Chapter 4
Iarrive at the office early the next morning, hoping to get as much work done as I can without Nash’s eyes on me. My focus should be on working my cases instead of thinking about how to handle this situation I’ve been thrown into.
Plus, thanks to Mina and her martinis, my head is pounding. As if she can read my mind, I get a text.
Mina
too many martinis
you’re telling me
I attempt to focus on the stack of documents in front of me, letting my eyes scan the pages in hopes they will draw me in.
Corporate liability.
Interrogatories.
Deposition transcripts.
These are the things that should occupy my mind. Yet, the memory of Nash’s mouth on mine refuses to fade, tugging at my thoughts and making it impossible to concentrate fully.
Movement through the glass catches my attention as James and Nash enter the office floor, one after the other. My pulse quickens.
James turns into his office while Nash veers in the opposite direction, carrying two coffees. I already know one of those is for me, and in a moment, I’ll have to address what happened last night head-on.
Nash catches my gaze through the glass before entering my office with a knowing smile on his face, like he’s thinking about our secret. As he hands me my coffee, I decide there’s no better time than now to end this.
“We need to talk,” I say abruptly. “We can’t do this.”
“I can’t get my attorney coffee?” he asks, feigning innocence.
“You know what I mean. What happened last night. It…shouldn’t happen again.”
He leans on my desk, crowding the space between us. Part of me revels in his attention, the way he seems to focus on me with such intensity. The other, more professional part feels a cold knot of anxiety in my stomach.
“You know, Avery…” he starts.
Vanessa’s appearance in my office doorway steals my focus. She steps fully inside, her eyes like needles as they flit between Nash and me. Nash doesn’t wither under her scrutiny, but something about the tilt of his mouth shifts from cocky to guarded.
He stands, coffee mug still steaming in his hand, and brushes past Vanessa.
The heat Nash left behind is swiftly replaced by her icy stare.
“Attorney Sterling wants to see you in the conference room.”
“Right. Thank you.”
She turns to leave my office, and I quickly grab my notepad and pen, following her out.
I walk anxiously toward the glass conference room, which sits like a fishbowl in the middle of the office. James waits in the chair at the head of the table. His face remains impassive, though his stare unwinds me.
I’m determined to keep it together, to prove I can hold my own. His presence makes that nearly impossible.
“Good morning, James,” I greet him and take the seat to his right, keeping my office and my team in view.
“Morning, Anders,” he replies, giving me a curt nod.
Being called by my last name takes me back to playing sports in high school, making me feel like I’m part of a team again. It feels good.
“I trust your team is making you feel at home.”
I tense at the reminder of last night. “Uh, yeah. You could say that,” I reply with a tight smile.
“And you’ve had the opportunity to do a cursory review of your cases?” he asks as he opens his laptop and begins to type.
“Yes, sir.” It slips out before I can even think about it, a reflex of my southern upbringing.
His fingers, which were just feverishly moving across the keyboard, stop abruptly and contract, balling his hands into fists before flexing back out to resume typing. He clears his throat.
“You’ll want to prioritize cases with trial dates coming up. Also, take note of any cases with depositions or mediations scheduled. I checked your calendar this morning, and you’ll be defending a depo a week from today. You will also need to file a motion to compel in the Fitzroy case.”
He finally raises his eyes to look at me, and my breath hitches. Everything about him is maddeningly perfect, from the way his suit fits like a second skin to the effortless confidence exuded in even the subtlest gestures. How is it possible for a man to be this handsome?
My cheeks flush with warmth, and panic flares at the thought of him recognizing my attraction, the way his presence leaves me breathless and unmoored. Thank God he mistakes my reaction as nervousness and not for what it really was.
“Don’t worry. I’m not throwing you to the wolves just yet,” he starts, but I interrupt.
“I can handle it,” I try to say confidently.
He leans back, considering me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. The scent of his cologne lingers, blurring my focus. It distracts me. Unsettles me.
“I know you can,” he says, his tone both a dare and a compliment.
His words make me sit taller.
“Just know that I’m available if you have any questions. You can ask me anything.”
“Thanks,” I say, as I gather my pen and notepad and head toward the door. “I’ll have those motions ready for your review by the end of the week.”
