“No lies detected, Mr Smith.” I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted this job, and as fun as the flirting is, I want to get this job based on my capabilities and not myskills. “I assume you have read my resume and have received my glowing recommendation from your colleague. So hit me with the hard questions.”
“Oh, I know how good you are. Very thorough, capable of both taking direction and thinking on your…feet.”
The innuendo is not lost on me. Well, so much for redirecting the subject. Clearly, he is still stuck on the hookup.
“I do aim to please, Mr Smith. However, I would appreciate it if we could focus on the interview. Let’s be professional. What’s done is done. We are in a different place today.” I manage to keep my tone even and firm.Don’t go there, Dimples. I’d really like to work here.
“If that’s what you want—”
“It is.”
“As you wish.” He slides a file to me, then leans forward to rest on his elbows. Most law firms use the same beige document files. I have seen hundreds of them by now. This is familiar territory. “Take a look at this case and tell me if there is anything you would change or do differently.”
Nice. A test. I’m fucking great at practical assessments.
Flipping through the pages, I start to make mental notes of what I’m seeing, from a paralegal standpoint. The case is in its infancy, or so I assume at first glance; it’s missing basic legal steps and lots of important information.
“If you have any questions—”
I stop him mid sentence by lifting one finger, in the universal ‘one moment, please’ signal, to keep him quiet as I try to puzzle my way through this. So much of it just isn't making sense.
“Who organized this file?” I ask faintly, more to myself than anything.
When I look up again, I see Eric watching me carefully, having heard my muttered question. Clearing my throat and laying the file out on the desk, I begin to dissect what's in front of me.
“Article 18-4-203, second degree burglary. I can see that someone talked to your client, but it was some time ago. There don’t appear to be any motions filed with the court. If I were your paralegal, I would touch base with your client and clear up some of the missing specifics from his alibi. I'd make sure we had evidence of any transactions he paid for with his card. I'd gather contact details for any possible witnesses and schedule meetings with them—there's no way that nobody saw him at the stadium. Then, I'd file a motion to the Prosecutor for discovery, so we don't have any nasty surprises cropping up on the day. And finally, I would get you a copy of that CCTV footage.” I close the file and slide it back across his desk, mic-drop style.
“Why did you leave last night?”
My head snaps up at his question. That's the last thing I expected him to say.
“Sorry?” I feel the heat rising up my neck as I shift in my seat. I don’t think I’ve ever had to explain to a hookup’s face why I dined and dashed. Isn’t that what's expected? There are no romantic stories that begin with a bathroom blowie.
“Why did you leave? I thought we were having a good time. I had plans for later.” He’s practically pouting, which makes me bite back a laugh. It’s adorable. He’s actually disappointed. That’s…that’s kind of sweet.
“Well, I can’t blame you for sounding disappointed, Dimples. My company is undeniably a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
He smirks, looking straight into my eyes. Leaning back in his seat, he waits for me to continue.
“In any case, I had a job interview this morning and needed my beauty sleep. We both know there would be no sleeping if I’d joined you at the bar.” I wink and smile when he reaches between his legs to rearrange himself. I bet he’s thinking about all the things he wanted to do to me. I can’t judge; I dreamt about him. His strong hands roaming along my body, his tongue mapping every inch as he works his way down to my dick, my sack, my hole… No, nope. Bad Jordan. Get out of the gutter. Think about sour milk or something.
I take a deep breath to centre myself. “So, Mr Smith, am I hired?”
“Can you start next Monday? Is that enough time to give your current employer notice?” He scrawls a pen across my employee paperwork. “I expect you to be here no later than eight a.m. Unexplained absence isn’t tolerated. Should you be running late, please call Madalyn and let her know. And lastly, please save my number to your phone, so you can keep in contact when you are off the premises.” He looks up, finally meeting my gaze as he slides a contract in front of me with my salary and hours roughly circled in red pen. “Any questions?” He nods at the page in front of me.
I drop my gaze to the figure and almost choke, covering my shock with a cough. Holy fucking shit. That's a massive pay raise. Scanning the page, I see there's a yearly bonus too. "No, no questions. I will take this home with me to review and return it on Monday. You won’t be disappointed…Boss.”
I wink at him and stand up, suddenly feeling lighter on my feet. The way I see it, I got this job on my own merit, and it had nothing to do with the epic orgasms we shared last night. So, what would be the harm in a repeat performance now that I’m already employed? Sure, it might be against company policy, but technically I haven't even read that yet. Meh, what's life without a few questionable decisions?
“Well, looks like I have something to celebrate tonight.” Eric smiles at me, emboldening me to go further.
I reach my hand across the desk to shake his. When our fingers touch I’m not sure if it's static electricity or our fire chemistry, but either way I feel a jolt down my spine that tickles my balls. “Nine p.m. at Jacks sound good to you?” Without waiting for his answer, I open the door and walk out with a sway to my hips and a smirk on my lips.
I’ve been sitting at the bar for half an hour. My impatient ass decided to arrive early, but at this point I’m ready to look for someone else to celebrate with if Dimples doesn’t hurry up. I have a fleeting thought that maybe he is leaving me hanging like I left him. Eric wouldn’t do that, though—he has to work with me. There is no way he would pull such an asshole move. I check the time again. He’s fifteen minutes late. I'm about to saunter over and join the crowd on the dance floor when the tattooed forearms I've been waiting for appear on top of the bar next to me. And just like last night, I didn’t even see him approaching.
“How much have you had to drink?” he asks, his voice low and full of promises as he slides onto the stool beside me.
I take my time; leisurely running my eyes over him. He’s still wearing the same suit as earlier, yet somehow he looks even hotter. His deep green shirt is open at the collar, displaying his long neck and part of his chest—which I plan to taste every delicious inch of.
