Quit Me If You Can

8. Kennedy

8

KENNEDY

TUESDAY MORNING, THE NEXT DAY

W e gather in the boardroom first thing, and it’s my first weekly briefing. I arrive way earlier than I need to, making sure my laptop, pen, paper, and coffee are all arranged perfectly in front of me. Then, all that’s left to do is wait.

The boardroom sits in the middle of the huge office, windowless but spacious, with a massive dark wooden table at its center where everyone takes their seats in a circle. They definitely know how to light the place: Three architecturally interesting round light fixtures hang from the ceiling and cast a bright modern glow that feels almost fancy.

I get why the conference room has no windows. It’s designed for focus, with presentation screens and large boards hanging up, ideal for reviewing evidence and discussing strategies. It’s practical, but it also gives the place a very serious vibe.

The parquet floors squeak a bit as the partners trickle in one by one, caught up in various conversations that I’m not yet privy to. But I keep my head high, knowing I’ll have friends at the firm in due time. Fitting in somewhere has never been a problem for me.

A spread of pastries and fruit is laid out alongside a coffee carafe and a selection of mugs, and the well-dressed staff and partners help themselves before taking their seats.

Cade is the last one to arrive and it’s obvious when he does, because all chatter stops and everyone straightens up.

“Let’s dive right in, shall we?” he announces, circling the table.

He doesn’t waste a moment. There’s no small talk, no other greeting, not even a “good morning.” He simply commands the room as he always has, as I’ve always known him to do.

My body prickles with awareness as he draws closer to my chair. I resist the urge to glance back as I sense his physical presence. My mind turns to mush as he stops to stand directly behind me.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Kennedy Hayes, our new paralegal. She’s hitting the ground running, and I have no doubt she will prove an invaluable asset to our team.”

When Mr. Sneed had introduced me to people, his hand had always found its way to my shoulder or my back as he paraded me from office to office. Cade doesn’t touch me. Yet somehow, even the anticipation of such a possibility sends jolts of electricity coursing down my spine.

Everyone nods and smiles in my direction.

I pray they can’t see the hot-red blush on my cheeks.

Just another unfortunate side effect of being in the same room as Cade, which is intensified now by his proximity. I’m feeling self-conscious, and worst of all, I don’t dare move. I must look some kind of mannequin.

Finally he steps away, which seems innocent and ordinary to everyone else, of course. But it takes me a full minute to recover and steady my pounding heart.

In turn, the attorneys review the progress of their current cases. I’m furiously taking notes (clearly compensating for finally being able to move again) and also trying to soak up as much intelligence as I can.

I stick to observing and learning until it’s time for Cade to introduce a case he’s considering taking on.

“Mary Larkin, age fifty-eight. She worked as a secretary at a huge investment firm for many years. She was dedicated to her job and brought her small dog to work every day. However, after a change in management, the new HR department instituted a ‘no pets’ policy, citing concerns about hygiene, allergies, and productivity. Mary Larkin was unwilling to part with her old poodle, named Mr. Biscuit. When she refused to comply, she was terminated. Mary is seeking legal action for damages, age discrimination, and wrongful termination.”

“How much?” one of the partners asks, his voice commanding and deep. His name is Soren Dahlberg, and he’s one of the senior attorneys on the team.

Cade checks the notes in front of him. “Five years’ salary. Nearly three hundred thousand dollars.”

“I’m not too keen on this one.” Mr. Dahlberg shakes his head and launches into his argument.

As he speaks, I diligently fill my blue notepad.

“Cases involving elderly women, especially dog lovers who bestow ridiculous names like Mr. Biscuit on their poor pets, typically don’t yield substantial results,” he says. “Clients like Mary Larkin tend to be slow, overly talkative, and lack focus. Their attachment to their pets clouds their judgment, leading to all sorts of nutty behavior and ridiculous decisions.”

How rude . I dislike him already.

Mary’s story resonates with me deeply, not just because of Auntie Bertha and Hansi, but also because of my own experiences with difficult bosses. Besides, I’ve got zero tolerance for prejudice. And this? Sounds like a truckload of unjust BS.

