15. Abigail
ABIGAIL
My social battery is dead. Judy and I got in late last night, and after crashing hard, I barely managed to haul myself into the office this morning. Now it’s evening, past seven, and I’m running on fumes.
Even so, I’m glad I went. Working the booth was draining, sure, but I hadn’t expected such genuine interest in rethinking dress code standards.
It’s easy to assume most people see things the same way you do, until they don’t.
One after another, people lit up at Judy’s ideas.
Their excitement was unexpected, and honestly? Kind of infectious.
I’m just shoving my laptop into my bag when Neil barrels in. His tie’s loose, jaw tight, and he’s gripping a folder like it personally offended him.
“Progress?” he snaps, like I’m supposed to know what he’s referring to. I assume he means the Pinnacle case.
“Nothing yet.” Will and I are locked in a stalemate. Each of us waiting for the other to blink first.
“Figured as much.” He strides over and thrusts the folder into my hands. “I called in a favor.”
I open it.
Inside is a mediation request.
On paper, it’s reasonable. No court drama, no endless back-and-forth. Just a neutral third party cutting through the noise. But then I see the name at the top: Wilson’s Mediators.
Steve Wilson. Neil’s old buddy.
My stomach knots.
“Isn’t neutrality the entire point?” I ask.
Neil’s expression hardens. “You’re going to need all the help you can get,” he says, like an accusation. “You think Carter wouldn’t pull the same stunt? He’s crooked. We strike first.”
The Will he’s describing isn’t the man I’ve come to know. Not the one who checked in while I was away. Not the one whose dry wit hides a startling kind of gentleness.
“I don’t think he’d do this,” I say quietly.
“He’s inside your head. That’s exactly what he wants. Do it.”
I exhale slowly. “Right.”
“Hand-deliver it tonight,” Neil adds, like this is still some paralegal errand.
As if I haven’t earned a shred of trust. When I took this case, I thought maybe, finally, Neil would see me as a negotiator.
A strategist. Someone who could hold her ground.
But every day, it feels less like I’m making progress and more like I’m the problem. Like I’m disappointing him.
As soon as Neil’s footsteps fade down the hall, I pull out my phone and call Will.
He answers on the second ring.
“I was just thinking about you,” he says, footsteps echo faintly in the background.
“Are you still at the office?” I ask.
“Just leaving.” A soft ding cuts through the line. An elevator, probably.
“Can you wait twenty minutes? I’m sorry. I just…I need to drop something off.”
“For you? I’d wait all night.”
The drive to Will’s office takes nearly thirty minutes.
Longer than it should, even for this time of night.
The streets were thick with traffic and I drove slower than usual, half-convinced my aging sedan might finally give out.
A rhythmic knocking beneath the hood has started.
A mechanical death rattle I don’t have time to deal with.
By the time I arrive, the reception area is deserted.
Guilt pricks at me for making him wait, though he was probably planning to come to my place anyway.
His office is a glass-walled corner suite. The name on the door reads William Carter. Founding Partner.
I pause at the threshold. He’s hunched over his laptop, elbows on the desk, fingers pressed to his temple like he’s trying to mentally wrestle something into place.
Behind him, the city glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows.
It’s a cinematic frame, and he looks infuriatingly good in it.
The way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the quiet intensity radiating from his still form.
I knock lightly.
His head snaps up. For a moment, the professional mask holds. Tense brow, set jaw. Then he recognizes me. His features soften. A smile tugs at his lips as he gestures me in.
The space fits him. Refined, unfussy, quietly commanding.
Black leather chairs, clean lines, dark wood.
His desk is organized chaos: precisely stacked documents, a glowing laptop, and a few personal touches.
A row of vintage model planes, a pair of gleaming industry awards, leather-bound books too pristine to have been read more than once.
I cross the room and hand him the folder. Business first.
He takes it with deliberate care, scanning the pages with that lawyer’s efficiency. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it.
“I accept,” he says, closing the folder. Then that smirk returns, the one that slides heat through my veins. “Now that business is concluded.” He pats his lap. “Take a seat.”
I glance at the uncovered glass walls. “Do you often have women in your lap in here?”
“No.” His voice drops. “But I missed you.”
The air thickens. His knuckles graze my thigh.
“You free Thursday night?” he asks. “I have an early day, we could go to dinner. Somewhere private.”
“I have court Friday,” I say. “I want to get an early night.”
He nods, that quiet understanding in his eyes. “Want me to come?”
I blink. “Why would you come?”
