Yours for the Season

Chapter One

Sameera Malik did not hate workplace Christmas parties.

They were fun, theoretically, and contained the potential for bonhomie, good cheer, festive joy—all intrinsic to the holiday season.

Admittedly, she didn’t have much firsthand experience, having grown up in a practicing Muslim household, and though she no longer considered herself observant, Christmas wasn’t her thing, either.

Still, even she recognized that this particular holiday party was a dud.

This was her third year at Greaves, Hargrave she bet he thought he looked adorable. He was wrong.

“That’s right, Belinda,” he said. “Don’t worry, your little paralegal job is safe in the new year. Can’t say the same for you, Sameera. Remind me, what were your billable hours last quarter?”

Half of what they should have been, just like last quarter, and Blake knew it.

Just then, Cute Server tapped Sameera on the shoulder, and she blinked at him in surprise, her retort forgotten.

“Pardon me, Blake,” he said, the barest hint of condemnation in his tone.

He turned to Sameera with a smile. “Cranberry ginger ale, and a few more wonton samosas for you and your friend to share,” he said, offering her a drink and the snacks to Bee, the ghost of a smile on his handsome face.

Sameera accepted gladly, and Bee whistled as he walked away. “He likes you. You should get his number.”

Sameera shook her head and turned back to Blake. “My billable hours are just fine—or they will be in the new year. Maybe you should worry about your own.”

Blake leaned close, and his breath was sour in her face. “We both know I don’t have to worry, Samantha.”

When he walked away to make nice with one of the named partners, Bee had to remind her not to grind her teeth. Sameera sipped on her cranberry ginger ale instead, the one festive drink she looked forward to every year. But not even the sugary soda could put her in a good mood now.

Blake was right. Not only was he guaranteed a job by the power of nepotism, but he was also considered a future rainmaker because of his many finance-bro friends, who seemed to be in constant need of legal representation.

If there was one thing law firms coveted more than billable hours, it was a stream of well-heeled clients with plenty of legal trouble.

Sameera’s superpower had always been her work ethic. She had been at the top of the leaderboard in billable hours for the past ten quarters. But for the past six months, she had trailed the pack.

“Are you sure you don’t know any obscenely wealthy people in need of commercial litigation advice?” Bee asked.

Sameera shook her head. She had grown up squarely middle class. Her family circle was upwardly mobile, but the only lawyerly services they ever needed were when they were buying a house or making a will—sadly, neither one her specialty.

“What about that Andy Shaikh guy? He’s rich as God. If you wrangled that whale, they’d make you a partner,” Bee said, and Sameera nearly choked on her drink.

“Not every Brown or Muslim person in Atlanta knows each other,” Sameera said.

While she did not know Andy Shaikh personally, she definitely knew of him.

Sometimes described as the Warren Buffett of the trendy-food industry, Andy was a local legend for a chain of bubble tea stores that could now be found in every major city in the country.

“My nonna definitely knows every Italian family in Georgia. These appetizers are amazing. Do you think your cater-waiter will bring us more?”