With my hand on the gold metal handle, I pause and turn back to him.
“What’s your favorite color?”
He swivels his chair slightly to face me, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “I don’t have one.” He starts to turn around but hesitates.
Looking back at me with a curious tilt of his head, he says, “Why do you ask?”
“You said I could ask you anything,” I say with a smile.
He nods, returning the smile. “So I did.”
I close the conference room door behind me, determined to return to my office and focus only on work.
Not men.
Definitely not men I work with.
***
The following weeks are spent preparing for and attending depositions and mediations, all with James guiding me with a steady presence that is somehow both suffocating and addictive. I begin to crave his mentorship, even as he exposes every flaw in my inexperienced practice of the law.
This work feels rewarding and important, like I’m really helping my clients. There’s a sense of purpose in everything I do. Trial strategies. Client meetings. Case assessments. I tackle them all, each day my confidence growing in the work I’m doing.
Nash has mostly been supportive, though he still makes inappropriate advances. Just yesterday, I was in the copy room, reaching up to the top shelf in the cabinet for the last unopened pack of legal pads when Nash saw me struggling.
He came up behind me, placing one hand on my hip. I froze, arm still extended, as his body bracketed mine, and his other hand shot up, effortlessly grabbing the pack I had been desperate to reach.
The way his fingers brushed mine as he handed it to me could be described as nothing but deliberate, his other hand still lingering on my hip for much longer than it should before he finally let it slip away.
He makes me feel things for him that I shouldn’t. I’m trying not to let him get to me, but he’s already under my skin.
I can’t let him be another Pierce. Another mess of personal and professional entanglement, and we all know how that ended.
No matter how charming I find him, it doesn’t change the fact that nothing can happen between us. Something I have to remind him of nearly every day.
Regardless, his antics have continued unabated. If anything, he’s become more bold in his efforts. He still brings me coffee every day, writing cheeky notes on the cup that make me blush.
My personal favorite was, “I need to taste you again.”
I had to clench my legs together to fight the warm sensation gathering in my lower belly.
When I glanced over at Nash sitting at his desk, he was already looking at me, smirking, like he had been watching and was fully aware of the effect he had on me.
He keeps testing me, pushing the boundaries of our professional relationship. Each day, finding ways to be near me.
Hand delivering documents that could’ve been emailed, his fingertips always finding a way to mine. Visiting my office to ask me questions he could have asked Vanessa. Leaving the office at the same time as me, walking me to my car every evening.
On the nights I’ve stayed late to work, he’s stayed too. Even though he didn’t have to. When I asked him why he did, he said, “And miss the opportunity to hear you say ‘goodnight, Nash’ the way you do? Not a chance.”
Tonight is one of those late nights, working through discovery on a complex case.
The phone records alone are hundreds of pages.
My desk covered in documents, Nash sits across from me, combing through thousands of texts and calls, highlighting the ones relevant to our case.
When Nash shuffles some papers, the highlighter resting on top of them tumbles off onto the floor and rolls far under the desk.
I’m wearing one of my favorite outfits: a tweed blazer and skirt paired with a black blouse, tights, and heels.
He leans forward and reaches under the desk to retrieve the marker, and as he does, I feel his hands slide up my calves.
The sensation of his touch feels like I’ve been lit on fire. His palms are warm, spanning the width of my legs as if they’ve always belonged there, and wrong as it is, I crave more. My breath hitches audibly.
The skirt that felt so professional, such armor this morning, now feels like the barest suggestion of a boundary.
He pauses at the hem, as if waiting for my permission, or maybe daring me to stop him.
I should. I absolutely should. But I can’t move.
My heart pounds so furiously I think it must be visible through my blouse.
Why am I letting him do this?
His fingers slip under the edge of my skirt and splay across my thighs, the pads of his thumbs tracing heat into my skin even through the thin fabric of my tights.
That’s when it hits me: the potential consequences, the HR policy, the power dynamic, the glass windows. The firm’s entire culture is built on mutual trust and respect, and here I am, seconds away from letting my paralegal finger me in my office.
The realization slams me back into my body. I inhale sharply, the sound cutting through the haze.
“Nash,” I say, reaching under the desk to place my hands on his and gently nudge them.