“Not an enemy,” she concedes, selecting another piece of sushi with deliberate care. “More like… an occupying force.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Is it? You’ve invaded my space, my routine. You’ve seen me—” She cuts herself off, that flush returning to her cheeks.
“In your bra,” I finish for her, keeping my voice low. “And believe me, the image is seared into my memory.”Along with the other thousands of memories I have of you from our college days.
She shoots me a warning glance, but there’s something else beneath it—a flicker of heat that makes my pulse quicken.
“Inappropriate,” she murmurs, but the word lacks conviction.
“We’ve established that already.” I hold her gaze. “But tell me something, Minji—why did you really invite me to dinner?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with possibilities. She takes another sip of sake, buying time. I’ve noticed she does this when formulating her thoughts and constructing her responses, with the same precision she likely applies to legal briefs.
“Like I said, I had a reservation.” Her tone is measured, giving nothing away.
“And the person who was supposed to join you?”
She hesitates, then sighs. “A client canceled.”
“Lucky me.” I raise my glass in a small toast. “Though I suspect I’m a poor substitute for whatever billionaire was going to foot this bill.”
“The firm pays,” she says simply. “Client dinners are a business expense.”
“And this?” I gesture between us. “What kind of expense is this?”
“This will still be considered a business expense. You are technically a client to the firm.”
“Even if we know each other?”
“We do not know each other.” Her eyebrows come together. “We don’t… right?”
I want to make my intentions clear, but I also want her to remember me on her own. I lean in, elbows on the table, feeling the pulse in my wrists thump a warning. “I feel like I know you better than you think, but do you think you know me from somewhere?”
“Read that you went to Columbia. I also attended university there, so perhaps you and I crossed paths before.”
My heart actually skips, at the thought of her probably remembering me. I set my glass down. “Yeah, I graduated in 2013. English undergrad.”
She frowns slightly and then she subtly shakes her head. As if I’m not the person she shared a bed with for two months back then. How could she forget me? Was I that shitty in bed? I almost say her college nickname but decide against it at the last second. That’s not how I want her to remember. It needs to be her idea, her memory surfacing and filling in the blanks, not a crumb I drop carelessly on the table. Instead, I let the moment hover. I’ve made a career on patience.
“Enough about the past. How about this?” She sets down her chopsticks. “Let’s get through this dinner, and you can ask me whatever you want about divorce law. Not my personal history, not my… preferences. The rest is yours for the taking.”
“That’s a dangerous offer.”
She meets my gaze so evenly I nearly forget which one of us is supposed to be playing defense. “I don’t make idle threats or promises, Mr. Singleton.”
I decide to push a little, just for fun. “Are you seeing anyone right now?” The question is out before decorum can intercept it, and I don’t regret a single syllable.
She gives me a cool, polite smile. “Are you asking as research or as a personal inquiry?”
I grin, letting the implication float between us. “Both.”
Her hand drums once, lightly, on the edge of the table—fidgeting, a tell, though I doubt she even knows she’s doing it. “I don’t date.” She says it so plainly, so flatly, there’s no edge to catch and untangle.
“But you used to.”
This time the pause is longer. Her eyes flick to the mirrored wall, catching our joint reflection. “Past performance isn’t always predictive of future results. How about we get back on topic here? Divorce law.”
