Chapter 8
SELENA
I am home, and I am exhausted.
How on Earth did this happen to me? Of all the people in the whole wide world, why do I have to keep stepping on landmines?
You would think being betrayed by Landon on my wedding day was enough karmic punishment.
But no, the one and only time I have random, mind-blowing sex with a stranger, he turns out to be my new boss.
And what an ass of a boss.
All Griffin does is stay in his glass-walled fortress and bark orders like a dictator.
According to the office gossip I picked up in the breakroom, he's slept with half the legal community in Manhattan.
HR has apparently been on his case about it, but since all the relationships were consensual and he's the rainmaker for the firm, he’s untouchable.
I seriously debate not going back. My bed is warm, and my dignity is bruised.
But Griffin made a valid point: if I don’t return, then I am exactly who he said I was—the girl who runs away when things get hard.
Plus, he threatened to blacklist me with the temp agencies, and I need the money too badly to call his bluff.
My integrity wins. I dress in my hottest corporate chic—a pencil skirt that hugs my curves and a silk blouse—and report to his office early.
My insides are a mess. Even though I’m there an hour before my scheduled time, he’s already at his desk, immersed in a stack of files.
“Start on the Wilson-Mathius case,” he says the moment I step into the doorway. He doesn't look up. “Log the evidence, cross-reference the names of the expert witnesses. I want three hard copies of every contract and an encrypted digital backup. I need coffee, and I’m hungry.”
He pauses, finally lifting his head. His grey eyes sweep over me, darkening instantly.
“And wear a longer skirt tomorrow.”
It’s going to be a long day.
“The hem is just above my knee,” I say, looking down. It’s perfectly professional.
“Wear trousers. Or skirts to the ankle.” He scowls, returning to his papers.
“No one else does. El’s skirt is practically a belt.”
Now he looks at me, his expression full of thunder. “I said wear clothing that doesn’t distract me, damn it!”
The admission hangs in the air for a split second before I turn around and walk out. I don't bother looking at El, who is back at her desk, staring at me with a new assistant—a young man this time—sitting next to her. I can feel the animosity radiating off her in waves.
Part of me wants to break down and cry, but I refuse to give them the satisfaction.
I walk to the lobby coffee bar on the first floor. I order a triple espresso and a sad, plain bagel with unsalted butter. When I return, I place them on Griffin’s desk without a word.
I have no idea where the Wilson-Mathius case files are, and since I have vowed never to speak to Griffin voluntarily again, I ask Joe.
“Joe?” I lean against his cubicle wall, making sure to smile. I only have so much power here, and I intend to use it to piss Griffin off.
“Sup?” Joe doesn't look up from his keyboard, but I notice El’s eyes narrowing from across the bullpen.
“Do you know where I can find the Wilson-Mathius files?” I shift my weight, popping my hip.
“Selena!” A roar comes from the Sasquatch’s cave.
I bite my lip to hide a smirk.
Joe rushes his answer, looking nervous. “File room. Alphabetical, starting with Wilson.” He looks up long enough to flash me a quick, apologetic smile. “Better get in there. He tends to escalate.”
Escalate? What is he, a toddler with a nuclear code?
“Thanks,” I say. I take my time sauntering into the gremlin’s office.
“Don’t bother Joe while he’s working,” Griffin scolds as I enter.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” I say, lacing the words with venom.
“I’d rather you bother me. The files are at the end of my desk. Sit on the sofa and do your work in here.”
I nearly protest. I want to be outside, away from his gravity. But he looks up from his papers, and his eyes are smoldering.
What the fuck? At work?
“And close the door.”
I turn, close the door, grab the heavy accordion files, and get started. I sit on the leather sofa, laying the papers out on the low coffee table. The silence in the room is thick, broken only by the scratch of his pen and the rustle of paper.
After what feels like hours of listening to him bully someone on the phone—a conversation that sounded like a million dollars in threats—he hangs up.
He stares at me. The air in the room grows heavy.
“It’s lunch,” he informs me.
I smile, bright and fake. “Okay.” I stand up, smoothing out my skirt.
“Be back in thirty minutes.” Not long, but enough to eat the sad salad I brought from home.
I walk out of Griffin’s office. His assistants are all getting up as well, except for the new temp guy. He’s a muscled blonde who looks like he should be surfing in Malibu, not filing briefs in Manhattan.
“What are you all doing for lunch?” I ask the group. I don't really care, but I want Griffin—who I know is listening through the open door—to hear that I am capable of being social.
“I’m going to the hot dog cart on the corner,” Joe says, his voice brightening. “You’re welcome to join. They’re fast and greasy in the best way.”
He shoots me a friendly grin. I decide instantly to abandon my salad.
The new guy shrugs. “My wife packed me leftovers.”
“I’m eating at my desk,” El says loudly, looking at her screen. “Grif prefers someone to be here.”
Grif? Clearly, she doesn’t know him that well if she calls him the nickname he hates. I’ve known the guy for three days, and I know that makes his jaw tick.
“A hot dog sounds amazing,” I say, exaggerating my enthusiasm. “I’ll save my salad for later.” I offer a saccharine smile to El.
“No eating at the desks during work hours,” she snaps.
“Noted,” I say.
I hear a low grumble from the cave behind me, but no actual words are issued.
“We’d better hurry,” Joe whispers, grabbing his jacket.
I sprint to catch up to him.
