Quit Me If You Can

2. Kennedy

2

KENNEDY

I stand there, frozen.

It is him.

Cade M. Gladwell.

Or, as I’ve sarcastically dubbed him, Lawzilla. Or, on some particularly unbearable days, Mr. Bloodsucker.

Carmen’s introduction feels like it’s happening in a vacuum, and suddenly my vision tunnels. At the end of it all? The last person I ever wanted to see again: the love of my life. The man I was once certain I’d marry and spend my life with.

He’s there, head down, scrutinizing Carmen’s notes and my resume.

I can’t imagine anyone but me would dare to give him iconic nicknames. To the world, he’s the prosecutor extraordinaire, aptly known as “The Assassin” in legal circles, based on an enlightening article I once stumbled upon. When he’s in the courtroom, his cross-examinations are lethal: few escape unscathed.

Just for the record, I’m on board with that appraisal. Only an evil, ruthless man could effortlessly shatter someone’s heart like that.

My feet twitch, longing to bolt in the opposite direction. I’m more accustomed to gold-medal sprints than job interviews.

Well, I could dash for the elevator, vanish from this place, and never return. They can’t legally keep me here. They might question my sanity, but does it really matter? After all, I’m the one who has to live with my decisions, not them. And trust me, I’ve made worse decisions before breakfast.

Lawzilla still hasn’t looked up yet.

This is all wrong.

This is not how I envisioned this.

In my fantasy, when I came face-to-face with him again, he was supposed to be the epitome of legal mediocrity, a real-life “Loophole Larry.” Ha! And me? I was supposed to look better than ever, soaring high as a successful attorney, or a damn good paralegal at the very least. In all my scenarios, I walk into a courtroom, assisting with a high-profile case, and we kick his ass in court. And he’d kick himself for the rest of his life for dumping me the way he did. My gross scumbag boss, Simon Sneed, would then congratulate me and give me a raise.

The point was, this wasn’t only about my own aspirations. It was about that wonderful idea that the best kind of revenge was success.

But reality has a twisted sense of humor because there he is, looking just as smug as ever, breathtakingly handsome, immaculate suit, expensive tie, while I stand there in my too-tight shoes and a skirt that’s got more dog hair than fabric, feeling like a punchline in my own life’s joke.

Maybe I should indulge dear old Dad and explore that firm he keeps raving about.

Oblivious to my turmoil, Cade continues to study my resume, then raises one hand, waving me in. Jesus, is he reading every single line?

My knees are all wobbly as I prepare myself to take a single step toward him. To enter the lion’s den.

As far as I’m concerned, Cade Gladwell’s office has almost literally turned into a dark, scary cave, and he’s become the dangerous beast lurking inside. He’s textbook masculine, the embodiment of dominance, strength, and ruggedness.

And he’s truly living up to his reputation: He’s ready to kill.

I take a calming breath.

Cade has already destroyed all my hopes for love. There’s no chance in hell I’ll let him to destroy my career dreams too.

It’s not exactly doomsday. Just a casual tête-à-tête with a potential superior.

So, with a practiced smile, I push forward. Of course, the first step to his desk hits my stiletto heel the wrong way and damn near twists my ankle— exactly the kind of composed finesse a paralegal applicant needs, right?

I effortlessly hide my blunder, mentally thanking years of yoga with Harper, my roomie, for keeping me from face-planting in front of him, and take several more steps into his spacious office. The windows overlooking New York City are massive. The room looks like a model office showcased in a glossy luxury lifestyle magazine. Everything is stylish, neatly organized, and designed to a T in mostly gray, black, and silver tones.

I come to stand a few feet from his black desk. His long lashes part slowly, and his gaze rises to meet mine for the first time in years.

I try not to faint.

Or to squint.

The bright morning sun blinds me. The position of his face and the light shining behind him through his office window makes it damn near impossible to see his features clearly.

Or maybe it’s just my dazed shock.

But just my awareness of his presence, mixed with the leathery smell of his cologne wafting through the air, is enough to revive something in me that I haven’t felt so intensely since the day he dumped me and walked out of my life forever.

Then our eyes meet. And my heart slams against my chest.

I can’t think.

I even forget to breathe.

But the man sitting there in front of me? The very same jerk who shattered my heart? Not a single emotion flickers across his face. Not even a flicker in his pupils. In fact, he seems utterly indifferent.

Actually, scratch that.

He appears bored .

I swallow hard, my eyes glued to his. When did Cade start wearing glasses? They give him an even more lawyerly appearance (if that’s even possible). The black frames make him look so serious that you’d think he’s never smiled before.

He glances back down, turning to the next page, still showing no sign of recognition.

With trembling hands, I straighten my pencil skirt.

“Good afternoon,” he says without looking back up, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. My eyes fall to his hand. He still has that prominent scar.

Taking a deep breath, I muster all the confidence I can and force a tight-lipped smile. “Good afternoon,” I say (well, squeak), clearing my throat as I sit. Damn nerves .