“There’s not enough proof of wrongful termination,” Mr. Dahlberg concludes. “We’ll lose, or worse, the case will get thrown out. On top of that, we wouldn’t get paid unless the settlement was delivered. This would be a waste of time and resources.”

Most of the partners nod in agreement, while a few seem to remain indifferent.

“I have my concerns about the dearth of admissible proof as well,” Cade says, studying the room. “So, we’re all in agreement? It’s a no?”

“Wait,” I blurt.

All eyes are on me. Cade shifts to face me, and I believe I detect a hint of curiosity.

“What about the other older employees at that investment firm?” I ask. “Has anybody talked to them?”

Mr. Dahlberg chuckles and leans forward in his chair. “Of course not. If they were experiencing the same problem, they’d have said something.”

Tapping my pen against my notepad, I raise one eyebrow. I think of my own experience, and of how many other employees I’ve known, out for fear of losing their jobs or damaging their careers in any way, have always been hesitant to come forward. This doesn’t just extend to my previous employer—cough, Simon Sneed , cough—it happens all the time.

“Not necessarily,” I reply.

“Well, they should have come forward, then,” Soren Dahlberg says firmly. “Or Mary could have asked them herself. Then we might have a case.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Dahlberg,” I interject, trying to keep my tone respectful but, still, assertive. He won’t like this. “Forgive my boldness, especially as the new paralegal here, but have you ever faced age discrimination in the workplace?” Clearly, I’ve called him out on his age and I’m directly challenging his opinion in front of everybody.

Mr. Dahlberg’s scowl deepens as he fixes me with an icy stare from across the conference table. “Your audacity is remarkable.”

“Let’s keep this discussion civil, Soren,” Cade says calmly, shutting him right up. “I’ll be the one deciding whether lines have been crossed. Please continue, Kennedy.”

“Considering Mary Larkin’s situation, it’s quite probable that other older employees at the firm are facing similar mistreatment. With new management that disregarded her concerns and a negligent HR department, I’m guessing we could find a pattern of discrimination. Maybe even intimidation. If we don’t take on Mary’s case, that cycle will persist. But if we give these people a chance, they might come forward, and they might shed more light on the issue and strengthen our case.”

Mr. Dahlberg shakes his head, and it’s hard to gauge the reactions of the others. Cade leans forward, though. He’s interested.

“All right,” he says. “You’re on it, Kennedy. Reach out to Mary Larkin, and then see what else you can come up with after looking into the firm.”

“Thank you. Yes, I’m on it.” I try to keep my happy expression under wraps, but I feel a swell of emotion rise in my chest. My idea hit the bull’s-eye. This is my chance to prove myself, and I won’t let it slip away.

“She’s a paralegal .” Mr. Dahlberg huffs out a laugh, as if paralegals are the bottom-feeders of the legal world’s oceans. “Since when do we entrust high-stakes investigations to support staff right from the get-go?”

“When I believe they’re capable.”

My pulse quickens.

Mr. Dahlberg shakes his head. “She lacks experience, insight, and?—”

“Well, fortunately,” Cade says, interrupting him, “this falls under my jurisdiction and this paralegal is under my purview, isn’t she, Soren?” His words are elegant, but his tone carries a quiet authority I’d be afraid to question. It seems as though those two must have experienced their fair share of conflicts and resolutions. “I trust we’re clear on that.”

But, seriously, why did he do that?

It makes it harder for me to hate him.

I do appreciate Cade’s advocacy. It’s… unexpected, to say the least.

Maybe he’s trying to make amends for his whole “Indifference 101” act. It’s about time he stepped up, but I won’t hold my breath for any real change. My primary objective is executing my professional duties effectively and not reading too much into any of this. The bottom line is: I have a job to do, and grudges won’t pay the bills.

But Mr. Dahlberg? His undies really are in a bunch, and he sulks through the rest of the meeting.

When it’s over, everybody else seems to shuffle out in a hurry until only Cade and I are left in the meeting room.

“You’re pulling your weight around here already,” he says with an approving nod.

