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“You got hit,” I whisper.

He gives me the smallest possible shake of his head. “That was just security, not Webber,” he says, as if that lessens the fact that he got hit on my behalf.

A thousand caustic responses come to mind. But what’s overriding them all is a single thought: I can’t imagine being here without him.

I close the distance between us and, on tiptoe, with my hands on his lapels, pull his mouth to mine.

For a moment he is still, shocked, and then—with a quiet grunt of surprise—his hands go to my hips and he pulls me closer. His mouth is soft but growing more determined by the second, and I’ve never wanted anything more. His low groan vibrates in his chest as he deepens the kiss, his hands sliding over my ass, tugging my body tight to his. The smell of his aftershave, his body hard and looming over mine, the heat of his palms gripping me—it’s both too much and not nearly enough.

There’s a dull thud as my back hits the wall. No part of him is reticent now, and I’m arching to get closer, to feel the press of him, hard as steel against my rib cage. I will contort myself into a thousand shapes to be the one that fits him best.

My hands are on his belt when I hear the ding of the elevator…and reality hits like a hammer. What the hell am I doing right now? I’m hooking up with a partner, putting everything I’ve worked for at risk, without a single guarantee.

I swear to God, I’ll never learn.

He blinks at me, as if coming out of a trance, his eyes dark and drugged. I slide out from the wall and stumble backward. Jesus, I have no idea how to get out of this. “Okay, well then, um…” I say, snatching my bag off the desk and heading for the door. “Good day to you, sir. Don’t beat anyone up in Charlotte.”

I saunter away, as if nothing happened here at all, but I’m dying inside as I hurry toward the elevator. Did I really just say, “good day to you, sir” like we are gentlemen in Victorian-era Parliament? I’m going to convince myself I imagined that part.

But the rest of it…God, the rest of it. Ill-advised, yes, but I can’t swear I’d take it back.

22

Ben isn’t at the meeting on Monday because of the case in Charlotte. I knew this, but it’s still oddly disappointing, not seeing him across from me. I arrive early for once, since I slapped on my makeup in the car and didn’t bother flat-ironing my hair.

There’s no devil on my shoulder today, goading me and making me feel overcaffeinated. In its absence, I can’t seem to stop yawning. Debbie prattles on, at length, about next weekend’s firm retreat. There will be seminars, followed by activities and a black-tie party. I could still attempt to bring someone, I suppose, but it no longer matters all that much. Ben’s trial is expected to last weeks, and he’s not flying to California Saturday just to fly back Sunday. I wouldn’t bring someone anyway—the drive to prove him wrong or show him up is now completely lacking.

“Don’t forget to sign up for your activities,” Terri reminds me as we leave.

“Activities?”

“For the retreat,” she says with a mildly exasperated laugh. “All the good stuff is getting full. Hurry or you’ll be stuck with golf. And you need a dress for the black-tie thing.”

I’ve shown up like a good little associate for every single event this firm has ever held, and now—at the biggest event of the year, with my promotion on the line—I’m wondering if I can lie my way out of it entirely.

I make a weak attempt at doing my job, but I’m distracted, and bored. For the first time in ages, I go online to my mostly abandoned Pinterest page, looking at all the things I chose for my future home—the kitchen island painted navy, a beaded chandelier in the palest blue, the bleached heart of pine floors. When did I stop caring? Why didn’t I ever consider buying my own place? I’ve got the money. I still want those things.

Maybe I just gave up hope of being anything more than I am. But today, with Ben absent, I realize I absolutely don’t want to stay this way, either.

On Saturday morning, I drive up to Ojai for the retreat. Most of the associates arrived last night to be here bright and early today, but I chose not to, as I’m not interested in being here at all. I go straight to the first of several windowless rooms to sit through the first of several dull talks—Maximizing Profitability Realization Rates, followed by Due Diligence Checklists and Record Keeping Management.

If Ben was here, I’d text him when a reference is made to inappropriate client relationships and say I hope you’re taking notes. And he’d write me back something like you’re so obsessed with that. Next time I’ll let you watch.

Fields mentions the retirement of Springer and Cleary, which would be exciting, except Ben’s not here to say, “I can’t wait until Craig makes partner. I’ll ask him to throw you some work.”

I miss his bullshit. I told myself he annoyed me, but I’m now wondering if what annoyed me was the way it made me want to respond, to laugh, to keep the ball in play.

I fake a work call to get out of the afternoon “fun” and avoid everyone until the last possible minute. When I venture downstairs for the evening—my dress slinky and low-cut, more Keeley’s style than mine—I look better than I ever have, and it feels entirely meaningless. I’m not five minutes in and I’m already wondering if I can feign illness to get out of it.

I make polite conversation during the seated dinner, but otherwise say very little. I’ve tried the routine where you become best friends with your colleagues and know how meaningless those friendships are in the end. If I make a single mistake at FMG, my supposed friends will shun me the same way my friends at Stadler did, so why would I bother?

Afterward, I get some face time with each of the partners, just enough that no one can doubt I showed up, but by ten I am entirely over this whole experience. I’m about to leave when Nicole corners me.

“Do you know what Ben’s deal is?” she asks.

“Ben?” I ask, brow furrowed. “Ben Tate?”

I’m trying a little too hard. There’s only one Ben at our firm.