He’s still muscular, a stupid six foot three, with a defined physique paired with broad shoulders and light brown hair, some of the highest cheekbones the world has ever seen, and mischievously sparkling eyes (well, they had been, occasionally—not now). Back then, he had long wavy hair, and now it’s short on the sides and longer on top. A few blondish, sun-kissed streaks reveal that he still spends hours in the sun riding his silver BMW R 1200 motorcycle, or likely, the brand-new model in a shiny black.

Goddamn it. Cade Gladwell hasn’t turned ugly, not one bit.

He’s turned unfairly good-looking.

“Ms. Hayes, I won’t waste our time by beating around the bush,” he announces, meeting my gaze above the rim of his glasses, his light brown eyes burning into me. His indifferent, formal address sounds foreign rolling off his tongue. The very same tongue that used to roll around on so many places on my body…

Oh, shit . He’s asking me a question.

“… give me one example of a high-stakes complex legal matter you handled flawlessly in your previous position?”

I gulp and try to collect my thoughts. Quick, Kennedy.

“As I’m sure you’re well aware,” he continues, “the decisions we make as lawyers can have life-changing implications for our clients. There’s no room for mistakes.”

He sits back in his chair and waits for my response.

I know what he’s doing.

It’s a pretentious, dramatic, and long-winded question (as lawyers often tend to be), masked as an ordinary one. Once words like “life-changing,” “high-stakes,” “complex,” and “flawless” start whirling around in my brain, I know it’s meant to be hard-hitting to throw me off.

All interviews are nerve-racking, but then add the fact that I’m forced to appear oblivious to the fact that when we were together, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other (or our clothes on) for more than five minutes—and it’s a whole new level of awkward. Being apart for so long and suddenly thrust back into the same room triggers a flood of thoughts and memories. Ones I have to pretend don’t exist.

I stare back at him with a vacant expression, blinking.

Does he really not recognize me? No way that could be. He’s putting on an act.

It takes me a moment to come to an answer. Luckily, Carmen’s question and reactions earlier guided me to assess potential cases, identifying the most compelling for his firm. I can only hope he won’t judge me for the momentary lapse. These are not ordinary interview conditions, after all. At least, not for me.

“Just one?” I ask, regaining my composure with a slight smile. “Absolutely, I have a perfect example. At my previous firm, I worked independently on a particularly challenging case.” I cross my legs and push my breasts forward a little, then I hit my stride and I transform. I’m no longer his college girlfriend, nor am I the stunned, shock-filled woman who first walked in. Welcome back to Kennedy Hayes, the world’s best paralegal. “That case involved a workplace liability claim where our client alleged unsafe working conditions that caused injury. I led efforts to gather evidence such as inspection reports and expert testimonies to support claims of negligence, which contributed to the success of the case.”

“And the outcome was?”

I tilt my head. “A favorable verdict.” Of course . Would I tell him about it otherwise?

And just like that, I’ve slipped seamlessly into the persona of the legal professional I always hoped to prove to him I could become. See who you’re dumping now, you jerk?

I doubt he, “The Assassin” in those lofty legal heights, ever heard of that case. That’s why I’m not dropping any names or settlement amounts. Compared to the G&G Law Group, Sneed’s firm is, as Carmen so eloquently put it, rinky-dink. Yet, in his realm, Sneed is quite the success.

Cade’s trained stoicism remains in full force as the interview continues, and we both pretend as if none of this is unusual. Because I’m certain he’s pretending, too. There’s no way he doesn’t recognize me.

“Thank you, Ms. Hayes,” he says as the interview nears its end. “Just… one more thing.” He tosses my resume to the side, leaning back, letting the suspense build. “Why choose to be a paralegal? Why not pursue law school and become a lawyer yourself?”

It’s the worst question of all.

A low blow that strikes such a deep nerve.

You jerk . No. Huh-uh. You dick!

I know he’s trying to test how I’ll hold up under pressure.

Met by his intense gaze, I start to trip up. My lips purse in a way he’s sure to notice, if he remembers as much about me as I do about him.

“Excuse me?” I ask, playing for time.

“It’s just a standard question I ask all the paralegal candidates.” He flashes that damned arrogant smirk of his.

It’s far from a standard question, and he has to know it. Cade, now dubbed Mr. Bloodsucker, is rubbing salt in my wound. The tension in the room feels so thick you could cut it with a knife. My composure quickly begins to unravel and become something else.

Rage. Years of unresolved brewing and simmering rage.

With everything going through my mind, I only have mere seconds to process and compartmentalize.

But all I can conjure up in that moment is the vivid memory of me curled up on his couch in nothing but his creamy-white, soft, way-too-big sweatshirt. And no underwear.

Shifting my legs that day, I caught him staring at the nothing between my thighs. I held his law textbook in my hands, reading page after page intently while teasingly shifting my legs in different directions and firing off a million questions. He was the one in law school, but sometimes it seemed like I was more interested in the law than he was.

