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Earlier today when he stepped off the elevator, you’d have thought George Clooney had waltzed in the way everyone was making a fuss. I kept expecting someone to pop a bottle of Cristal or throw an impromptu welcome back party.
Brooks is still looking at me. Arm propped on the arm rest, holding his pen, clicking the button on the top of it. Not rhythmically though—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, no rhyme or reason, as if he wants to keep me guessing.
Click. Click-click. Click. Click-click-click.
I meet his steely gaze with one of my own. We stare each other down so long I swear the temperature in the room skyrockets.
He’s not going to stop, is he? He’s just going to keep staring like that, forever.
Clicking.
Does he blink?
Why the hell won’t he blink?
He’s definitely not stopping. The clicking is tortuously obnoxious, and I can’t hold much longer without going off on him.
I blink and look away. “I have to get to work to fix this.”
He stands the second I do. “Where are you going?”
“My office. I don’t need any distractions.” I head for the door.
“So I’m a distraction?”
I glare as I pass. “You and that pen of yours.”
“I’m the bane of your existence?” He asks, a hopeful tinge to his voice.
“Worse than that.”
“Great,” he calls after me. “Mission accomplished.”
I slam the door to my office. Instantly I regret it. I don’t want anyone to know he’s gotten under my skin. I stalk to my email and see a message from my paralegal.
Excited, I click on it, until I read her message: Nothing interesting to pin on James Perry. All seems perfectly in order so far. Still digging…
Bleh. We have a decent start on establishing James’ character, but it’s not enough. I was hoping the financial records would hold the smoking gun and I could wave it around in triumph, especially in Brooks’s smug face. I’d used my connections at the women’s center to find a pro-bono forensic accountant to help with the case, and she’s been going over the numbers for me, partly so I won’t have to bother the partners, and partly because it’ll give me a leg up on that promotion.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t give me that much of a leg. Yesterday, as I was going through the files, I found that Brooks has been emailing a professor at his law school for advice on the case. The two of them are tight. And the insight he’s been providing? Pure gold.
I can’t help but wonder if this is his strategy—make me think he’s slacking off so I don’t try as hard.
I knew this would become a pissing match, but I never thought we’d sacrifice our client’s humanity and our professionalism in the process.
I type in a quick thanks to my assistant and lean back, staring at the binder and thinking about all colorful little tabs Brooks placed inside.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t hate him so much. It’d make all of this easier.
Last night, I took out Old Reliable again, except once again, as soon as I came, I saw Brooks’s face. I’m still trying to understand why. I’ve always been attracted to him. Physically, anyway. He’s easy on the eyes—any woman alive could tell you that. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with having a fantasy about a completely made-up man that happens to look slightly like Brooks Gentry…
It’s just a harmless fantasy, after all.
As I open the cover of the binder, a text comes in.
Brooks: Come on back. I found something.
I jump up and practically trip over my feet to get to the conference room, where he’s sitting, phone out, smirking, feet actually crossed and on the table. That takes balls. I don’t even think I’ve seen the Fosters do that.
He looks up as if surprised to see me.
“What?” I demand.
“What?” He looks confused.
Okay, this is bullshit. “Are you in third grade? Didn’t you just text me you found something?”
He shrugs. “Oh. Right. I didn’t find anything. I just knew that was the only way to get you back here. And I’m lonely.”
He’s doing this on purpose, trying to annoy me. First it was the pen, now it’s this. What’s his angle? What’s his game here?
I cross my arms and just stare at him. Seriously? He’s going to play it this way?
“I’m not an intern,” I remind him. “I don’t delight in keeping you company.”
He pouts. “I know. But they’re all gone. Everyone’s gone. And I can’t work alone.”
“You are a child.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I just know that if the partners see us working separately, they won’t be happy with either of us.”
He has a point. I roll my eyes, then go back, get the binder, and throw it down across from him. “Happy?”
He nods, but I don’t think he’s happy I’m here—he’s happy because he got me to do his bidding.
Trying to ignore him, I start to go through the binder. The closer I look, the more impressed I am at his comments. Maybe I shouldn’t have snapped at him before.
