My mouth answers before my brain does. “Yes. Absolutely.”
He gives the smallest hint of a smile. “We’ll see.”
There’s another silence, but it’s not as heavy this time. If anything, it feels charged—like the static before a lightning strike. My pulse is in my ears. I look down at my lap, then back at him, determined not to flinch.
He checks his watch—a sleek, brutal thing with a face like an armored tank. “James will be here shortly,” he says. “I assume you know my co-head?”
“Yes, you lead the firm together,” I admit.
He smirks. “Good girl. You know your stuff.”
At that moment, the door swings open behind him. A shadow falls over the room, and a second huge, masculine form enters … doubling my excitement as my thighs clench with anticipation.
I turn toward the doorway,not sure what I’m going to find, but James Grant leaves nothing to be desired. I knew, from photos, that he was handsome in a more conventional way than Brent, but the pictures didn’t do him justice. In person, he radiates the kind of charisma that shifts the vibe in the room. What kind of energy is this? Huge size energy. Oh my god, oh my god, I just know his cock is massive, and immediately blush because how can I be having these thoughts? I should be embarrassed.
But the man smiles like he knows, flashing white teeth that gleam against his olive skin— Mediterranean maybe, or some cocktail of good genes—and his hair is the color of espresso, thick and swept back with a disarming disregard for corporate protocol. His eyes are piercing blue, the lashes so long and dark that they’re wasted on a man.
He walks in with zero hesitation, a laptop tucked under one arm, and makes a point of rolling up his sleeves as he sits, exposing forearms that could have their own OnlyFans. His suit fits perfectly, tighter at the biceps, and his shirt is a surgical whitethat only emphasizes his deep tan. James gives Brent a nod, then turns the full blast of his attention on me.
“Ms. Williams,” he says courteously, “good morning. It’s a pleasure.”
“Good morning, Mr. Grant.”
He flashes a smile that’s all wolf. “James, please. We don’t stand on ceremony here.” His gaze flicks down to my skirt and back up, slow enough to be noticed, fast enough that if I called him out on it, I’d sound paranoid.
I try to keep my nipples from hardening, but it happens anyways, and I swear the men can tell. They both smirk, flashing Crest-white smiles, and I quake in my seat. How can this interview be so out of control already? What’s going on? I curse my body, but force myself to smile professionally.
Mr. Grant sets down his laptop, and then leans forward, folding his arms on the table. The sleeves, rolled just below the elbow, showcase a constellation of faint scars—rugby maybe, or just a life lived at full tilt.
“Tell me, Ms. Williams,” he purrs, “how are you finding your second day?”
I glance at Brent, who’s watching me, then back at James, who’s also watching me. The attention is total, like two predators sizing up their prey.
“I’m enjoying it so far,” I mumble, trying not to sound like I’m begging for mercy. “Everyone’s been very welcoming.”
James tilts his head. “That’s not the word most new hires use. Most say ‘intense’ or ‘brutal.’ Sometimes even ‘terrifying.’”
I laugh, a little too high. “I suppose I’m still in the honeymoon phase. It’s only been two days.”
Brent shrugs. “Two days is enough. But you’ll find we value candor here, so don’t be afraid to tell us what you really think.”
My pulse hiccups.
“To be honest,” I say, “I’ve never worked in an environment this—well, thiscompetitive. The drive here is palpable. I haven’t been here long, but I can feel it in the air, and I like it.”
James sits back, folding his hands behind his head. His shirt tightens across his broad chest, and for a second I can’t look away. He catches me, and the edges of his mouth curl up, just enough to sayI see you seeing me.
“So, Ms. Williams,” he drawls, “walk us through your resume.”
I take a breath. This I can do. I recite my resume bullet points: college degree, good grades, classes I enjoyed most, and the previous firm I worked at, Carter Graywright. I ramble a little, saying the right things, but my skin feels too tight, like I’m wearing someone else’s body.
When I finish, James taps his pen on the table. “And why did you leave your last firm?”
A good question. The truth is “I got obsessed with my father’s case and had to get a job here.” But of course, I can’t say that, so I mumble something about “better opportunities” and “closer to my apartment.”
Brent’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing.
James picks up the folder, scans it, then levels me with those dark eyes. “Do you have any trial experience?”
