Page 8 of Sugar (Gilded #1)

Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Nepo

MADDIE

B e cool. Don’t ramble. Don’t giggle.

Go ahead and drool at the thought of him since he can’t see you, but at least sound like you’ve interacted with a human before.

Easy.

Punching his number into my phone, I flipped the business card between my fingers as I listened to it ring.

And ring.

And ring.

By the time I’d left the meeting the day before, it’d been too late to contact Easton Wells. Instead, I’d obsessively planned what I would say.

All that buildup, and it’s just going to go to voicemail.

There was a click before a woman greeted, “Wells Law, this is June speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hi, is Easton Wells available?”

“He’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message, or is this an urgent matter?”

“A message is fine. This is Madeline Baker from…”

From Greer’s kitchen? From his hand on my lower back or wrapped around my wrist?

“From Coastal,” I finished. I rattled off my number, and the woman said he would be in contact.

I ended the call and flopped back onto the bed with a sigh.

I’d known it was unlikely that he would be sitting around with all the free time in the world to take calls the instant they came in, but I was still anxious to get it over with.

Hopefully, I hear back in a few days. Otherwise, I’m going to have to annoy his office with daily calls while Joel badgers me with messages multiple times per day .

I’d barely finished my thought when my phone started ringing from a number I didn’t recognize.

I touched the screen to connect the call, hopeful it was Easton but expecting spam about my car’s extended warranty or a tax bill that could only be paid with a gift card. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Maddie.”

A shiver went down my spine at the gravelly voice. As good as it sounded in person, there was something intimate about hearing it right in my ear.

That was my only excuse for why my greeting came out weak. “Mr. Wells?”

He didn’t tell me to call him by his first name. He did, however, make half my brain cells fritz out when his voice lowered and became somehow rougher. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“No, I just didn’t think I’d hear from you right away. Your office said you were in a meeting.”

I assumed he’d say that was their go-to excuse to screen calls. Or maybe that the meeting had just wrapped.

What I didn’t expect was for him to say, “I am. I stepped out to return your call.” That was enough to throw me even before he added, “I was wondering when I would hear from you.”

The remaining half of my brain cells dissipated in an instant.

Poof.

Gone.

“W-what?” I stammered out.

“I figured when your editor saw us talking yesterday, you would draw the short straw and get stuck with interviewing me.”

Oh.

Duh.

That makes more sense than…

Yeah.

Ignoring the conclusion my lust had jumped to—and the disappointment swirling in my belly—I let out a soft laugh. “Technically, it was eeny, meeny, miny, moe.”

“It was unavoidable then.”

Lying in bed, giggling at his self-deprecating banter. This is not the way I do things.

I sat up, using the change in physical position to mentally shift into some semblance of professionalism.

“As you’ve obviously gathered, The Coastal Chronicle wants to do a profile on you for our Alumni Edition.

I understand this is short notice, so it can be done over the phone. Or I could email you the questions?—”

“Come to my office tonight at six,” he cut in.

“Oh. I…”

“Unless you have plans.”

I did. Greer, Wren, and I planned to take advantage of the empty laundry room. Real wild Friday night stuff.

“No, tonight works perfectly,” I said.

“Text your address to this number, and I’ll send a car.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Traffic is a pain in the ass here.”

“Traffic is a pain in the ass everywhere. I’m used to it. And I prefer to drive myself. There are too many weirdos.” I rushed on to add, “Not that I think you’re a weirdo.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he muttered so softly that I almost didn’t hear. His next words were even more muffled as he spoke to someone else before they became clear again. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I won’t. See you at six.”

“Looking forward to it.”

The call disconnected before I could say anything.

I had a class starting soon, but I didn’t get up. Not right away.

‘Looking forward to it.’

I flopped back in bed.

And I did it with a goofy smile on my face.

The day dragged.

And dragged.

And dragged.

I’d spent the entirety of my time between classes—and fine, during some of them—obsessing about the impending interview. Not because Easton Wells was insanely attractive.

And commanding.

With a voice that I wanted to listen to for hours.

Okay, those thoughts had crossed my mind once or twice… twenty times.

