He didn’t know who started the ritual. It had happened long before Enzo joined the firm. Mock trial day was the brainchild of the original owner of the firm, Malcolm Blackwood. It was thanks to him that once a month, the senior partners would gather all employees into the auditorium for what they deemed a “team building” exercise. The exercise? Mock trials argued between seasoned attorneys and interns, to see who could think the fastest on their feet. Enzo would sit in the back and return emails until the day finally ended.
In the beginning, he thought it unfair to pit law students against some of the best litigators in the state, maybe eventhe country. But the firm believed it was the best way to find their future rock stars while also keeping their senior members on their toes. There were no slackers atBlackwood, Thorne & Fairchild. Not for long, anyway.
To date, the interns had won just as many cases as they’d lost. In reality, they had the upper hand. They were still in the classroom, feet to the fire, almost daily. Most of the senior litigators were specialists, which made them rusty on case law that occurred outside their niche. And this was the one time it was all but guaranteed that an attorney wouldn’t be arguing their own specialty. It was designed that way with intention.
Mock trials at the company went like this. Attorneys gathered on the right, interns on the left. At the front of the room sat two bowls, each filled with the names of the two groups. The “bailiff”—most often one of the paralegals or legal secretaries—would draw a name from each one at random, choosing which intern and litigator would battle it out. One of the senior partners would play the judge. Today, it was Lourdes. The gallery was the jury.
Once names were chosen, the two would come to the front of the room and argue their case, either for the plaintiff or the defendant. The roles were chosen via coin flip. There was no prep. No research. No discovery. Nothing. Both the intern and the attorney had to argue off the cuff. In this mock court, the trial wasn’t just won on case law, but pop culture knowledge.
That was why mock trial day was most of the employees’ favorite time of the month. No work load, no phone calls, no arguing before a judge. Most of the staff got to sit back, kick up their feet, eat a snack, and watch as their friends, bosses, and co-workers had a battle royale every fifteen to twenty minutes.
As for those chosen to go before the judge? They got to spend their time arguing over pressing topics such as: was the alleged administration of the apple by the “Evil” Queena deliberate act of attempted homicide towards Snow White, or merely an incident arising from negligent conduct lacking malicious intent? Were Mr. McCallister’s defensive measures proportionate and legally permissible under applicable self-defense statutes, or did they rise to the level of excessive, malicious, or wanton conduct against the trespassers? And, if Mr. McCallister’s measuresweredisproportionate, would the parents be responsible for compensation for leaving their child home alone? Does the utterance of a third party’s name—Rachel Green—during the marriage vows of Ross Geller and Emily Waltham, constitute a material breach sufficient to void the marriage contract, and if so, is the injured party entitled to restitution or damages under the doctrine of reliance?
It was silly. It was indulgent. It wasn’t a coincidence that Enzo’s name never got called. He usually bribed the “bailiff” for the day to “forget” to put his name in the bowl. But not today. He’d been in too good a mood to worry about whether he’d be called to defend Goldilocks or the three bears. He was content to sit across from Seven and just stare at him.
When he heard his name called, he and Seven locked eyes. They both knew who’d get called next. It wasn’t a twist of fate that had them facing off, but a bunch of meddling co-workers who just wanted to watch them flirt front and center. But Enzo didn’t mind playing along. He was excited to watch Seven show off a little. Everyone there needed to know just how smart he was. His brat baby had brains and beauty. He was the total package.
Enzo mentally rolled his eyes at himself. Maybe Seven was right. He was turning into a simp. Or maybe he’d held the title for longer than he thought. But when Seven had held up a mirror that night at Vince’s club and forced him to look at himself, it became clear that if guarding his heart meant breaking Seven’s, then Enzo just had to put himself out there and hope that thekid had mercy on him. It had taken months and months of little gestures to get Seven to trust him even a little bit, but it was worth it. Seven was worth it.
When Seven glanced over and saw Enzo staring at him, he bit back a smile, shaking his head. His hair was longer now, just enough for Enzo to thread his fingers through. His full lips looked shiny, like he wore chapstick, and his fitted navy trousers and caramel crew neck sweater hugged him in a way that showed off his broad shoulders and tiny waist to the whole office. Seven’s version of business casual would be the death of Enzo. And to really drive the knife in, Seven had rolled up his sleeves, revealing his gorgeous golden skin. If Enzo squinted, he could just make out the bruise he’d left on Seven’s throat two days ago.
He hadn’t been avoiding Enzo since, but when he’d invited Seven over that night, he’d refused, stating he had plans with his friends and then classes the following day. Enzo didn’t know if that was true or if he was just playing hard to get, but it was working. The more Seven put him off, the more Enzo itched to see him. It had been so long since he’d gotten to see him naked and whining beneath him. His fantasies weren’t nearly enough, not when he had to see him—get teased by him—every single day.
When Enzo snapped out of his thoughts, he found Seven leaning against one of the two tables at the front. Enzo walked to the other but kept his eyes on Seven. The other man made no attempt to hide the way his gaze was crawling up Enzo’s body with interest. Enzo couldn’t stop himself from glancing down at his own tailored caramel pants and navy shawl neck sweater. Enzo didn’t have to eavesdrop on the other employees to know they were speculating about whether they’d deliberately chosen to match and whether that meant they’d gotten dressed together.
It wasn’t a coincidence. Seven had texted him late last night demanding Enzo wear a very specific outfit.
Brat Baby
Wear those brown pants that make your ass look amazing and that navy shawl collar sweater. You look hot in that.
Enzo
I look hot in everything.
Brat Baby
Enzo
Fine.
“Are both attorneys present?” Lourdes asked, snapping Enzo back to reality.
She knew full well they were. She sat behind a desk on the small stage at the front of the auditorium, lording over them all. She wore a fitted black suit with shoulder pads so big and ugly they had to be couture. As always, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail so tight it gave Enzo a headache to look at it.
“Yes, your honor,” they said in tandem.
Heat lanced through Enzo’s lower half as Seven glanced his way for barely a second, a little smirk on his face.
God, he was so cute. And hot. And sexy. Fuck, why did they have to be at work right now? He shifted uncomfortably as he faced Lourdes and waited to find out what ridiculous situation they’d be arguing.
“Excellent,” she murmured. “Your case today is Rumpelstiltskin v. the Queen. The claim: breach of contract. I’ll flip a coin to decide who is representing whom.” Seven stood there, hands in his pockets, looking far more relaxed than any other intern who’d been in his position before. “Heads,Enzo represents Rumpelstiltskin. Tales, Seven does.” They both watched as she made a show of flipping the coin, then watched it land on the desk. “Heads.”
Seven nodded, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth like he was fighting to not lick his lips. Enzo wanted to do that for him. When Seven turned to walk back to his table, Enzo blatantly looked at his perfectly round ass. Seven really needed to make time for Enzo soon before he melted into a giant puddle of want.
As they both walked back to their tables, Seven said, “Don’t you dare go easy on me.”
The gallery gasped.
