After what feels like hours of listening to him bully someone on the phone—a conversation that sounded like a million dollars in threats—he hangs up.
He stares at me. The air in the room grows heavy.
“It’s lunch,” he informs me.
I smile, bright and fake. “Okay.” I stand up, smoothing out my skirt.
“Be back in thirty minutes.” Not long, but enough to eat the sad salad I brought from home.
I walk out of Griffin’s office. His assistants are all getting up as well, except for the new temp guy. He’s a muscled blonde who looks like he should be surfing in Malibu, not filing briefs in Manhattan.
“What are you all doing for lunch?” I ask the group. I don't really care, but I want Griffin—who I know is listening through the open door—to hear that I am capable of being social.
“I’m going to the hot dog cart on the corner,” Joe says, his voice brightening. “You’re welcome to join. They’re fast and greasy in the best way.”
He shoots me a friendly grin. I decide instantly to abandon my salad.
The new guy shrugs. “My wife packed me leftovers.”
“I’m eating at my desk,” El says loudly, looking at her screen. “Grif prefers someone to be here.”
Grif?Clearly, she doesn’t know him that well if she calls him the nickname he hates. I’ve known the guy for three days, and I know that makes his jaw tick.
“A hot dog sounds amazing,” I say, exaggerating my enthusiasm. “I’ll save my salad for later.” I offer a saccharine smile to El.
“No eating at the desks during work hours,” she snaps.
“Noted,” I say.
I hear a low grumble from the cave behind me, but no actual words are issued.
“We’d better hurry,” Joe whispers, grabbing his jacket.
I sprint to catch up to him.
In the safety of the elevator, I turn to Joe. “So... is Griffin always this intense?”
I need to know which version is the real Griffin: the attentive, dominant lover from the club, or the monster I am shackled to for the next week.
“He keeps a distance from people,” Joe explains, hitting the button for the lobby. “He has to. He gets a lot of animosity from opposing counsel, so he keeps up a cold front. Honestly? I kind of admire the guy. I’m hoping to be like him one day.”
That level of adoration is a little disturbing.
“Oh, don’t. Find a way to be a lawyer without becoming Griffin Calloway,” I sigh.
“He’s not all bad,” Joe chuckles.
“Has he seduced you, too?” I joke. Honestly, with Griffin’s appetite, nothing would surprise me.
“I wish.”
“Don’t. You have no idea the size of the bullet you’re dodging.”
He laughs. “I’m just teasing. I don’t play for that team, but professionally? I’d be gay for Griffin Calloway’s win record.”
We step out into the humid city air. We order our dogs—Joe gets the works, I order mustard and relish. We find a spot on a concrete retaining wall to eat. The hot dog tastes like freedom.
“So how long have you worked here?” I ask, figuring small talk will keep my nerves from frying.