Mostly, it was the mystery of him that was scratching the investigative part of my brain just right. Like any good interviewer, I’d done my research—or I’d tried to.

There was surprisingly little info online about Easton Wells.

Greer had said he was the attorney to the big shots, but I’d only discovered a small handful of his clients.

And even then, it was because they’d thanked him or acknowledged his firm in some way.

There was nothing from his office or him personally that touted the clients they’d bagged.

There was even less about him outside of work.

No pucker-up pieces that regurgitated the same dozen talking points meant to make him look good.

Nothing about his personal life. No social media for him or his firm.

If not for the handful of pictures of the man at high-profile functions, I would think that he wasn’t the hotshot we’d assumed.

But there was no way an ambulance chaser was getting sat with the mayor at a thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraiser or photographed at a gala with a motley group that included an actor, a hall of fame musician, a late-night talk show host, and the state treasurer.

Not to mention, the leggy brunette pressed close to him.

Even if I hadn’t already reached the conclusion that he was legit, his building would’ve spelled it out.

In bold.

With a few underlines for good measure.

Los Angeles real estate was as insane as the city itself.

Following the navigation’s directions, I’d gone down one-way streets of nothing but dilapidated buildings before turning to be surrounded by million-dollar houses.

Another few minutes, and the pattern repeated.

Million-dollar condos filled high-rises that stood down the street from tourist traps and sightseer buses that promised a glimpse at the stars.

Located outside of the busy downtown, Wells Law was firmly situated in the ritzy area.

It wasn’t in the tallest building. In fact, it was the shortest on the block.

But the classy signage on the brick building wasn’t for multiple businesses occupying the space.

It was only his firm’s name in elegant writing above the entrance.

I’d parked in a pricey lot down the street that I’d assumed was as close as I was going to get, but as I approached, I saw I was wrong.

Situated between his building and the high rise next to it was a parking lot.

It was easy to miss since tall greenery blocked everything but the entrance and exit.

From my angle, I was able to see the little booth thingy complete with an attendant in it.

It might be more convenient, but I bet that lot requires a credit check to use.

I continued by, pausing for a second right before I reached the door to check my bag, my clothes, and my breath.

I had my supplies.

My clothes—wide-leg gray pants and a plain fitted blue top—were in order and without any stains, wrinkles, or lint.

My breath was minty fresh.

I was good to go.

Anticipation bubbled through me as I walked inside.

And was immediately stopped by a suited man in the entryway between two heavy doors. A giant suited man who was intimidating with big bouncer-at-an-exclusive-club energy.

Despite that, his smile was warm and friendly as he looked up from an iPad. “Good evening. Name?”

“Madeline Baker.”

He tapped the screen, and a loud click echoed around us before the second door swung open. “Enjoy your night.”

“Thanks, you too,” I muttered, surprised by the level of security.

I walked into the spacious waiting area, my steps slow as I took it all in.

And there was a lot to take in. The interior walls matched the exterior brick, but with the addition of dark wood floors and exposed beams on the high ceilings.

It could’ve felt cold and cavernous, but it didn’t.

It looked cool and modern—like a converted industrial space that could hold amazing parties or exclusive culinary pop-ups.

A glowing sign of Wells Law warmed the brick wall next to a pretty water feature that added a calming white noise.

“Madeline?”

I looked up as an older woman came down the hall to stop at the built-in wooden desk that jutted out from the wall.

“Yes,” I answered.

Her friendly smile grew. “Hi, we spoke earlier. I’m June. Mr. Wells is wrapping up a phone call and will be right with you. Have a seat.”

I was tempted to question her for any info on her mysterious boss, but that would be a shitty move. At best, I would make it awkward. At worst, I could put her job at risk.

I wasn’t the level of ruthless that would burn the world for a good story. At least not for my college paper.

I returned her smile. “Thank you.”

Taking a lap around the room, I paused to read the labels under the art pieces that seemed to be on consignment from local artists. Interspersed between them were a handful of shiny awards hanging on the wall and lining a ledge.

“Make sure you ask him about those,” June put in from her spot at the desk. “He hates that I insist on displaying them. His ears get all red.”

“Thanks for the scoop,” I said, mentally adding the question to my list.