Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Baz had underestimated how intense juggling forty-two plaintiffs was.
He reached out to every single one of them, introduced himself as their new counsel, tried to get them all in the same room next week to discuss whatever settlement Ian would propose on Thursday—and got fifteen responses within the hour.
Some asked what happened to Grash, others asked who Baz was to take over, but mostly, it was conflicts with the proposed date.
He spent hours answering concerned phone calls, convincing people that hearing a settlement offer was more important than watching the twenty-thousandth season finale of General Hospital, and yes, probably more important than that Icelandic class too, and no, it couldn’t just be an email because there would inevitably be more questions and contrary to some people’s beliefs, Baz was not a parrot.
The good news was, one oat milk flat white mocha from Aya’s favorite coffee shop had made up for his bad mood yesterday, so they juggled the incoming questions together.
The bad news was, it was a wasted effort. All settlement talks were doomed to fail as long as Ian was on the case. There was no hope for Sami to be the voice of reason in that duo either; he needed some sense of his own first, because why was he still texting Baz?
Annoying Stalker
i didnt get a raise :(
The words landed in his inbox around noon, loaded with a false innocence Baz saw right through.
Obviously, he couldn’t care less. Yet his mind assaulted him with quips that his fingers were itching to send, about Ian having a brain after all and whether Sami got a pat on the head for being such a good boy.
The guess seeing me shirtless will remain your only reward was typed out before Baz remembered who they were to each other and deleted it instead.
He couldn’t—shouldn’t—entertain whatever the hell this was, no matter how tempting it might be.
And tempting it was, finding out if Sami had been right about being hot underneath those god-awful clothes…
Shaking his head, Baz focused back on the email he was typing, convincing yet another client to reassess their priorities. It was their livelihood they were talking about, after all. Did an appointment at the dog groomer’s really compare to—
Bzz bzz.
and what a reward it was…
Baz’s heart plummeted to his stomach. Had he—he had. The message sat in his chat with Sami, very much not deleted. Fuck.
He slammed his phone upside down like that would miraculously undo his mistake.
Would Sami see this as a sign that Baz was open to his madness?
It shouldn’t matter. This was Sami’s case too.
The rules applied to both of them. And not getting seduced by the opposing counsel was a big fucking—albeit unspoken—rule.
Sure, Sami was bold and annoying and had a track record of poor choices, but did that equate to recklessly risking his job?
It would be best for both of them if they stomped out whatever spark of attraction there might be between them.
And yet, when Baz cozied up in bed that night, the hazel eyes crept back into his mind.
The way Sami licked his delicious-looking lips when he checked Baz out.
And then there was that speechless expression, the thrill when Baz teased him back.
The stolen touches that had tantalized Baz’s whole body. It was all so… Fuck.
Baz kicked the comforter off lest he overheat.
His dick was rock-hard and leaking already, twitching when Sami’s words from the bar echoed through his mind: Keep wishing for it.
See what happens. Like it could be real, like it could be Sami’s hand jerking him off with that fucking grin… Baz came all over his hand and stomach.
Twice more that night, he sought release from Sami haunting his thoughts. All it did was build up the pressure inside of him, threatening to explode.
His fatigued wrist still plagued him in the office the next morning; a constant reminder of his weakness, distracting him from focusing on the plaintiff madness.
How worrisome that the prospect of going home to be alone with his memories—and his hand—was what kept him going through the mess of emails and paperwork.
It was just after eight pm when he all but collapsed on his desk, massaging his temples. His throbbing headache had developed an immunity to ibuprofen.
When he closed his eyes, printed words, snippets from emails and documents, danced in front of them. And in the midst of it all, Sami’s face, his easy smirk. The drop of gin running down his neck that Baz was dying to sink his teeth into…
God, he was pathetic. What the hell was Sami doing to him? He had seen gorgeous men before! Though never one with such a quick mouth too, challenging and insulting him while somehow also managing to flirt. One so damn confusing, Baz was losing his mind over him.
Baz sighed and called it a day. There was no way he could be productive tonight. Bad enough he had to see Sami tomorrow, he refused to look terrible when he did. It would only invite more of Sami’s bad jokes, and lord knew he needed less of Sami in his life, not more.
Baz slammed the door to his apartment shut and flopped onto his gray leather couch. He just about bothered to rid himself of his tie and jacket and let whatever rerun of Golden Girls that was on fill the silence.
