I let her redirect me. For the next hour, Minji holds the floor, fielding my questions and hypothetical scenarios with the cool self-assurance of a star witness. She’s more animated when she talks shop; she’ll lean forward, neglect her sake, and gesture with two fingers when punctuating a legal point. She’s as unbeatable as I remember, but there’s nuance now—an almost poetic, measured cadence to her arguments, as if she’s found a way to make even the cruelties of divorce sound inevitable and, sometimes, even humane.
“Do you ever root for reconciliation? Or do you always want the cleanest split possible?” She gives me a look, half-exasperated, half-respectful. “It’s not my job to root for anything except what’s best for my client. I’m not a couple’s therapist.”
“Cynical.”
“You say cynical, I say I’m realistic,” she shrugs.
“So, what about you and love? Clean splits, or do you leave messes behind?”
“I try not to leave anything behind. That’s the point of being good at your job.” Of course, she wouldn’t answer about herself. So, I leave it at that. Man, she is one tough nut to crack.
After the bill’s paid—her card trumps mine, saying it’s a company expense—we step back onto the sidewalk. We walk side by side for a few blocks and she mumbles, “Don’t ruin this with commentary.” So, I don’t. I match her, stride for stride, in silence.
At the crosswalk, I finally break the silence. “If you change your mind about hating romance, you know where to find me.”
She glances sideways, lips pinched. “I never said I hated romance.”
False. But I let it go.
We part ways on West 4th, no matter how much I offered to take her home, she was not budging, saying she is no damsel in distress. I’m sure she just doesn’t want me to know where she lives. I linger at the corner, counting her steps as she disappears into the current of pedestrians. One Mississippi, two Mississippi—thirty seconds of watching the sharp line of her shoulders grow smaller against the city lights. Not even a glance over her shoulder. Damn.
I’ve waited a decade already. I can wait three more weeks for her memory to catch up with mine.
CHAPTER 7
AARON
To be honest…
I’ve never wanted to touch someone so badly in my life.
Not just a casual brush of hands or a polite, professional handshake. No, I want to map every inch of Minji’s skin with my fingertips, to rediscover all the places that make her breath catch and her composure crack. The thought consumes me as I watch her across the conference room, reviewing documents.
It has been three days since we shared dinner at Nakazawa. It’s like there’s a magnetic field in the room, one that bends photons and logic. Nobody else seems to notice, or they’re pretending not to. Even Minji herself, perched at the head of the conference table, perfectly poised, doesn’t give a single outward sign that the air between us is thick enough to shape with a butter knife.
It’s the way she doesn’t look at me—from the moment I entered—and how none of her movements seem accidental. When she sifts through discovery packets or jots a note in the margin, her focus is absolute. The only visual cue she’s even aware I exist is when she adjusts her hair behind one ear, a habit she repeats every thirty-two seconds.
I counted.
She’s put together as ever today. Dark navy pantsuit, powder-blue blouse buttoned all the way to the collarbone, and a pale pink lipstick that looks like a concession to the idea of femininity, tactical and almost begrudging.
“Mr. Singleton, are you paying attention? This is the third time today that you have spaced out.” Minji calls me out.
“I’m sorry.” I straighten up in my chair. “I was just processing.”
The other associates around the table shift uncomfortably, sensing the tension between us. Tension that shouldn’t be, because to them, Minji and I barely know each other. Which is still the case, but that dinner has made us more than strangers but less than acquaintances. In my eyes.
“Well, you can process without staring or spacing out.” Her tone professional, almost unbothered. I do spot a slight flush creeping up her neck that tells me she’s not as unaffected as she pretends.
“You’re absolutely right,” I agree, picking up my pen. “I should be documenting this fascinating discussion about… What was it again?”
William Wilson, the attorney who’s been handling Minji’s cases, coughs into his fist. “The Thornton assets.”
“And I hope you’re doing the same.” She cuts her eyes to William. “We wouldn’t be having this meeting if you had done your job correctly.”
I sense there is a story between the two, but I don’t think I want to know. Workplace drama is the worst kind of drama. You must remain professional and respectable or risk losing your job for punching a coworker or two. I’ve been there and done that when I was a retail associate in college.
William’s jaw tightens, his knuckles whitening around his Mont Blanc pen. “I followed standard procedure for offshore accounts?—”
