Chapter 10
Athousand thoughts collide as I step into the office Monday morning. None of them orderly, all of them tinged with the anxiety of what today might bring. My mind is a whirlwind of anticipation. Nervousness. The uncertainty of seeing James and Nash after the weekend I had with both of them.
I’m barely settled, rummaging through the chaos on my desk for some semblance of sanity, when my phone buzzes.
Unknown
Even though I don’t have the number saved, I can tell by the tone of the text that it’s from James. After the way we left things, this has to be about the kiss.
The pit in my stomach grows with each passing minute, anticipation building as I look at my watch. 8:57. I exhale and try to steady myself before leaving my office.
I make my way to James’s door, nerves clawing away at me. I knock and brace for the conversation I’m sure is coming.
“Come in,” he says, his voice steady.
I step inside, heart pounding. A thick stack of documents sits on his desk, and he doesn’t look up as I enter.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask, my voice more tentative than I intend.
“Yes,” he replies, finally meeting my eyes. There’s no trace of hesitation, no indication that he spent the weekend thinking about our kiss. His composure, his easy control, makes my cheeks burn.
“I’m assigning you a new case,” he says, sliding the documents toward me.
I blink, caught off guard.
I scan the first page, my thoughts stumbling to catch up. A wrongful death suit.
“The case is already set for trial,” James says. “Three months from now.”
My eyes snap back to his. “Three months is…soon. And this looks complex. Are you sure a senior attorney shouldn’t handle this?” I say, trying to mask the panic in my voice.
He nods. “I’m assigning it to you, Anders.”
I nod, clutching the documents, my fingers brushing the edge of the paper as I try to grasp the enormity of what he’s just handed me.
“Okay. I guess I’ll just consult with Kevin or Teresa if I have any questions then,” I say, trying to reassure myself more than him.
“No, you’ll come to me. They have their own trials to prepare for.”
“Of course,” I say, trying to match his coolness.
“Good. Then we’re done here.”
I stare at him. That’s it? He’s just going to pretend like that kiss didn’t happen? I should feel relief, but all I feel is off balance. I turn to leave, my mind scrambling.
“How did you get my number?” I ask, pausing at the door.
He smirks, looking amused for the first time since I walked in. “Your employee file.”
“Oh, right,” I say, and head back to my office.
Vanessa and Nash are at their desks, both working as I call them into my office, anxiety rising with each step I take.
“I need you both in here,” I say, the urgency in my voice drawing their attention.
I enter my office, sit behind my desk, and motion for them both to have a seat. Nash looks at me with a mix of curiosity and warmth. Vanessa rolls her eyes, annoyed by the interruption.
I ignore her reaction and focus on the task at hand. “I’ve just been assigned a new case,” I begin, my voice tinged with a mix of excitement and panic.
Nash cocks an eyebrow, leaning in with interest. “What kind of case?”
“Wrongful death. It’s set for trial in three months.” I can’t hide the strain in my voice, the way it pitches slightly higher.
“Whoa,” Nash says, looking like he understands that this will be a lot of work in a short amount of time.
“Yeah,” I reply, trying to steady myself. “So, I’ll need all hands on deck.”
Vanessa sighs, crossing her arms. “Let me guess. You want us to do all the work, and you’ll take the credit.”
I blink at her, stunned by the audacity. “No, Vanessa. I want us to work as a team,” I reply, trying to keep my voice calm but firm.
Nash shoots her a look. “Don’t be a brat,” he says, and for a moment, I think he might actually be mad.
I shoot him a grateful smile, relieved by his support.
“I’m going to email you both a list of what I need done. Our other cases shouldn’t be ignored, but this case will be our top priority. Understood?” I hold her gaze, making sure she knows I’m serious.
She gives a reluctant nod, and I wonder if she’ll surprise me for once and actually do her work without giving me her shitty attitude.
Nash grins at me, and there’s something in his expression that makes my pulse quicken. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ve got your back.”
I smile, feeling a rush of gratitude. I know I can depend on him, at least.
“Thanks, guys,” I say, dismissing them.
As soon as they leave, I sit at my desk, trying to organize my thoughts. I send an email outlining the tasks I need them to get started on, feeling like I might collapse under the weight of everything. Nash replies almost instantly, his email short.
From: Nash Collins
Subject: Re: Wilkinson v. Blackwell Memorial Hospital
I’ll get right on that.
Nash Collins, Avery’s Boyfriend
I stare at the signature line, fighting the urge to smile. Rolling my eyes, I reply.
To: Nash Collins
Subject: Re: Wilkinson v. Blackwell Memorial Hospital
I’m not your girlfriend.
