The Blonde Theory by Kristin Harmel Page B

Street that often hosted corporate events. William was one of the senior partners, a thin, balding man in his midsixties who had unsuccessfully experimented with wearing a toupee a few years back before it flopped off his head once during his closing arguments in a multimillion-dollar civil trial.
    “Hi, William,” I said, extending my hand. We shook hands firmly, then he turned to smile at Matt.
    “And who might this be?” William asked, nudging Matt jovially. I rolled my eyes. At every firm dinner, William basically accosted my poor, unsuspecting date the moment we walked in the door. “Are you the man who’s finally going to make an honest woman out of our old maid here?”
    I forced a smile. I mean, who didn’t just
love
being called an old maid by her co-workers?
    You’d think an attorney would realize that this was an in-appropriate way to talk to a colleague, especially given all the sexual harassment and gender discrimination rules in place in the American workplace these days. But apparently I was giving William Bradley too much credit.
    “This is my
friend
Matt James,” I said to William in a strained voice.
    “Pleased to meet you, Matt,” William said warmly, slapping Matt on the shoulder as if they were old friends. Matt looked vaguely startled, and I felt even more embarrassed. I hadn’t known that was possible. “Our Harper here is quite a catch, don’t you think?”
    What was he, my embarrassing dad or something?
    “Um, yes sir, I’m sure she is,” Matt said, shooting me a confused look. I just shook my head and closed my eyes. Two more hours. I had to be here for two more hours. Then I could leave. Time had slowed to a crawl.
    “She can’t seem to hold on to a man, though,” William continued. This time I groaned aloud and looked at Matt in horror. I was nonplussed to see that he was clearly stifling a laugh. Not that I blamed him. “It’s the darnedest thing, son,” William continued, oblivious to my obvious humiliation—and Matt’s obvious amusement. Not to mention the inappropriateness of this whole conversation. “No one here can understand it. A nice girl should be able to be married by the time she’s...how old are you, Harper?”
    “I’m thirty-five, William,” I said through gritted teeth. “Just like I was when you asked me at the last firm dinner.”
    “Of course, of course, thirty-five,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “Why, my wife had already had three children by the time she was thirty-five.”
    I refrained from asking him which wife he was referring to. The first one—Pamela—had been his age and had given him his three adult children. I had liked her. The second one—Mitzi (I kid you not; her name was really Mitzi)—he had married three weeks after his divorce to Pamela was final four years ago. Seven months later, she had given birth to their first child. Yeah, you do the math.
    “We’re going to go find our table now, William,” I said with a sigh.
Please, just let this be over quickly.
“Nice seeing you.”
    “Yes, nice to meet you, sir,” Matt said, smiling at William and shaking his hand.
    Still internally cringing, I led Matt away from William and toward the tables in the back of the room. I hoped we wouldn’t have to mingle for too long before Jack Booth and Franklin Fitzpatrick, the two founding partners, tapped their glasses and asked us all to sit down.
    “Nice guy, that William,” Matt said into my ear as we crossed the room. I turned to scowl at him, hoping my embarrassment wasn’t too evident. He was smirking at me. Not that that was any surprise.
    “You have no idea,” I muttered. “These firm dinners are horrible.”
    “I don’t know,” Matt said with a shrug, still smirking. “I think they seem pretty fun.”
    “I bet you do,” I said under my breath. He grinned at me, his green eyes sparkling. I glared back, wishing I could slink out the back door without anyone noticing.
    By the time we sat down thirty minutes