9. Abigail
ABIGAIL
It’s only Wednesday, and already it’s been a great week. On Monday, I landed two new clients. A divorce and a wrongful termination. Nothing flashy, but enough to impress Neil. Yesterday, the Dawson case settled in our favor, and this morning, I received a fan email from a Mr. Jasper Short.
Ms. Reed,
Brilliant address on Friday night—many fantastic points made.
Also, purely academic inquiry: Is your pink skirt suit (including stockings) available for purchase?
Sincerely,
Jasper Short
I’ve decided to interpret this as a normal professional correspondence. The key is to focus on the first part and aggressively ignore the rest.
My phone rings. The firm’s receptionist, Anthea, announces it’s Harry Miles. More good news. I’ve been trying to reach him all week.
“Abigail,” Harry’s voice oozes with false camaraderie. “Sorry about the delay. We’ve hit a minor snag. These things happen, you know how it is.”
“What I know is that discovery was due three days ago.”
“Not my fault. Seems the documents are lost in transit.”
“Your office is three blocks away, Harry. Unless your courier got abducted by aliens, I suggest you—”
“Take it up with the courier service.”
Click. He hangs up.
“Idiot,” I mutter, dropping the phone.
“I’m disappointed,” says a smooth, familiar, and utterly unwelcome voice.
Will leans against my doorframe. I have no idea how he opened the door without me noticing.
He’s the last person I want in my office right now.
Normally, I keep things neat, but today it looks like a bomb went off.
I fight the urge to straighten the piles of paper, hide the untouched discovery boxes, and, while I’m at it, replace my awful, outdated furniture.
“I thought you reserved that particular tone exclusively for me,” he says, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
“Who let you in?” I ask. What I really mean is: Who let you in unannounced?
He flashes that infuriating grin. “Anthea. She was quite charmed. But then, most people are.”
He circles my desk with deliberate ease, leaning against the edge just inches from me. He’s close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne. The proximity forces me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
Every bit of this is calculated. The way he looms, the way he crowds my space, close enough to touch. He’s trying to make me flinch. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
He pushes off from my desk with casual grace, picks up my phone receiver with deliberate slowness, holds it to his ear for three seconds, and sets it back down.
“Functioning perfectly,” he observes, tapping the receiver once, then twice. “And since I just watched you use it without issue, care to explain why my calls drop the second I get through to you?”
“This is my work phone,” I say. “You’re not calling for work.”
“You don’t answer your personal number either.”
“Maybe you should take that as a hint.”
A slow, infuriating smirk curls his lips. “You don’t need to play hard to get with me.”
Despite myself, my throat tightens.
“I don’t want to play with you at all,” I snap. “Unless you have a work-related question, get out of my office.”
“I think I’ll stay,” he says, settling into the chair across from me, stretching back like he owns the place. “At least until you agree to go out with me.”
“You’re not going to bulldoze me into dating you.”
Will grins, lacing his fingers behind his head.
“Why don’t you go annoy a woman who’s actually interested in you?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he shoots back.
Exactly. And the confirmation stings more than it should. He’s not serious. He’s just toying with me.
Then his expression shifts.
“If you’re still mad about that speech…I’m sorry.”
My eyebrows lift before I can stop them. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Maybe I was trying to impress you,” he admits. “Looking back, public humiliation might not have been the best strategy.”
“I wasn’t humiliated,” I say too quickly.
“Let me make it up to you.”
For a heartbeat, I actually consider it.
But before I can respond, the door swings open. Neil strides in and freezes mid-step, his eyes locking on Will.
“Carter,” Neil says. “What are you doing here?”
Will rises smoothly. The two men meet in the space between my desk and the door.
“Sorry, you are?” Will extends a hand.
“Neil Strauss.” The way Neil grinds out his name makes it clear he’s offended at not being recognized.
“Right.” Will’s expression flickers. Then, with a smirk, he turns to me. “Abigail and I were just finalizing dinner plans to discuss our case. Tonight at seven, wasn’t it?”
“Actually, I—”
“You said you’d cancel those plans for the case,” he says, turning to Neil now. “You’ve got quite the committed employee here. She’s relentless. Half my team’s scared stiff of her. She really keeps me on my toes.”
What the hell is he playing at?
“But then,” he adds, looking back at Neil, “I assume you already know that?”
