Chapter 3
three
There is a Colombian phrase Abuelita mutters from time to time.
Que gonorrea .
It basically means: “Look at this fucking guy.”
I mumble it to myself as I step off the elevator eight floors early and make a beeline for the service stairs.
Normally, such blatant attention from a man like the one on the elevator would stir my interest. But something about him instantly pissed me off. I try to put my finger on it as I climb the remaining eight floors.
Was it the way he didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend not to stare at my boobs? The small, sardonic smirk tugging at his lips as he ignored me? The obvious wealth evidenced by his outfit?
A cerulean-blue three-piece suit, offset by his silky red tie and pocket square. Why does that bother me so much?
I hate the way he took such obvious care with his clothing, yet let his dark-chocolate grow hair long enough to curl against his bright white collar. Not to mention the days’ worth of stubble spread over the expanse of his solid, slashing jaw.
And his eyes .
I’ve never seen a pair so dark.
Colorless. Feral, almost.
The sound of the front desk buzzing me through derails my train of thought. I blow out a big breath and push the door to the fiftieth floor open.
Game face , I coach internally. You’ve got this .
Setting my features into an impassive mask, I stride onto the executive floor and make a left into the legal department.
The building’s cylindrical layout doesn’t lend itself to a traditional office setup. Instead of cubicle grids or long hallways with closed office doors, a wide, open space occupies the center of the floor. To capitalize on the stunning views of Manhattan, smoked glass separates our departments into individual pods instead of walls.
I walk through the wide arch that feeds into our department and subtly run my gaze across the row of executive suites at the back of the space. Mercifully, my boss, Dominic’s, light is on— meaning he’s already arrived and hopefully won’t walk past my desk.
Relieved, I drop into my chair and turn on my lamp. Grateful there are no witnesses, I shove the flashy gold coat into the drawer where I also stash my purse.
The other junior associates aren’t in yet. I always make a point to beat them to work. I’m also the youngest attorney in the division by at least five years. And the only woman. And the only Latina.
My colleagues are all Ivy League graduates. And men. And late.
Fancy that.
I manage to make myself two shots of espresso while my MacBook boots up. Sipping my coffee, I pull the day’s agenda from our department’s shared drive and peruse it. I nearly choke when I see a new item slotted in for nine a.m.
A boardroom meeting.
Those only mean one thing.
I have to figure out a way in.
Before I can plot, my boss appears, leaning against the side of my desk and staring down my dress.
I suppose if Dominic Carter wasn’t a colossal sleaze, he might be sort of handsome. Somewhere in his forties, he sports a fit build and a head of salt-and-pepper hair cropped short. An average, decent-looking man who clearly thinks the world of himself.
“Juliet,” he purrs, the corners of his eyes creasing as he grins at my breasts. “That dress is sensational.”
Ordinarily, I play along. But the elevator incident put me over my daily threshold for male nonsense. I ignore his compliment in favor of a question.
“Heading to the meeting with Mr. Stryker?” I ask. Casually . As if I wasn’t blindsided by the news seconds ago.
Dominic sighs at me. “Only here two weeks, and you’re already better prepared than any of the other guys.” He waves his arm at the empty desks. His gaze flickers back to my neckline as he speaks to my boobs.
“I guess that means you get to sit in.”