“To support my girl.” His thumb draws lazy circles just above my knee.
“I’m not your girl,” I say, more teasing than serious.
He leans back, eyes lit with challenge. “My mistake. My woman.”
The words send a shiver through me. Still, I steer us back to safer ground. “Have you dealt with Harry Miles before?”
“Name rings a bell. That who you’re facing Friday?” he asks. I nod and he swivels toward his computer and types quickly. “Looks like I have. Want to read his file?”
He keeps files on other lawyers? Of course he does. I guess there’s no harm in looking.
“There’s a better view from here.” He pats his lap again. “Or,” his voice lowers, “you could bend over the desk.”
I ignore the comment and lean beside him, careful to keep a polite inch of space between us.
I skim the screen. Miles is a master of delay tactics, fake charm, and procedural sabotage. He plays nice to manipulate opposing counsel and flirts with sanctions like it’s a game.
One line at the bottom is highlighted in bold: Out-prepare, out-document, and never let him control the narrative.
I figured as much. But something else clicks into place as I read. If Will keeps profiles on lawyers like this…he has one on me too.
“Can I see mine?” I ask.
“No.”
I trail my fingers up his thigh, felling the muscle tense under my touch. “That’s fine. I’d need to sit closer anyway.” His jaw flexes.
A click beneath the desk, and the glass walls darken, shades descending with a whisper. Then he pulls up the file.
I settle into his lap, and he wraps an arm around my waist, holding me close. Mine isn’t half as long as Harry’s.
Abigail Reed
● Chronically late
● Offers no concessions
● Emotionally unreadable
● Sharp and fast
● Ethical to a fault
● Tucks hair behind ears when unsettled
● Do not underestimate
Aside from the dig about my punctuality, it almost reads like a love letter in disguise.
He thinks I’m sharp and fast.
That’s not just an observation. It’s a compliment.
My throat tightens.
Then a new line flashes across the screen:
Hot for me.
He moves to delete it, but I stop him.
“It’s true,” I say.
For the past month, he’s been all restraint and patience.
Focused on me. My pleasure. My boundaries.
He won’t let me touch him. Not unless I agree to be his girlfriend.
It’s sweet, and also frustrating. We’re on a case, and that’s a line I’m not sure I’m ready to cross.
But tonight, something shifts. A flicker of defiance rises in me.
A craving to push him. To see what happens if I stop playing by the rules.
It’s a contradiction: I respect his control, but I ache for him to lose it.
I glance at the drawn curtains.
What harm could there be in trying?
I lean in and kiss him. Soft, at first. Testing. But it deepens fast. His mouth opening under mine, hunger rising between us. His hand moves up my thigh, slipping beneath my skirt. His palm is rough against my skin, his fingers grazing the lace edge of my underwear.
A ragged breath escapes him.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he says. “And I’ll bend you over this desk right now.”
I tilt my head, pretending to consider. “Any room for negotiation?”
“No.” His voice is sharp, but I hear the catch. The falter in his breath.
A crack.
That’s all I need.
I rise from his lap slowly, my hands gliding over his chest as I push his chair back. The wheels slide smoothly across the polished floor. Just enough space.
Just enough for what I’m about to do.
I move his laptop aside, gather my skirt in both hands, and lift myself onto the desk.
He doesn’t say a word. Just watches, eyes heavy-lidded, jaw tight.
I undo the first button of my blouse. Then the second. The black lace underneath is sheer, delicate, cut low across my breasts. His knuckles tighten around the armrests.
I spread my thighs and pull my underwear aside.
Sliding two fingers in, I try to move the way he does. But it’s not the same. It’s not deep enough, not as exact.
No matter how I angle my hand or adjust the rhythm, it doesn’t feel like him. Not even close.
“Are you going to help me?” I ask.
His hand lifts instinctively, but I stop him with a look. A shake of my head.
It’s not his fingers I want tonight.
“I can see why you have a reputation for negotiation,” he says, voice low and strung tight with restraint. His eyes are locked between my thighs like he can’t look anywhere else.
I slide my fingers out, slick and shining.
His eyes track every inch of the movement like a man starved.
He reaches for me again.
I stop him. Again.
“I want you to lose control,” I whisper.
His restraint snaps, but not in the way I expect.
“You think I don’t want you?”
He stands. His hands grip my thighs, yanking me to the edge of the desk. His hips press between mine, the hard line of him so close I feel the pulse of him through his clothes.
For a second, I think this is it. He’s going to give in.
But then—
“Not unless you’re mine,” he says.