“Of course,” Neil says, though his eyes flick to me, suddenly wary.
“So. Seven?” Will asks, his smile as easy as ever.
I don’t have plans tonight. Not unless you count working late and eating leftovers.
I could lie but Neil’s still staring. If I say no, I look difficult.
If I say yes, I let Will win. I can’t exactly say: He’s angling for a date, and nobody on his team is scared of me. I’m barely holding it together.
“Seven it is.”
“Perfect.” Will slips out with the satisfied air of a predator who’s just claimed his prize.
Neil’s face flushes crimson.
“That bastard knows exactly who I am,” he says.
“Of course he does,” I reply.
“Don’t let him walk all over you.”
“Trust me, he’s not getting anywhere with me.”
Neil seems satisfied with that and finally gets to his reason for stopping by. A server outage that’s locked everyone out of the client database. But his words barely register.
All I can think about is tonight.
Where is he taking me?
What do I wear?
As if reading my mind, a message lights up my phone.
Will: I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something nice. And I’d strongly advise against cancelling. Your boss strikes me as the type to take professional commitments seriously.
The clock reads 6:57. Will should be here any second.
I’m starting to second-guess everything.
This dress, the makeup, the fact that I agreed to this at all.
I’m wearing a black silk slip. It’s effortless and adaptable, perfect for both the suffocating heat and the uncertainty of wherever he’s taking me.
I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror.
Soft brown smokey eyes, lips tinted just enough to look kissed, cheeks brushed with the faintest flush.
My hair falls in loose waves. The kind of “I woke up like this” look that somehow takes twenty minutes to perfect.
That stupid, traitorous flutter in my chest starts up again, and I raise an eyebrow at the mirror, hoping I can glare the nerves right out of me.
I remind myself that I don’t like him. He’s going to make me look like a fool. I square my shoulders. I won’t let him sweet-talk his way into anything.
I’ll get through this. Maybe spending time together will make it obvious to both of us that there’s nothing here. Maybe this is a good thing.
Then the doorbell rings, and my pulse betrays me.
I open the door to a massive bouquet of white roses. Will stands behind them. He tips them sideways, and smiles at me. That flutter in my chest spikes again. I take the flowers.
“Lovely. Thank you,” I say quickly, already turning away. I place them on the console, lock the door, and avoid eye contact.
“You look—” he starts.
“Let’s get this over with.” I brush past him and head toward his car before he can finish.
He jogs ahead and swings the passenger door open for me.
“Thank you,” I say, sliding in. As he rounds the hood, I watch him. A tactical glance. That’s all.
He’s skipped the jacket, which makes sense in this heat.
His crisp white button-up is undone just enough to reveal a glimpse of his chest, and my eyes catch on his leather belt.
Just for a beat. But it’s long enough to make my stomach do that ridiculous flip again. I snap my attention to the dashboard.
Focus.
He gets in beside me.
“Comfortable?” he asks, reaching for the ignition. I nod. Short. Sharp. Not encouraging anything.
He glances over, and I can feel the weight of his attention like a spotlight. I keep my eyes fixed on the dashboard.
“I got you something,” he says, pulling a small teal velvet box from his pocket.
I freeze. Why is he giving me gifts?
When I don’t reach for it, he opens the lid himself. Inside sits a delicate necklace. White gold, with two stones: a round diamond at the top and just below it, an oval-cut emerald.
“It’s beautiful,” I admit before I can stop myself. No one’s ever bought me real jewelry before. Just a flimsy promise ring from a high school boyfriend who thought forever meant three months. But this?
I don’t know what to say. Something between Do you really think jewelry will buy my affection? and Maybe you’re kind of sweet.
Before I can land on anything, he plucks the necklace from the box, unclasps it, and nods for me to turn around. I do. His fingers graze the back of my neck as he fastens it. For a second, I soften. This really is sweet.
“I had my initials engraved,” he says, like he’s bestowing some noble gift. “So you can wear them around your neck.”
And just like that, the flicker of warmth dies.
His initials? Like I’m a branded accessory?
I reach up and twist the pendant, trying to catch the engraving, but it sits too high.
“W.H.C.,” he says.
“What does the H stand for? Headache?” I ask, turning toward the window before he can see the heat climbing my neck.
“Harvey,” he replies, completely unfazed.
The engine starts and we pull away from the curb.