I snort as I slide onto the stool beside her. “Both are still on the table.”
She signals the bartender. “Dirty martini for the woman clearly in emotional distress.”
I wrap my fingers around the cool glass when it arrives and take a sip, letting the burn settle me. “Okay,” she says, turning fully toward me. “Talk.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. Where do I even start? With Stephen and his possessive intensity? With my parents and their quiet disapproval that presses in on me like a vise? With the fact that I’m representing men whose names now make my stomach knot?
“I’m seeing someone,” I say finally.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Seeing someone, orseeingsomeone?”
“Seeingsomeone,” I admit. “Sort of. It’s complicated.”
She grins. “When isn’t it?”
I take another sip, buying time. “His name is Stephen, the hot god I met at the club a couple of weeks ago.”
Her expression sharpens with interest. “Okay, wow, wasn’t expecting that.” She studies me a moment. “So, what’s the catch?”
“There are several,” I say. “He’s intense. Infuriating. Completely inappropriate for both my family and my work, and probably me too.”
“And?”
“And I can’t stop thinking about him.” Wanting him. Wanting to be near him, have him next to me in bed, or walking down the street, enjoying simple quiet time. Urgh! I’m so pathetic.
Before she can respond, a man wraps his arm about my shoulder and squeezes. I look up, expecting to see a friend, someone I know. My stomach drops at the sight of Elio, suitjacket slung casually over his shoulder, untrustworthy smile already in place—too easy, too familiar.
“Well,” he says, “if it isn’t my favorite lawyer.”
My spine stiffens. “Good evening.” I wiggle out of his hold, and he thankfully gets the hint. Amy raises her brow at his familiarity but remains quiet.
He leans an elbow on the bar, far too close for my liking. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I work nearby,” I reply coolly. “And I’m meeting a friend…is there anything I can help you with?”
He chuckles, eyes flicking to Amy, then back to me. “Lucky me.”
“Well, have a good evening, Mr. Romero,” I say pointedly, wanting him to leave. Outside of work, I have nothing to discuss with this man, something he’s fully aware of. Stephen’s warning rings loud in my mind, and I can’t help but feel he’s up to something.
“Business, business,” he waves off. “Always so serious. Fortunately, we’ve met here. Maybe we can have a drink?”
His hand lands on my lower back. Not aggressive—but deliberate. Claiming. I step away immediately. “Please don’t touch me, Mr. Romero.”
He laughs like I’m joking. Amy stands and glares at him. “Relax. I’m just being friendly.” He raises his hands in defeat, but it’s clear he isn’t just friendly. Slimy, yes. Friendly? Hell no.
“No,” Amy cuts in sharply. “You’re being a slime. Back off.”
He doesn’t even look at her, and unease slides down my spine, slow and cold. I’ve dealt with entitled men before, but the way he ignores Amy entirely makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“I need to speak to you privately,” he says to me, lowering his voice. “Just for a minute.”
“There’s nothing we need to discuss outside of work,” I reply. “This is inappropriate, Mr. Romero. You need to walk away now.”
He leans closer anyway. “Come on. Don’t make a scene.”
I don’t want attention. I don’t want drama. And some stupid part of me thinks if I placate him for thirty seconds, he’ll leave. “I’ll be right back,” I murmur to Amy, already hating myself.
He guides me toward a quieter corner near the hallway, where the music is duller, replaced by the hum of an air conditioner vent and muffled voices. “This is inappropriate,” I say again as soon as we’re out of earshot. “You need to leave me alone when I’m not on company time.” Not that I’ll have to see the Romeros soon, since my boss has agreed to take them on as clients so that I can step away.
