“Five years. I started as a temp like you. I’ll probably go the paralegal route next year. I’ve turned down a few job offers, waiting for the right spot here. I like working with the big guy. I’m learning a lot.”
“Well, at least he’ll help you with your career.” I take a bite. It’s delicious, but my stomach gives a warning lurch. I ignore it.
“You’re lucky, you know,” Joe says, wiping mustard from his lip. “He never brings temps into his office for real work. Usually, they’re stuck scanning documents in the basement. Do you have a law degree?”
“Bachelor’s in political science. Law school is the plan.” I flash him a smile.
“Same route I took. Careful you don’t get an ‘M.R.S.’ degree instead,” he laughs.
“M.R.S. degree?” I frown.
“Rumor has it Calloway needs to get married,” Joe says, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “He wants to make partner, but the board says he has to clean up his image. He’s too wild. They want him settled. Wife, kid, white picket fence in the Hamptons. The whole nine yards.”
Joe is spilling Griffin’s tea, and I am drinking it up.
“Sounds like something he is physiologically incapable of doing.” I raise a brow.
“He's notorious for his bachelor lifestyle, sure. But I figure whatever marriage arrangement he makes, it'll be a paper deal. A business transaction. I’d be shocked if he actually fell in love. But he has enough money to entice anyone to sign the contract.” Joe shrugs. “If he becomes a partner, my prospects get better. I could ride his coattails to the top.”
Joe sounds a lot like Griffin. Focused. Transactional.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask, changing the subject. I don't want to spend my only break talking about my boss.
“Too busy,” Joe says, shoving the last of his bun into his mouth. “Griffin keeps track of minutes. We should get back.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
I finish my lunch and we head back up. We walk into the suite with one minute to spare.
“Thanks for lunch, Joe,” I say flirtatiously, loud enough for the room to hear.
El huffs audibly.
“No more lunches out,” Griffin’s voice booms from his office. He doesn’t even look up. “Get back to work.”
I’m so done with this jerk.
“Should I order some shackles while I’m organizing the evidence?” I call out.
“Yes. Have them delivered to my penthouse.”
By three o’clock, I finish his original task. Instead of dismissing me, he dumps a pile of complex discovery work onmy lap. I need to call experts, vet them, and summarize their CVs. It’s actual legal work—challenging and engaging.
Griffin puts his phone on speaker and listens to my calls, chiming in occasionally with a correction or a nod of approval. I have to acknowledge, grudgingly, that he is giving me more opportunity in one day than he has given Joe in five years.
As soon as the clock strikes five, I stand up.
“Where are you going?” Griffin asks.
A spike of adrenaline lances through me. “You have to call the temp agency and approve overtime,” I say in a monotone. “They close at six. It’s five-ten.”
I want to leave. All day I’ve been battling butterflies—and nausea—and I’m ready to collapse.
“Sit down,” he commands. “I’ll pay you to stay. No need to involve the agency; they take a cut anyway. I’ll pay you their rate directly. Thirty-two an hour. Cash.”
He knows that’s nearly double my take-home pay.
I sit down.