I would devour any ounce of legal information I could get my hands on with a passionate thirst for knowledge. What began as my selfless offer to help him study, with the intention of swiftly progressing to more pressing matters (read: nearly blacking out when he devoured my clit), eventually blossomed into a dynamic exchange of “playful debates” between us. I found the subject matter so captivating—stimulating, really—that I basically had to finish his assignments while I still had some sanity left, before his persuasive charm made me forget there was such a thing as law. But hey, I completed his tasks while he… well, completed me .

Not that he needed my help. He breezed through school without breaking a sweat (yes, he was one of those individuals). But our collaboration? Well, let’s just say it was more than just a memorable exchange. We were deeply in love.

One night, just seconds after my third orgasm, he asked that question for the first time, his voice growly and low: “Why don’t you just study law yourself?”

My eyes grew wide as I tried to turn my brain back on. “What? Me? Law school?”

“Yeah. You obviously have a knack for it, and I’ve never seen you this excited about anything.” He’d glanced down to the wetness glistening between my thighs. “Well, almost anything.”

Back then, I flashed a sly smile.

Not at the cheeky tease. At his observation about my intellectual capacity.

And I couldn’t help but think, maybe he’s onto something .

It was the first of many such talks, and I’m willing to bet he hasn’t forgotten how my eyes lit up every time the topic came up. The Kennedy he knew was so confident, fiery, and sure of herself. But the Kennedy of today holds a secret nobody knows. Not even Cade.

Somehow, she has lost her way.

After seeing to sweet Bertha’s last needs, and her dog Hansi settled in with Mom, I didn’t even attempt the infamous Law School Admission Test, even though the LSAT is administered several times a year at designated testing centers.

Somehow, I feel like I’m carrying this huge weight on my shoulders. It’s like everyone’s watching me, waiting for something, expecting me to become the top-notch lawyer I’ve always aimed to be.

But what kind of lawyer would I be if I can’t even get my personal life straight?

Or, heaven forbid, not keep my calm during a job interview?

I snap back to the present, where I’m sitting in front of his expectant stare. Somehow, I manage to straighten up and regain my cool.

“Perhaps one day I will study law,” I answer with a shrug. “But given my financial and logistical circumstances, it seems more pragmatic for me to dive into a more attainable starting point as a paralegal, so I could hit the ground running with real experience. My surmise is that the knowledge I gain will only put me at a greater advantage when I do continue my formal education in law.” A coy, snarky grin curls the corners of my mouth. “After all, not everyone has the privilege of securing a scholarship and pursuing studies at a prestigious law university. Some of us have to work harder for what we want.”

Take that .

I haven’t lost my flair for flawlessly dishing out whatever he serves right back to him.

A low blow for a low blow.

“Very well, Ms. Hayes,” he says simply, his pupils not revealing a sliver of emotion. He’s as icy as he is merciless. “The position is set to be filled by the first Monday of next month, which isn’t far off. We’ll be in touch soon. Carmen will show you out.”

He reaches over to the corner of his desk and flicks out one of his business cards from its holder for me. “If you have any further questions in the meantime, feel free to contact me.”

I hold out my hand for the card. For a split second his skin brushes mine, giving off major Alexander Skarsg?rd vibes (you know, vampire Eric from True Blood ). Talk about unexpected and very unsettling encounters. It’s as though a bolt of lightning shoots through my body. The sensation lingers in the air long after our contact ends.

I want to believe he felt it too, but his pupils are unchanged and his face indicates no sign of it. Meanwhile, my body has lit up in a way I haven’t felt in the ten years since I last saw him. My heart quickens, pounding against my chest as if trying to break free from its confines. A familiar warmth spreads through my stomach, mingling with a tingling sensation that travels down between my thighs. My nipples perk up as if to say, “Oh, hello. We remember you. Where have you been all this time?”

At the same time, I’m charged with an electric shock from memories of all the other ways he used to touch me. My god, the things that man could do to my body.

Too bad the price of all that pleasure was one big heaping mound of heartache.

I hesitate to get up, momentarily paralyzed by the intensity of the moment, and of his stupid piercing lion eyes. But he wastes no time busying himself with his laptop.

I slowly stand, quickly turn, and begin to slip out of his existence.

Almost at the door, I stop.

No. I refuse to let him have the last word.

With a decisive turn, I face him once more.

Adopting a professional tone—and feeling that sense of closure settle in—I say, “Our conversation touched upon… some unexpected aspects. Thank you for your time and for considering me for this position. I’ll be in touch if there are any updates on my end. Have a wonderful day.”

Professional. Unresentful. Easygoing.

After all, this is a two-way street. His firm must prove to be the best option for me as well. It’s like giving a smartphone to a caveman. I don’t want to waste my talents working for a man who doesn’t appreciate what I can bring to the table.

Turning the knob and then shutting the door behind me, I let out a huge flood of air that I hope will extinguish the eruption blazing inside of me.