made the sense of loss that swamped her at Paul’s next words so much worse.
“But you should consider hiring an outside representative, a professional in the field whom you can trust to be objective about your work.”
She must have looked distressed, because Paul shifted in his chair and his voice became even gentler. “Julia, your uncle will always see you as a child, no matter how old you are or how successful you become. You need to have an agent who respects your talent and your judgment, and who recognizes you as the mature artist you are. It will be better for your career, and trust me, it will be better for your relationship with your uncle in the long run.”
“I don’t know if I can do that to him.”
Paul looked down at his hands before he raised his gaze back to hers. “He lied to you about the demand for your art, deliberately, and for an extended period of time. Can you continue to work with him, knowing that?”
She turned toward the window, its frame wavering through a haze of unshed tears. “No…I don’t know.” She blinked and looked back at him. “Maybe if I understood better why.”