Only coffee-one-cream said thank you. He was the only one, besides flat-white, I guess, with a non-serial-killer-like daily order. He was also the only one who ever said thank you, even throwing in a smile as a tip. He had a nice smile, though I had a preference for his eyes. They were kind.
Instead of thank you, Mr. Blanc, my boss, said, “Where’s the Peterson file?”
“At my desk. I’ll go grab?—”
He cut me off with, “Go get that,” waving dismissively.
I gritted my teeth to keep from snipping, “That’s literally what I said I was going to do,” because it wasn’t worth it. I’d been working as a paralegal at Blanc & Hartman for a little over a week at this point, and so far, I’d been treated like a glorified intern. Or a glorified dog, considering all I did was fetch things. I fetched coffee. I fetched case files. I fetched lunch. I fetched what little patience I was able to keep.
I went and fetched the case file from the rolling cart they told me was a desk. It’d be a desk if it had a chair. At least there was space for a computer. I glanced at my phone and noticed a missed call from my best friend’s mother. August’s mom had butt dialed me many times before, so nothing out of the ordinary.
I brought the Peterson file back to Blanc and refrained from slapping it down on the table before him. Instead, I set it down gently. See, I’d gotten much better at controlling my anger. I used to have a real problem with that. My mom had to put me in anger management courses as a young teen because I was “having trouble managing my big feelings and causing disturbances to those around me.”
Blanc glanced up at me without a word. I stared back blankly.
“That will be all,” he said slowly, like I was a child. “You can go.”
I scrunched my brow, holding a notepad to my chest. “You don’t want me to sit in on the meeting and take minutes?”
“Not necessary.”
I caught the attention of coffee-one-cream (whose name was Hudson, but I called everyone else by their coffee order, and itbecame a habit for him as well. I called him that endearingly, unlike everyone else), and he gave me a slight flash of his dark eyes, signaling that he too found this behavior ridiculous. I bit back a grin.
Aloud, he said, “Mr. Blanc, after the last meeting, you were looking for a transcription. Lacy should stay so we have that this time.”
He repeated the words, “Not necessary.”
I gave coffee-one-cream a small shrug as a thank-you for having my back. He was my one friend-adjacent person at work. While I couldn’t deny he was handsome, with broad shoulders, tan skin, and neat, wavy locks, that wasn’t why I liked him. I liked him because he was kind.
Fully sensing the finality of my dismissal, I took my leave. Blanc was such an asshole. Classic adult bully. He was charming in the interview, but as soon as I was hired, that all went out the window. I should have known he was a horrible person as soon as he told me his regular coffee order was black coffee. Only the worst people drink their coffee black. I went back to my workstation with a grumble and leaned uncomfortably against the cart as I typed on my laptop, doing some research that I had not been asked to do on the Peterson case. I’d be asked to do it eventually, I figured, so I may as well go ahead and do it.
A little while later, I watched as all the lawyers exited the meeting room, Blanc himself heading out of the building. Perhaps he was going for a smoke break.
Hudson took the long way to walk past me, saying, “You didn’t miss much.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
About an hour later, Blanc walked back into the building and toward his office, calling, “Groban!”
I didn’t know all the lawyers’ names at that point, so I figured he was calling for one of them. But then he said, “Groban!” again, this time far more exasperated than the last. I searched around for the mysteriousGroban, catching the eye of coffee-one-cream.
He mouthed, “You.”
Shit. I rushed into Blanc’s office and corrected, “It’s Gordon.”
“What?” he snapped. His eyes seemed to be engulfed by flames, a sharp cruelty behind them. He was never full of sunshine, but this…this was worse.
I swallowed before I answered. “My name. Lacy Gordon, not Lacy Groban.” I couldn’t help but add, “Though, I’m not convinced you know my first name.”
His mouth twitched to something close to a smile, the flames simmering but not extinguishing. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”
My eyebrows raised, heart ticking in my chest. “Uh, not sure you can say that.”
His gaze raked over me, making me squirm. “Only an observation. Now, where is the Bishop file?”
“The Bishop file?”
“Yes, I surely asked you for this an hour ago.”
