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That strike against her might be hard to overcome—depending on the judge we get for the trial.
My phone buzzes beside me. I check the message, hoping it’s from Ellie, but it’s nothing.
Again, when I look up, Tenley’s eyes are just shifting back to her work. The disgusted look on her face is still there. She sighs.
I cross my arms. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Is there something you’re not saying? You clearly have an issue with me.”
“Hmm,” she says, still not looking up at me. She taps the legal pad with her pen. “I just find there to be more important things in life than my phone. That’s all.”
Okay. Not only is my new 'partner' not deigning to look at me, she’s insulting—no, describing me—in the most unflattering way possible. Contrary to what she thinks, I’m not some dumbass who gets by solely on my charm and good looks.
“I’m up to speed on the case,” I tell her.
“Then what angle do you think we should use? James Perry is charging extreme cruelty and gross neglect of duties due to substance abuse.”
“Our client’s been clean ten years.”
“She had a DUI last year. And the kids were in the car.”
I glance down at the folder. Okay, so I missed that. Small point. “Look. The partners put us together because we should complement each other. You heard Lisa. You do the research. I’ll provide the win in the courtroom. Just give me the facts and I’ll take it from there.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’ll do the research, yes. But I can also win in the courtroom. I don’t need your help at all. In fact, you—with all your little dings and buzzes from your phone over there—are only distracting me.”
I snort. “Winston Churchill once said that tact is the ability to tell someone to go to hell in such a way that they look forward to the trip. You don’t have it. When you tell people to go to hell—and I know you do—they hate you for it.”
She scowls, still not looking my way. “Good thing I care more about winning than being liked. And winning’s what I’m going to do with or without your help.”
We’re starting off on a terrible foot.
If this continues, neither of us will get that promotion.
I soften my voice. “Look, I—”
“Shhh.”
I stop. Okay, that didn’t work the way I’d hoped. “Listen, I just want to—”
“Shhh,” she says, louder.
Annoyed, I push away from the table and stand up, heading for the door.
She finally looks up at me. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? You don’t want me here. So I’ll let you do your research, and when you’re ready to get down to business and win this case, you let me know.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So that’s it? You’re just going to let me do everything myself?”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
She sits back, and I see her chest rise and fall beneath that silky, covered-up blouse of hers that leaves way too much room for my imagination to run wild, which is exactly what it’s doing for some crazy reason.
“What I want doesn’t matter,” she says, interrupting my errant fantasy. “We were told to work together.”
“But you’re not making that easy.”
She releases a huffy little breath. “Neither are you. How am I supposed to get things done with you distracting me every two seconds with all your fidgeting and sound effects?”
“I don’t fidget.” I sit straight, resenting her comment. I’d have my phone on DND mode for complete silence if I didn’t have Jace to worry about.
“Agree to disagree.” She returns her attention to the pile of papers in front of her, crossing things off and making marks with her pen like a teacher on a mission with a red marker. It’s kind of sexy how serious she is, how unconcerned she is with whether or not I like her. I’m used to women hurling themselves at me, but not Tenley.
I think about how I’d pictured her the other night, while I was talking to my workaholic stranger. Silk stockings, lacy camisole. The hair from that severe ponytail, loose around her shoulders.
Suddenly, I’m imagining her as the girl from that fantasy I told to my sweet stranger.
Shit. I need to stop that.
Squelching that thought, I take my phone, lift it, making a show of turning it off before pocketing it so it’s out of the way. If there’s a true emergency, Ellie or the school knows the number to the office and someone can track me down.
“Better?” I ask.
She nods, though she’s unimpressed. “Much. Now, let’s get to work.”
7
It’s nearly two-thirty when I finally come up for air and realize I’m late.
Well, not really. On-time. But in my book, on time is late. My walk to the shelter on Congress Street usually takes twenty minutes, and I like to get there well ahead of my three o’clock time slot so that I can answer emails and be prepared for my meeting with my mentee, Rhonda. Just like in my regular job, the early bird gets the worm.
