Exhibit B: My complete inability to concentrate in his presence.
“You ready?” Marisol asks, turning to me.
I tear my eyes away from Corin and school my features into something resembling professionalism. “Born ready. Well, actually, born screaming and covered in amniotic fluid like everyone else, but metaphorically ready.”
Marisol raises an eyebrow. “You’re weird sometimes.”
“Nervous,” I correct. “As you’ve probably noticed by now, if I start making puns, run!”
Corin crosses to us, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sea salt. It’s distracting.
Scratch that.
Everythingabout him is distracting. Last night we were tangled in his sheets, saying things like “I love you” and “I don’t think I ever stopped,” and now I’m supposed to focus on procedural justice?
The defense would like to request a recess. For kissing purposes.
“Xavier is on the way,” Corin says, checking his phone. “Thorne confirmed his car is fifteen minutes out.”
My stomach tightens.
Showtime.
I smooth down my linen dress and check my legal pad for the fortieth time. Every question I’m about to ask is mapped out. Every potential evasion has a follow-up. Every trap has been laid with the kind of precision that would make my law school professors weep with pride.
Or possibly horror. Depending on their ethics.
“The recording equipment?” I ask.
“Tested three times,” Marisol confirms. “Signage is posted at the entrance. He’ll see the disclosure notice before he even walks in. Everything’s compliant.”
Corin’s hand brushes the small of my back as he moves past me. It’s a small gesture, barely there, but I feel it everywhere.
“You’ve got this,” he says quietly. “I’ve never seen anyone prepare like you do.”
I try not to flush. Fail. “That’s because I’m neurotic and incapable of relaxing.”
“It’s because you’re brilliant.”
Okay, now I’m definitely blushing.
“Save the flattery for after I’ve crushed him,” I manage.
Corin’s mouth quirks. “Deal.”
The next fifteen minutes feel like an eternity. I review my notes. I pace. I remind myself that I’ve done this a hundred times before, that Xavier Laurent is just another arrogant man who thinks he’s untouchable, that I eat arrogant men for breakfast.
Figuratively.
Mostlyfiguratively.
Then his car pulls up outside, and I watch through the window as he emerges.
He’s wearing an expensive Armani suit. His hair is slicked back, his smile practiced, and he radiates confidence. You know, the kind that comes from never having to face real consequences.
Oh, you poor idiot.
You have no idea what’s about to hit you.
