If there was a word in the English language that correctly conveyed a sense of jet-lag that combined with an overwhelming hangover, Fynn had not yet discovered it.<br/><br/>There were several words that came close to expressing how he felt that Seattle morning, the smell of the ocean surrounding him and the ever present nip in the air that suggested, no matter how bright and sunny it was, that winter was always close at hand.  Hidden behind chic sunglasses and a stylish brimmed hat, he was trying to shake off the little celebration he'd cooked up last night upon his arrival, toasting the best of champagne and escorts the hotel had to offer.  They were always cheaper outside of New York, and better for conversation at that.<br/><br/>Fynn slipped his pda from the pocket of his jacket, a soft badge overcoat that looked like it might be more at home on a aging literature professor than on a young lawyer.  He had several appointments today with his client's contacts, as well as three offers to local factors direct from the partners of his firm.  It was odd to consider himself a gofer, but it a strange and extravagantly well paid sort of way, he was.  Still, the morning had left him positively ravaged from the evenings festivities, and he knew that part of that was (at least) minor dehydration.<br/><br/>When a nearby door opened and the scent of pastries - real pastries, not the cheap imitations Americans called doughnuts - found his senses, Fynn had to pause and consider.  It was an ungodly early hour, the sun only barely showing it's color to the east with dark shadows still over the water.  Far in the distance the lights of Bainbridge still hummed across the Sound, lines of traffic just truly starting to hit the streets as cars loaded onto the giant floating monoliths called ferries.  He had more than enough time for a quick cup of tea, maybe a bite to eat as well.<br/><br/>Fynn slipped into the bakery and waited his turn in line, head bowed to read over the copy of the Seattle Times.