“They’re all going to hate me if you keep that up,” I say. Our eyes lock and a crackling energy courses through me.

“Nobody’s going to hate you.” He cocks his head. “Keep what up?”

“Your defense was top-notch, no doubt about it. But throwing that much my way? It’s like painting a target on my back.”

Cade closes his portfolio with a resounding crack. “I defended you as I would anyone else. In this firm, you should expect to be tested by your seniors. I assigned you that task to afford you the opportunity to demonstrate your capabilities. You will either rise to the occasion or you’ll stumble.”

“I… hear you,” I say, my voice tinged with doubt, despite my efforts to keep it steady. I quickly straighten my posture (a trick Dad taught me, to project confidence). “I’ll do what I need to do to prove myself.”

His gaze intensifies, and so does the gravity in his voice. “I have full confidence in your professionalism to handle such challenges and to move forward without doubting my intentions as your superior. However, if my judgment is mistaken, the time to speak up is now.”

So much for not letting him push my buttons.

We’re back in the same spot as when he questioned whether I hadn’t moved on. I’m stuck, just like I was before. Admitting I haven’t moved on or that I can’t shake my doubts because of our history feels like I’m waving a white flag.

Because, let’s face it, I’m pathetic.

Who struggles to let go of someone for so long, anyway? Harper always tells me that everyone has their own timeline for healing. And she should know. After finally dumping her ex Dylan (the walking definition of a red flag), she’s completely sworn off love and redirected all her leftover affection and energy straight into me. I know I’m making progress… slow progress, but still. Cut me some slack. I’m getting there.

“You make a valid point,” I reply, my tone even. “I trust we’re both capable of managing our work relationship as we always have, regardless of the past.”

“The difference is, there’s only one of us who’s calling the shots now.”

His eyes say, and guess who that is?

As the week goes on, I start to believe he enjoys torturing me. Frankly, I’m reveling in the intellectual challenge, though there’s a glaring issue: Not only do my mind and heart remember him, and us , but so does my body. And I’m not just talking about sex. I need to exercise more restraint when I’m near him. That means, above all, keeping a lid on the unmistakable signs that reveal how my composure tends to go out the window whenever he’s around.

Miraculously, I make it to Friday without any major incidents or clashes with him.

I’ve got big plans for tonight, and they involve pizza and Netflix. One of my traditions is to bake a pizza every time we plan a movie night, one that Harper is all too willing to put up with. I even got strawberries for dessert.

As soon as I step into the apartment, I dive into my preparations, ensuring everything’s set before Harper heads off for her night shift. The scent of melted mozzarella cheese and freshly baked dough lures her out of her room and onto the couch at lightning speed. Her circadian rhythm is getting quite a workout lately, as most of her sleep is during daylight hours and work takes over her nights, especially on weekends.

Our living space has taken on a cave-like aspect. Not that we aren’t meeting cleanliness standards, but we are experiencing more clutter with the various items strewn about: clothes, socks, stockings, and an array of shoes. Neither of us has the luxury of time to keep things pristine, especially given our demanding jobs. We find comfort in the cozy, “lived-in” ambiance, though I can’t deny that things are beginning to border on the chaotic.

My gal-pal is still rubbing her eyes on the couch when I offer her a plate with a hefty slice of extra-cheesy goodness, a bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries, and a napkin. “Voilà!”

“Please and thank you,” she says, licking her lips. “Girl, I love you. And you, Mr. Aquaman. Thank you for making me triple-drool.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Dig in!” I’m already totally submerged in the splendor of his shirtless body on the screen. And definitely not just because he bears a resemblance to Cade.

“Hey, just a heads-up, chica, I haven’t forgotten our bet. But tonight, thanks to this delicious treat, I’ll let it slide… for now.”

“Gee, Harper, thanks. You are my hero.”

I was hoping she wouldn’t bring it up, but of course, she’s got the memory of an elephant and the persistence of a telemarketer.

“Get note, lipstick, and panties ready.” She takes a big bite of her cheesy slice, and with mozzarella stretching all the way from the pizza to her mouth, she mumbles, “You’ve got a week, tops.”