Free An Unexpected Love by Claire Matthews Page A

recent divorce from Julia Mundy-Brogan, who had apparently, and quite gauchely, run off with the male nanny, affectionately referred to in the halls of T&G as “the manny”. The entire firm had a field day, as whispering Brogan groupies went from “Why?” ( I bet it was the long hours he works… No, I saw the manny once, he’s gaw-geous… ) to “What now?” ( I heard he’s already got another woman… I heard that’s why the wife left to begin with! ).
    The hero-worship, the gossip, the lives and loves of the beautiful people and their followers… It was all such an incredible turn-off to me. Which made it even harder to accept the embarrassing fact that I was madly in love with Jack Brogan, and had been for over six years. Before Manny-Gate, even before Julia Mundy entered the picture, Jack and I had started at T&G as junior analysts, straight out of college. We’d worked together for about six months before his brilliance was recognized and he was swept away to corporate finance, while I remained back with the dimmer stars in research. We were casual acquaintances, would hold the elevator door for each other, but in the last six years, the torrid love affair between me and Jack took place exclusively in the recesses of my Brogan-obsessed brain.
    Feigning disinterest, I hung on every scrap of stray gossip, followed his rapidly burgeoning career, and imagined the two of us in every unspeakable naked scenario my twisted mind could produce. It was humiliating. Demoralizing. It went against every notion of self-respect and sanity I’d ever embraced. But there it was. I was Mothra, and he was my giant flame.
    Tonight, however, it looked like my giant flame was flaming drunk. Not that he had a lampshade on his head or anything, but his eyes were glazed and unfocused, and he seemed to be tilted to the left on his barstool. I tried not to stare, thankful that Valerie came with the sandwich and drink on which I could focus my attention. But before I could salt my fries, Jack slipped gingerly off his barstool and began to walk—or, more accurately, stumble—towards me. Towards me.
    Now let me stop here and say that I am no simpering wallflower. I’ve had three serious boyfriends since college, and one marriage proposal. Men notice me—I’m no supermodel, but I’ve got good hair, full and dark brown. And my legs are long, and my eyes are wide and hazel. I won’t talk about my nose (too pug) or my breasts (too small), but overall, I’m presentable. So a drunk man approaching me in a bar was not a completely foreign situation for me. But I’d never been approached by a drunk Jack Brogan, and it made goosebumps pop up on my arms.
    “Hey, Lexi.” He spoke softly, intending to hit my ear, but he overshot, and I felt his hot breath on my scalp. He slurred his words, so it sounded more like Hail, Eck-see. He placed one hand on the bar and the other on the back of my chair. Clearly he needed the help.
    “Hey, Jack. Are you okay?” His face was flushed, and he didn’t answer me. “Jack?”
    “I just came over to say hi,” he said. “Hi.” He shot me a half smile, the same half smile he gave every woman in his presence. It was as if he knew his gorgeousness was too much, that he couldn’t risk the mayhem a full smile might produce within the general female population.
    “Hi,” I replied. Just then his palm slipped across the slick top of the bar, and he stumbled back a step. Okay, crazy obsession aside, I needed to deal with this. “C’mon, I think I’d better get you a cab.”
    For some reason I expected a fight, an indignant denial of his inebriated state. But he just nodded, and after I paid both our tabs and got Valerie to box up my dinner, he followed me out to the street like a beautiful puppy, sweet and cooperative. Boston in January is no place to take a leisurely stroll, so I dragged him as quickly as I could to the next block, where cabs hung out regularly for the after-dinner crowd.
    I shoved him