“he said, pulling out his cell phone, searching his memory for the direct number of the Prism legal department.“Then he’ll win,” Joan returned, gliding her fingers through her thick, brown hair as she moved toward the breakfast bar.“I don’t need you talking like that.” Anthony gave up on his memory and punched in the number of the main receptionist.Joan lifted her long-stemmed glass. “Talking like what?” She pivoted back toward him. “Oh, you mean telling the truth?”“You don’t get to decide the t...ruth. A judge gets to decides the truth.”Joan scoffed at that and finished her martini. Then she promptly refilled it from the shaker.“Whoa.” Anthony snapped his phone shut and moved toward her. Though he could relate to the impulse, a drunk Joan would only make matters worse. “Slow it down there.”“It’s weak,” she said as he drew close. “The ice has melted.”“What is it?”“A cosmopolitan.”“There’s no such thing as a weak cosmopolitan.”She ignored him, draining a second drink.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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