CHAPTER TWO – MY TWO BOSSES
Marnie
Ishow up at 8:30 a.m. even though my meeting with the partners isn’t until nine because if I’m not at least thirty minutes early, my mother’s voice starts up in my head about how “late is a character flaw, not just a habit.” I tell myself I’m here early so I can go over my answers, but the truth is, I’m afraid if I wait at home, I’ll lose my nerve and never make it in at all.
I take the elevator up with a gaggle of paralegals. They wear the same kind of uniform as me, only better tailored—black sheath dresses, razor-sharp blazers, shoes that cost more than my monthly rent. I try not to feel like a Target knockoff in my navy pencil skirt and cream blouse, but I do. The skirt is tight enough to be slightly risqué, but long enough to pass as “classic,” and my blouse is the kind that tries hard to look like silk but only manages polyester. I spent half an hour debating if I should wear my ballet flats, but in the end, I went with my heels because the outfit just doesn’t look right with flat shoes. Now, I can alreadyfeel an ache beginning to develop in the ball of my right foot. Serves me right.
The doors open on the twentieth floor. My pulse thumps like a bass drum. Oh god, it’s Ms. Jenkins again, who manages a freezing smile before waving me down the hall to the main conference suite. It’s not a room so much as a statement of intent: glass on three sides, a slab of mahogany the size of a ping-pong table gleaming in the center, and chairs that look imported from the lair of a Bond villain.
I step in and instantly feel like I’m trespassing because it’s so goddamn professional, while I’m a lowly “pretend paralegal” in her shabby, not-quite-appropriate Target outfit. Sunlight pours over the city skyline, blinding and surgical. On the table: a pitcher of water, two crystal tumblers, a single legal pad, and a neat stack of coasters, each monogrammed with the firm’s logo. I clutch my notebook to my chest, trying to get my heartrate under control.
You’ve already been hired, Marnie, the voice in my head soothes.This is just a formality. Besides, Mr. Gibson and Mr. Grant would never care about someone as plebian as you.
Still, my fingers are going numb when I hear footsteps in the hallway: long, unhurried, and expensive. I straighten up and do a quick double check—skirt not riding up, hair not frizzing out, lipstick not on teeth. I’m trying so hard to look competent I barely notice the door opening.
And then Brent Gibson walks in.
I recognize him before he even says a word. You don’t forget a face that’s been on the cover of every law review and city magazine in the last decade. He’s even bigger than he looks inphotos—six-three, minimum, with shoulders like a linebacker packed into a custom charcoal suit. His hair is black, not just dark, but the kind of ebony that looks blue under certain lights, with a sharp streak of silver at the temples that makes him look both distinguished and dangerous. The eyes are the color of frozen lakes, pale blue and icy, taking in the room and everything in it—including me—in a single sweep.
I’m so busy processing his size and presence that it takes me a second to realize he’s already extending his hand.
“Ms. Williams,” he says. His voice is so deep it rattles my bones. “Brent Gibson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I reach for his hand, but he gets there first, enveloping mine in a grip that’s equal parts iron and velvet. It’s not a standard handshake—it lingers, palm to palm, hot and meaningful, for at least two beats longer than what’s legal in most states. I feel my fingers go limp and then overcompensate, squeezing back like I’m trying to prove a point. His mobile lips tick upward in the briefest smirk at the corner, and at once, I know I’m in big trouble. Still, I have to pretend like I’m a sentient human being who can earn her keep.
“Mr. Gibson,” I say, but it comes out more like “mistergibson” because my tongue has decided to stop collaborating with the rest of my body.
“Ms. Williams,” he drawls. Oh my god, this man smells amazing. I don’t know the brand, but the cologne is that top-shelf kind: expensive, understated, and dark as whiskey. There’s a whiff of something spicy underneath, black pepper or maybe cloves. My mouth waters for no reason, and I’m suddenly aware of just how clammy my thighs are.
Smirking again, the huge man takes the chair across from me, crosses his ankle over his knee, and steeples his hands. His eyes scan my face in a single, devastating glance, and then rove down my body, taking in my big breasts, as well as the darkened vee between my girls. Silently, I curse the blouse. What was I thinking when I chose this outfit this morning? Even worse, how can he look at me like this? Like I’m his property, to be savored and enjoyed?
But this man is the boss, and he can do anything he wants. As a result, when he quirks an eyebrow, I startle.
“Do you have a resume?”
“Yes, of course,” I babble, opening my notebook. There’s a fresh C.V. pressed in between the pages, and I hand it to him.
The alpha male surveys the page, and there’s a pause where only the city makes noise—sirens, a car horn, the distant hiss of wind past the windows.
“I see you graduated in the top ten percent of your class,” he drawls. “Impressive.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
He slides the resume back across the table, then folds his hands again. “What interests you about being a paralegal, Ms. Williams?”
It’s a basic question, but the way he says it makes it sound like a trick.
I try to keep my answer smooth. “My mother says I’ve always been detail-oriented. That I focused on the small things even when I was only five, and every case is filled with countlessnuances that can make or break it. I want to get into the nitty-gritty.”
He gives the smallest nod, like he’s logging a data point. “Well, that will certainly happen when we’re in trial. And why our firm? Why did you choose Gibson Grant?”
This is the question I prepped for, and yet my mind blanks. The truth—the real, hot, desperate truth—is that I’m here because ofhim. Because of the men who defended my father. Because I want to understand the events that led to my father’s death, from the inside out. But I can’t say any of that, so I go with the half-truth.
“Your firm is legendary for its defense work,” I say. “You take on cases nobody else will touch, and I admire that. I want to work for the best so that when I become an attorney, I know what being the best entails.”
The huge man leans back, and for a second the sunlight glances off his dark hair, making it silvery in the light. I have no idea if he buys my answer, but he lets the moment hang there, thick with evaluation. He must be able to smell my nerves, but instead of exploiting them, he just lets them marinate.
“Ambition is good,” he says finally. “But here, loyalty is better. Everything we do is as a team. You think you’re ready for that?”
