Nash’s eyes light up. There’s a spark of triumph there that he doesn’t bother concealing. “I think I have the perfect idea.”
I narrow my eyes, unsure if I trust the gleam I’m seeing. “Lowkey, Nash,” I warn, the words carrying a weight of unspoken conditions.
“Scout’s honor.” He holds three fingers up.
I arch an eyebrow. “Were you ever actually a Boy Scout?”
“Nope.” His laughter is a low rumble, the kind that wraps around the room and settles comfortably between us. “I’ll text you with the details, yeah?”
“How are you gonna text me when you don’t have my number?” I challenge, pushing back with the last shred of resistance I can muster.
He smirks, leaning across my desk with a confidence that borders on arrogant. His hand finds a sticky notepad and tears off a sheet. Then, in one smooth motion, he grabs a pen from the chaos on my desk and holds it out to me, a silent dare that I’m almost too willing to accept.
I stare him down for a moment and then take the pen, writing my number on the sticky note. I hand it over to him with a pointed look. Nash reaches to take it, our fingers brushing, but I hold firm, matching his gaze.
“Lowkey, Nash,” I repeat, my voice layered with a fierceness, “or so help me God, I will bury you up to your eyeballs in busywork.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, flashing one last mischievous smile as he backs out of my office.
I stare at the empty doorway, heat rising to my cheeks as I turn back to my desk. I try to lose myself in the comforting rhythm of work, the shuffle of papers, the click of my keyboard, but thoughts of Nash keep bleeding through. His grin, his persistence, the ease with which he slipped under my skin. I can’t help but imagine our dinner, and I’m excited.
And then there are the stolen glances across to James’s office. Each time, my gaze lingers a little longer, searching for some sign that he knows. Like he can read my thoughts.
He sits at his desk, deep in discussion with one of the other attorneys. There’s a steady confidence in the way he moves, a quiet magnetism that draws me in before I can stop myself.
Sometimes, he looks back. I don’t know if he notices the way my breath hitches when our eyes meet, or if he’s simply taking note of my existence as part of the firm’s living inventory.
The memory of my dream with James flashes in my mind, all heat and hunger, the kind of dream that leaves you shaken long after you wake.
It feels like a warning.
I shudder and force myself back to the brief in front of me.
By late afternoon, I’ve made a dent in my to-do list, though my nerves are fried from the effort. I’m staring blankly at a contract when I hear a light knock on my door.
“Got a minute?” James asks, the formality in his voice making the question sound more like a command.
“Of course,” I reply, trying to keep my tone neutral as I motion him in.
He steps into my office, and my heart thumps.
There is a moment, a tiny lag, as I scramble to convert my private chaos into something resembling professional composure. He pauses on the threshold, eyes cool but sharp, taking in the mess of paperwork scattered across my desk and the half-drained coffee I’d meant to swap out hours ago.
“Some of us are cutting out early for happy hour. Might be a good opportunity for you to get to know the other attorneys.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised and maybe a little too eager. I scramble to cover my enthusiasm. “Sure, I guess I could come for a bit.”
He nods, satisfaction flickering briefly in his eyes before he turns to leave. “Murph’s, four o’clock. It’s a well-frequented attorney bar down the street.”
“I’ll be there,” I say with a soft smile.
The door clicks shut, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My thoughts are a jumble of possibilities and what-ifs.
I reach for my phone, hesitating before texting Mina.
Going to happy hour with some coworkers. Pray for me. Also, maybe show up and save me? James said it’s a bar lots of attorneys go to!
Mina
