I resist the urge to roll my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh instead. His attention shifts from the framed degrees on the walls, to the commanding view of Manhattan visible through the windows. He seems completely at ease, almost giddy, as if this whole ordeal is some grand adventure.
“Do not touch anything in here.” I take a seat, trying to establish some boundaries. Boundaries that need to be set. I need him to come in, do what he needs to do, and leave me in peace. This can’t turn into an all-day affair.
“Of course.” He settles into the chair opposite my desk.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “In my opinion, divorce law has nothing to do with romance novels. The two don’t go hand in hand.”
“I’m here to learn. Every story needs authenticity, and what better way to add realism to my stories than by learning from a real-life divorce attorney?”
I snort involuntarily. “Do you not think you’re going about this the wrong way? Just watch a few documentaries and you’ll be fine. You don’t need to be here. You shouldn’t be here.”
“You never know.” He shrugs confidently. “Maybe I’ll uncover some hidden depths in your world that will enrich my characters.”
It’s so strange, but I feel like I remember him from somewhere, and it’s going to bug me until I know where. I shouldn’t ask him though, because it will open the door for him to ask unnecessary questions.
I avoid looking at him and busy myself with the Hui-Wang file, but his presence grows until it feels like he’s perched on the edge of the desk, looking over my shoulder. He doesn’t interrupt, not at first, content to watch the tap-tap-tap of my fingers as I pull up my emails and draft a response to the opposing counsel. After three minutes of suffocating, unblinking attention, he finally speaks, “You type like you’re playing Rachmaninoff on a Fisher-Price keyboard.”
The ridiculousness of the simile irritates me more than it should. “Are you going to narrate everything I do?” I ask, giving him my best steely death glare. It’s my third-best glare, but good enough for this situation.
He grins like he’s fascinated by the process of being stabbed with daggers made of ice. “Only the interesting bits. I’m working on a new main character—divorce attorney, single, living in New York, obsessed with her job. But unlike you, she has adark secret: she moonlights as a vigilante who avenges the heartbroken.”
I stare at him so long he actually starts to look sheepish, which I consider a minor victory. “That might be the stupidest thing I’ve heard all week,” I reply.
“Not the stupidest you’ll ever hear from me, but I like to think my strengths are in dialogue, not plot. I can do better. Give me a few weeks.”
“I’d rather not,” I mutter, scanning invoices and mentally scheduling thirty minutes to email HR about the dangers of letting romance novelists roam a law office unsupervised. “Did you sign an NDA with Caleb? You can’t shadow me without one.”
“Of course I did,” Aaron responds, looking mildly offended. “I’m not an amateur. I’ve written five bestsellers that required extensive research and interviews. I know how this works.”
I’m skeptical but relieved. At least there’s some professionalism beneath that irritating charm.
“So, what exactly are you hoping to gain by shadowing me? Besides watching me type like Rachmaninoff?” I can’t believe I’m entertaining his ridiculous analogy.
Aaron leans back in the chair and sweeps his gaze over the room again. “You seemed annoyed to lose your cases.”
“Annoyed is an understatement,” I reply, narrowing my eyes. “Those were my clients. I built relationships with them, understood their cases inside and out. And now William, of all people, gets to swoop in and play hero?”
“So it’s personal.” Aaron nods thoughtfully like he’s just uncovered some profound truth. “That’s good. Conflict drives narrative.”
“This isn’t a narrative. This is my life.” I turn back to my computer, hoping he’ll take the hint. He doesn’t.
“Life is narrative, Minji. We’re all telling ourselves stories about who we are and why we do what we do. Your story rightnow is about reclaiming your territory. Does it always feel like you’re fighting alone here?”
The question lands with an odd, unexpected weight. I want to say no, but the only other people I get along with are Jasmyn, Eliza, and Cindy, and even then, I’d rather discuss work than feelings.
“Why do you ask?” I reach for my coffee.
He leans forward, elbows on the desk, and for a second, the clown mask slips. “Just wondering why you work so hard if you hate it so much?”
“Who said I hated it?”
“You did. Every time you speak, your face says, ‘get me out of here’ even when your lips say, ‘I’m fine, thanks for asking.’”
“Do we know each other?”
“I don’t know, do we?” He shrugs.
For a moment, his gaze lingers on mine, warm but edged with mischief, searching for some mutual recognition. Maybe he’s waiting for me to finish the thought, but all I can do is shake my head. He’s familiar in the way every extrovert is familiar to an introvert: a little too loud, a little too confident, and always two steps closer than you expect.