His neck hadn’t been this stiff in… ever. The muscles refused to loosen even as Baz moved it back and forth, side to side. He was getting old. And he didn’t even have anything of worth to show for it.
The harsh knock on the door drummed in his head. The groan that clawed its way up his throat came from a black pit deep inside him. No. No people, not now—
Bang bang bang.
For fuck’s sake. This better be important.
He dragged himself to the door—hazel eyes stared at him. Sami leaned against his doorframe with an easy smirk.
The fuzziness ran from Baz’s brain. He blinked. Was he hallucinating? Was that how low he had sunken?
“Hi.” Sami’s hot breath faintly caressed Baz’s throat. Not hallucinating. Holy shit.
“What the hell are you doing here? How do you know where I live? How did you get past the doorman?”
That last one was rhetorical; Larry was on duty tonight, a man in his late sixties who’d be envious of a mole’s eyesight. Several times, he had referred to Baz as ma’am. Sami couldn’t have known he wouldn’t be dealing with the A-team, though.
“Geez, you’re intense. Can’t a guy get a ‘hello, how are you’ first?”
Sure, because who didn’t meet an ambush with a friendly greeting?
“What do you want, Sami?”
“Relax, okay? I come in peace. Actually, I come as a messenger.” Sami held out a large, white envelope.
“What’s that?”
“Ian’s settlement offer. Thought I should bring it by in person to make sure it doesn’t get lost on the way.”
An associate attorney who was playing delivery boy? Yeah, right. Ian was a ballbuster, but Sami should have more pride than letting himself get exploited. And hopefully, he still had intact balls, too… Baz caught himself before his eyes strayed too far south.
“And you didn’t think it would be more appropriate to come to my office? Tomorrow? When we have a meeting arranged to discuss exactly this?”
Who was Sami to negotiate an offer on Ian’s behalf, anyway?
Actually, Baz wouldn’t be surprised if Ian pawned off all his work to his underlings and only swooped in to take the credit at the last possible moment.
“I could have. But then you couldn’t have invited me in for a drink.” Sami leaned in, their chests so close, Baz could feel the heat of his body radiating through his shirt.
“Who says I’m offering you a drink?”
“I do.” The words were but a breathy whisper, tickling Baz’s lips. He couldn’t stop himself from drawing a deep breath of the oakmoss and lime cologne. His eyes fluttered shut—Sami squeezed past him into his apartment.
Sami Adam. In his home. The heat pooling in his lower body reminded him why this was a bad idea, why he should kick Sami out this instant before they did something they would regret.
He had no idea why he closed the door instead.
“Here.” Sami slammed the envelope against Baz’s chest. Baz had precious little interest in it, not when Sami was kicking off his shoes like he intended to stay.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“Thanks, I am.”
That wasn’t—was he doing this on purpose to piss Baz off or was he obnoxious by nature?
“This is how you live, huh? Wow.” Sami marveled at the living room, glanced into the open-plan kitchen it bled into, the nook next to it with a desk that served as Baz’s home office.
Baz puffed out his chest. “I know.” Wow was the least his apartment deserved. It was small, yes, but high-end and luxurious from floor to ceiling. And Sami hadn’t even seen the bedroom yet.
Not that he would.
“Didn’t know what to expect when I saw the address, but this, this is… sad.”
Baz’s head jerked back. Sad? Which part of this made him sad? The best view of Lake Michigan the city had to offer? The Brazilian ceramic tile in the bathroom—okay, Sami hadn’t seen that yet either, but the point still stood! Nothing about his apartment was sad.
“No, it’s not.”
“I mean, where is all your stuff? Your furniture?” Sami carried on, gesturing around the sufficiently filled space. “And all the blank white walls? It’s giving ‘heartless exhibition piece set up for a house viewing.’ My dorm room had more character than this.”
Baz had plenty of furniture, thank you very much.
Just in here, he had a couch and a small table in front of it.
Not to mention the two lounge chairs on the living room balcony.
He even had a rug in his office nook. What could be more homely than that?
He was barely here anyway and—why on earth should he listen to criticism from Sami-fucking-Adam?
The man wore suits so cheap, Baz felt itchy just looking at them.
Probably got them from thrift stores too since that was his go-to place for business attire. Allegedly.