The following weeks are spent preparing for and attending depositions and mediations, all with James guiding me with a steady presence that is somehow both suffocating and addictive. I begin to crave his mentorship, even as he exposes every flaw in my inexperienced practice of the law.
This work feels rewarding and important, like I’m really helping my clients. There’s a sense of purpose in everything I do. Trial strategies. Client meetings. Case assessments. I tackle them all, each day my confidence growing in the work I’m doing.
Nash has mostly been supportive, though he still makes inappropriate advances. Just yesterday, I was in the copy room, reaching up to the top shelf in the cabinet for the last unopened pack of legal pads when Nash saw me struggling.
He came up behind me, placing one hand on my hip. I froze, arm still extended, as his body bracketed mine, and his other hand shot up, effortlessly grabbing the pack I had been desperate to reach.
The way his fingers brushed mine as he handed it to me could be described as nothing but deliberate, his other hand still lingering on my hip for much longer than it should before he finally let it slip away.
He makes me feel things for him that I shouldn’t. I’m trying not to let him get to me, but he’s already under my skin.
I can’t let him be another Pierce. Another mess of personal and professional entanglement, and we all know how that ended.
No matter how charming I find him, it doesn’t change the fact that nothing can happen between us. Something I have to remind him of nearly every day.
Regardless, his antics have continued unabated. If anything, he’s become more bold in his efforts. He still brings me coffee every day, writing cheeky notes on the cup that make me blush.
My personal favorite was, “I need to taste you again.”
I had to clench my legs together to fight the warm sensation gathering in my lower belly.
When I glanced over at Nash sitting at his desk, he was already looking at me, smirking, like he had been watching and was fully aware of the effect he had on me.
He keeps testing me, pushing the boundaries of our professional relationship. Each day, finding ways to be near me.
Hand delivering documents that could’ve been emailed, his fingertips always finding a way to mine. Visiting my office to ask me questions he could have asked Vanessa. Leaving the office at the same time as me, walking me to my car every evening.
On the nights I’ve stayed late to work, he’s stayed too. Even though he didn’t have to. When I asked him why he did, he said, “And miss the opportunity to hear you say ‘goodnight, Nash’ the way you do? Not a chance.”
Tonight is one of those late nights, working through discovery on a complex case.
The phone records alone are hundreds of pages. My desk covered in documents, Nash sits across from me, combing through thousands of texts and calls, highlighting the ones relevant to our case. When Nash shuffles some papers, the highlighter resting on top of them tumbles off onto the floor and rolls far under the desk.
I’m wearing one of my favorite outfits: a tweed blazer and skirt paired with a black blouse, tights, and heels.
He leans forward and reaches under the desk to retrieve the marker, and as he does, I feel his hands slide up my calves.
The sensation of his touch feels like I’ve been lit on fire. His palms are warm, spanning the width of my legs as if they’vealways belonged there, and wrong as it is, I crave more. My breath hitches audibly.
The skirt that felt so professional, such armor this morning, now feels like the barest suggestion of a boundary.
He pauses at the hem, as if waiting for my permission, or maybe daring me to stop him.
I should. I absolutely should. But I can’t move.
My heart pounds so furiously I think it must be visible through my blouse.
Why am I letting him do this?
His fingers slip under the edge of my skirt and splay across my thighs, the pads of his thumbs tracing heat into my skin even through the thin fabric of my tights.
That’s when it hits me: the potential consequences, the HR policy, the power dynamic, the glass windows. The firm’s entire culture is built on mutual trust and respect, and here I am, seconds away from letting my paralegal finger me in my office.
The realization slams me back into my body. I inhale sharply, the sound cutting through the haze.
“Nash,” I say, reaching under the desk to place my hands on his and gently nudge them.
He swiftly withdraws his hands, running them through his hair as he leans back in his chair, his eyes locking onto mine.
