Sway With Me(4)

“If you’ll both follow me, we can discuss this in my office,” said the attorney, ambling to open the door that led to the offices.

Both Ryan and Portia stood. She appeared as confused as he felt.



He must have assumed Portia and he were married. “Mr. Pappas—”

“Feel free to call me George,” the man replied, continuing to walk down a long narrow hallway lit by blinking fluorescents.

Ryan and Portia shared a bemused smile as they trailed behind the harried attorney. Why was she following?

“George, I’m afraid there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. Portia and I aren’t together.”

The attorney turned to them and smiled, nodding. “Of course not.” He opened a door and ushered them into his office.

Several stacks of files at least three feet high spanned an entire wall of the office. For such an expensive piece of real estate, his office was surprisingly plain and unassuming. Most downtown attorneys staged their offices to entice and impress wealthy clients. When Ryan had interviewed for internships with the top firms in the city, every one of them contained overpriced, high-quality furniture and impressive artwork, with professionally framed degrees featured prominently on the walls. This guy looked like he framed his degrees himself in cheap plastic, and Ryan had seen the same furniture sold in bargain stores.

It surprised him that his surly uncle would have chosen George for his attorney. From his recollection, Uncle Al was a bit of a pretentious snob.

Ryan and Portia settled in the chairs in front of the desk. She fidgeted in her seat and smoothed her hand over her hair. No doubt checking to make sure her bun was intact. He didn’t understand why she remained.

George went over to the stacks and combed through the files while making a noise that sounded like a chicken clucking. “Where is it? Where is it? Oh, yeah, it’s in my briefcase.” He clucked one final time as he set the case on his desk and opened it. “Here we go. The Will and Trust of your uncle, Alexander Stavros.” He opened the file and dragged his finger down the page, his lips moving while he silently read the document.



Why hadn’t Portia corrected him?

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, George, but again, Portia and I are not together.” And they weren’t related. He would’ve remembered her from the family’s holiday dinner parties.

Portia twisted in her chair to face him, a pink blush staining her cheeks. Her lips parted, but George cut her off before she could speak.

“No, but you are the eldest niece and nephew of my deceased client, Mr. Alexander Stavros.”





Chapter 2



It is engendered in the eyes,



With gazing fed, and fancy dies



In the cradle where it lies.

William Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, act 3, scene 2

Ryan was not her cousin. Fate couldn’t be that cruel, right?

As soon as George had called her a few days ago, Portia had packed up all her meager belongings and bought a one-way ticket to Detroit. After all, she had nothing left for her in New York.

And when she stuck her foot in between the elevator doors and they popped open to reveal him, she’d been helplessly frozen to her spot. Because sometime on last night’s bus ride from New York City, she’d dreamed of those caramel-colored eyes. Of that thick, wavy, cinnamon-colored hair. Of dancing with him in a beautiful ballroom. Other than that, she couldn’t recall the specifics, but when she woke up without him at her side, she’d immediately felt his loss.

Her mother, Reina, had always insisted that she and Viola were Muses—women who possessed the magic to inspire creativity in the right men—and that when the fates picked their mates, they’d give them a sign, just as they’d given Reina a sign before meeting Portia and Viola’s fathers. Of course, since those men hadn’t stuck around long enough to meet their daughters, and because Reina was an eccentric free spirit who also heard the earth sing, Portia had always discounted the tale as crazy talk. But one glimpse of Ryan and a small part of her, the part that still believed in magic and fairy tales and happily-ever-after, wished it were true.



On second thought, maybe it would be better if they were related.

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally able to use her mouth for something other than drooling. “Did you say we’re related?”

George ceased all motion, which judging by his previous behavior, appeared to be an aberration. With deep creases forming around his eyes, he stared at the two of them, his head moving back and forth as if watching a tennis match. He made that annoying chicken noise again and burst into laughter, his flabby jowls shaking. “No, no. You’re not related. At least not by blood. Ryan is Alexander’s biological nephew, and you, Portia, are his niece by way of marriage. Your Aunt Tina was Alexander’s second wife.”