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 & Bury, a.k.a. the Undertakers, the boutique commercial litigation firm in Atlanta where Sameera worked as an associate lawyer. At twenty-eight, she had been at the midsize firm long enough to know the holiday-party drill: chat, drink (sparkling water with a wedge of lime for her), wander around the spacious foyer that had been converted to a party venue, and try not to think about the pile of work waiting in her office.
Or worry about the rumors circulating faster than this year’s signature cranberry-basil cocktail:Layoffs are coming. Brace yourself.
There had been rumblings of financial trouble at the firm for the past few months, the result of a stagnating economy, client attrition, fewer big settlements, and shrinking market share. It was the reason this year’s party was being held in the office foyer instead of a restaurant or party hall. It was also the reason that instead of a sit-down dinner, they were having a reception with passed appetizers, and why the firm’s gift was a fifty-dollar Amazon gift certificate. Last year, even lower-levelassociates like her had received iPads. Still, the firm had made the most of its stripped-down budget: The spacious foyer had been transformed with twinkle lights and potted poinsettias, while discreet black-clad servers circulated with trays of delicious-looking snacks and drinks. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and accepted a wonton-wrapped samosa with mint-jalapeño chutney. She raised her eyebrows at the burst of flavor before smiling at the cute server. He had warm blue eyes, curly dark-blond hair, and a close fade.
“Having a good night?” Cute Server asked, his voice a deep drawl she felt down to her toes.
“Not really,” she admitted, then looked around to make sure none of her colleagues had overheard. “This appetizer is the best part so far.”
“I’ll let the chef know,” he said, smiling warmly. “Can I get you anything else?”
Sameera shook her head, holding up her glass of soda water. “Not unless you have cranberry ginger ale.”
Cute Server moved on, and Sameera passed a trio of first-year associates whispering:Layoffs start in the new year. I heard they’re chopping the bottom ten percent of billable hours.
Sameera gripped her drink tightly and tried to breathe. Lawyers lived and died by their billable hours. Hers had been excellent ... up until this past year, when her life imploded.
Her friend Bee Whitlock, a paralegal at the firm, sidled up to her. As usual, her oversize glasses dwarfed her small oval face. Paired with her tiny nose, rosebud lips, and petite figure, her glasses helped complete the look of an adorable praying mantis.
In contrast, Sameera was dressed in her uniform of a black skirt and black blazer, a red blouse—her one nod to the season—and her favorite kitten heels. Her straight black hair was pulled back in its usual chignon, her large dark-brown eyes touched with the barest hint of liner, the shimmery glow on her high cheekbones a result of blush and not excitement, her full lips shiny with gloss. Presentable,approachable, pretty—according to the reflection in the brass fixtures surrounding them.
“I saw you flirting with the waitstaff,” Bee said out the side of her mouth. “It’s nice to see you relax.”
“I’m always relaxed,” Sameera joked.
“You have the worst poker face. That line on your forehead gives you away every time.”
Sameera attempted to smooth her brow, and Bee laughed, linking arms with her. “Did you start your timer yet?”
Bee was a good friend to Sameera. She fed her the latest office gossip, warned her who was throwing a tantrum that day, and advised her on who was the most approachable partner. There was usually distance between associates and paralegals, but the two had become friendly, then started socializing outside of work hours. When Bee had recently become engaged to her longtime boyfriend, Lorenzo, a pediatric nurse, Sameera knew before the rest of the office. Sameera wasn’t sure what she would have done without Bee—or her older sister, Nadiya—this past year.
Sameera showed her friend her cell phone, where she had set a timer for sixty minutes, the amount of time she intended to stay at the party. She had a system: An hour was more than enough time to show her face and greet partners and the few clients invited before she slipped back to her office to work.
Bee shook her head. “You’re so predictable,” she teased.
“I have several hundred hours to make up in the next week,” Sameera said. “Blake said—”
“Blake couldn’t keep a story straight if he used a ruler,” Bee said. “Forget about him. Let’s track down that cute cater-waiter you were flirting with and see if he’ll show us his snacks.” She waggled her eyebrows, and Sameera laughed, her shoulders loosening. Unfortunately, they were up by her ears again a moment later when Blake joined them.
Blake “Chip” Latham II was a fellow third-year associate but acted as if he were already a senior partner. Blake—she refused to call himChip—was her workplace nemesis, a self-satisfied walking bag of entitlement who acted as if he were her boss, even though they had started working for the firm at the same time. He was always coming around her office to offer friendly “suggestions”: She should wear skirts more often. Had she thought about a brighter shade of lipstick? Could she set him up with one of her “hot Brown” friends? Blake was the worst. He was also the grandson of one of the late named partners—she couldn’t remember which one, though he brought it up often enough.
“Samantha and Bertha, what are you gossiping about in the corner, and why is it me?” Blake asked, putting an arm around each woman.
Sameera and Bee immediately wiggled out from his embrace, grimacing. Blake had clearly imbibed more than a few of the signature cocktails. He always made up names for them when he was half drunk.
“It’s Sameera, not Samantha. And you know that’s not Bee’s name,” Sameera said primly. Blake grinned at her; 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 theywillbe in the new year. Maybe you should worry about your own.”