In the safety of the elevator, I turn to Joe. “So... is Griffin always this intense?”
I need to know which version is the real Griffin: the attentive, dominant lover from the club, or the monster I am shackled to for the next week.
“He keeps a distance from people,” Joe explains, hitting the button for the lobby. “He has to. He gets a lot of animosity from opposing counsel, so he keeps up a cold front. Honestly? I kind of admire the guy. I’m hoping to be like him one day.”
That level of adoration is a little disturbing.
“Oh, don’t. Find a way to be a lawyer without becoming Griffin Calloway,” I sigh.
“He’s not all bad,” Joe chuckles.
“Has he seduced you, too?” I joke. Honestly, with Griffin’s appetite, nothing would surprise me.
“I wish.”
“Don’t. You have no idea the size of the bullet you’re dodging.”
He laughs. “I’m just teasing. I don’t play for that team, but professionally? I’d be gay for Griffin Calloway’s win record.”
We step out into the humid city air. We order our dogs—Joe gets the works, I order mustard and relish. We find a spot on a concrete retaining wall to eat. The hot dog tastes like freedom.
“So how long have you worked here?” I ask, figuring small talk will keep my nerves from frying.
“Five years. I started as a temp like you. I’ll probably go the paralegal route next year. I’ve turned down a few job offers, waiting for the right spot here. I like working with the big guy. I’m learning a lot.”
“Well, at least he’ll help you with your career.” I take a bite. It’s delicious, but my stomach gives a warning lurch. I ignore it.
“You’re lucky, you know,” Joe says, wiping mustard from his lip. “He never brings temps into his office for real work. Usually, they’re stuck scanning documents in the basement. Do you have a law degree?”
“Bachelor’s in political science. Law school is the plan.” I flash him a smile.
“Same route I took. Careful you don’t get an ‘M.R.S.’ degree instead,” he laughs.
“M.R.S. degree?” I frown.
“Rumor has it Calloway needs to get married,” Joe says, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “He wants to make partner, but the board says he has to clean up his image. He’s too wild. They want him settled. Wife, kid, white picket fence in the Hamptons. The whole nine yards.”
Joe is spilling Griffin’s tea, and I am drinking it up.
“Sounds like something he is physiologically incapable of doing.” I raise a brow.
“He's notorious for his bachelor lifestyle, sure. But I figure whatever marriage arrangement he makes, it'll be a paper deal. A business transaction. I’d be shocked if he actually fell in love. But he has enough money to entice anyone to sign the contract.” Joe shrugs.
“If he becomes a partner, my prospects get better. I could ride his coattails to the top.”
Joe sounds a lot like Griffin. Focused. Transactional.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask, changing the subject. I don't want to spend my only break talking about my boss.
“Too busy,” Joe says, shoving the last of his bun into his mouth. “Griffin keeps track of minutes. We should get back.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
I finish my lunch and we head back up. We walk into the suite with one minute to spare.
“Thanks for lunch, Joe,” I say flirtatiously, loud enough for the room to hear.
El huffs audibly.
“No more lunches out,” Griffin’s voice booms from his office. He doesn’t even look up. “Get back to work.”
I’m so done with this jerk.
“Should I order some shackles while I’m organizing the evidence?” I call out.
“Yes. Have them delivered to my penthouse.”
By three o’clock, I finish his original task. Instead of dismissing me, he dumps a pile of complex discovery work on my lap. I need to call experts, vet them, and summarize their CVs. It’s actual legal work—challenging and engaging.
Griffin puts his phone on speaker and listens to my calls, chiming in occasionally with a correction or a nod of approval. I have to acknowledge, grudgingly, that he is giving me more opportunity in one day than he has given Joe in five years.
As soon as the clock strikes five, I stand up.
“Where are you going?” Griffin asks.
A spike of adrenaline lances through me. “You have to call the temp agency and approve overtime,” I say in a monotone. “They close at six. It’s five-ten.”
I want to leave. All day I’ve been battling butterflies—and nausea—and I’m ready to collapse.
“Sit down,” he commands. “I’ll pay you to stay. No need to involve the agency; they take a cut anyway. I’ll pay you their rate directly. Thirty-two an hour. Cash.”
He knows that’s nearly double my take-home pay.
I sit down.
We work in silence until my stomach growls loudly. It’s nearly nine o’clock. I’ve had one hot dog and a bagel all day. I’m lightheaded and fried.
“We can stop here,” he says abruptly, rising from his chair and reaching for his suit jacket.
I roll my neck, wincing at the pop. I stand up, swaying slightly. “Okay. Have a good night.”
I turn toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “Home. It’s late.”
“We have reservations at Cennet. You can wear what you have on. My car is waiting downstairs.”
What the fuck?
I look out into the bullpen. It’s empty. The computers are dark. We are alone.
“Griffin, no. You can’t order me around like this after hours. You’re nothing like the man I met at the bar. I just want to get through this week, and then you and I can go our separate ways. I am not your beck-and-call girl.”
Cennet is one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. Getting a table there is harder than getting a pardon from the President.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says, buttoning his jacket. His eyes lock onto mine, intense and predatory. “What you decide tonight will inform how we proceed for the rest of your employment.”
Ugh. Not more of his ultimatums.
“Are you giving me a choice?” I glare at him, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Always,” he offers a grin, and it’s the first genuine one I’ve seen since the club. “But you’re going to want to hear this.”