Avery Anders, Associate Attorney
His response comes quickly, and I can’t help but laugh when I see it.
From: Nash Collins
Subject: Re: Wilkinson v. Blackwell Memorial Hospital
Whatever you say. ;)
Nash Collins, Definitely Avery’s Boyfriend
For a moment, I forget how overwhelmed I am. Nash has a way of doing that to me, one of his traits I find almost endearing.
I move our conversation to text, knowing these messages should not be on the firm’s email server.
Knock it off before you accidentally send an email with that signature to someone in the firm. I doubt anyone else here would find it as funny as you do.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. The list of assignments is long, the stakes are high, and I’m already calculating the late nights I’ll have to put in to get through it all.
Maybe this is good. Maybe this case is exactly what I need to keep my mind off...everything else.
I turn my attention to the case James gave me, each page an anchor to steady myself against. But even as I dive in, letting the details pull me in deeper and deeper, I can’t fully escape the feeling that I’m in over my head.
My office is a war zone of sticky notes, legal pads, and different colored highlighters by the time I’ve made it through the first half of the Wilkinson file.
The facts are, unfortunately, not in our favor.
The file reads like a classic medical malpractice case: husband goes in for a routine gallbladder removal, suffers massive post-op hemorrhage, and succumbs in the hospital, leaving behind a wife and a sixteen-year-old son.
The wife, Rebecca, claims her husband’s surgical team failed to properly monitor his post-op recovery.
The hospital has a policy of checking vitals every hour for the first four hours following a procedure.
After that, vitals are checked every four hours until the patient is released to return home.
Tom Wilkinson died nearly five hours after his surgery. Mrs. Wilkinson believes the hospital’s policy should have required hourly vitals checks for more than just the first four hours.
And I get it. I do.
It’s the thought that, had the hospital staff still been checking him every hour, maybe they could’ve done something to save her husband’s life.
Maybe they could have.
But that argument isn’t rooted in law.
What we have in this case is a hospital policy that is probably consistent with the standard of care, hospital records that indicate clear compliance with that policy, and absolutely zero evidence to the contrary.
The work stretches out before me, a mountain I’m not sure I can climb. My pulse ticks off the minutes, the hours, as I try to sort through everything. When I look up, the office is mostly empty. I must have lost track of time while I worked.
I stand to stretch, looking past the glass walls of my office. Vanessa is gone. Nash is still at his desk, looking back at me with a grin that makes my heart race.
He taps his watch, then nods towards the elevators. I nod, feeling a flutter of excitement in my chest as I grab my purse and meet him outside my office.
“Long day?” Nash asks, falling into step beside me.
“You have no idea,” I reply, feeling the exhaustion settle in as we walk to the elevators. The elevator doors slide open, and I follow him inside, the proximity sending a thrill through me. He presses the button for the lobby, then turns to me, his gaze intense.
He leans in, his voice low. “Since I’m your dirty little secret, I’m guessing I shouldn’t kiss you in this elevator right now?”
I give him a look, knowing I should be firm but unable to resist his charm.
“And here I was, thinking you had no self control,” I say, playful but serious.
“I don’t,” he says, his voice sending a shiver through me.
He presses me against the wall, kissing me like he’s thought about nothing else all day. I melt into him, feeling all the tension from the day dissolve. The elevator descends, a smooth and steady drop as his lips move against mine, and I lose myself in the moment, in the heat of him.
The ding of the elevator startles me back to reality, and I pull away, breathless. “Nash,” I say, half a protest, half a sigh.
His grin is wide, triumphant. “Couldn’t help myself,” he says, his thumb brushing my lips, leaving them tingling.
The doors glide open, and we walk to the parking lot, stepping into the cool evening, the air a relief against my flushed skin. Nash walks me to my car, the casual sway of his arm brushing mine every few steps.
“So,” he says, lingering as I unlock the door. “When can I see you again?”
“I see you every day, Nash,” I joke.
“Maybe I need to be more specific,” he says, stepping closer and lowering his voice almost to a growl. “When can I see you again where I’m allowed to touch you the way I know you want me to?”
I hesitate, the thrill of his suggestion colliding with the reminder of what I’m risking.
“Nash, I really want to, but with this new case—Just let me get through the next few weeks before I say yes to anything,” I tell him, my voice faltering between reluctance and desire.
He nods, a glimmer in his eye that suggests he’s already planning our next date. “Okay,” he says, the word filled with all the patience he doesn’t have. “But I’m holding you to that.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” I say, sliding into the driver’s seat, the familiarity of the car grounding me as I pull out of the lot, Nash shrinking in the rearview.