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“You can put your things there,” she said, nodding to a small desk to the right of her larger one. It was a tiny office compared to the partners’ offices at Sterling Grove, but it was covered with marks of Kieran's legal pedigree: framed degrees from UMASS Amherst and Harvard, a shelf full of well-used books on family law, protective orders, and custody, another full of case files.
“All right,” Kieran said, sitting down at her desk. “I’m here Wednesday afternoon and all day on Fridays. You should pick two four-hour slots to be here during regular working hours. What will it be? You have to be here with me at least one slot, but you’ll get more out of it if I’m here both.”
I chose to work on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and she marked me neatly on her desk calendar.
“Right, then. You’ll basically be doing a lot of my research and paperwork for several of the different cases we take on, and you’ll also meet with clients of your own. For instance, I’ve got an appointment today with a woman who is trying to claim emotional abuse against a spouse while also filing for divorce. It’s nasty. I’ve just taken her case—” Kieran gestured to a thick envelope in front of me. “You’ll need to read her file, interview her, and then begin drafting a motion for a protective order and sanctions. Any questions?”
I thumbed briefly through the documents. There were several court transcripts from previous hearings, as well as signed statements by witnesses affirming the abuse in different forms, including a letter from a psychiatrist proclaiming the guy a sociopath.
“One, if you have the time to answer it,” I said. “What’s a sociopath?”
Kieran scowled.
“A first-rate son of a bitch,” she said emphatically. “Otherwise defined as someone who doesn’t act with logical notions of morality or social awareness. A narcissist only concerned with his own wellbeing. Someone who plays games with others to bolster his own ego, who gifts to procure debts, who loves to exact his demented version of vengeance.”
Kieran huffed and rapped her knuckles on the wood desktop after each definition.
“These kinds of assholes usually start out sailing into a relationship like a white knight. They make grand gestures to vulnerable women. Proclaim their love, then take control because of it. And they hate to lose, which is why legal battles with them tend to be very expensive. This guy in particular”—she nodded at the file—“embezzled half of the client’s 401K, and now she’s bankrupt because they’ve been in litigation for over a year. It’s why she’s here instead of some big firm. But he won’t stop until he’s ruined her, even if it ruins him.”
It wasn’t the kind of case I’d expected to see here. This woman was educated, a respected businesswoman before she’d gotten mixed up with this guy. She could be me, just a few years older.
“You’ll learn a lot working here,” Kieran said. “About your own life as well as theirs. Sometimes a prince is really just the devil in disguise.”
Thirteen
The buzzer tore through the apartment at five minutes past eight. Brandon was slightly late, but I only noticed because I had been ready to go for at least an hour. Before leaving for her date with a Physics Ph.D. student, Jane had helped me get ready for the first date in a long time that made me nervous.
All he had told me was that we were going to dinner and to wear a dress. I had received one cryptic email on Thursday confirming our date, but that was it. Beyond that, I had nothing. Did I even have anything remotely appropriate in my wardrobe for a date with a billionaire? Could I wear boots and tights befitting the frigid weather, or was I expected to wear a sexy cocktail dress? His previous references to “events” made me wonder if we were going to some fancy function (I really hoped not).
Where did billionaires go on dates anyway?
In the end, Jane and I had decided on a short-sleeved, knit black dress that hugged every curve I had, from the flared, knee-length hem all the way up to the scoop neck. I paired the dress with sheer black stockings and my favorite Manolos, fresh back from the cobbler. Jane had tucked my unruly locks into hot rollers for fifteen minutes and then teased them into waves that tumbled down my back. Once I had my contacts in and put on a bit of mascara and lip gloss, I felt like I had completely eschewed my bookish law-student exterior in favor of a sex kitten I didn’t know I had in me. Or at least that I hadn’t seen in a very long time.
It still didn’t stop my nerves from dancing around my belly like maniacs for another hour after Jane left. Until the buzzer rang, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure the date was for real.
I pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”
“It’s Brandon. Let me up?”
I leaned my forehead against the wall momentarily. “Sure,” I said and buzzed him in.
I opened the door and waited. Footsteps, heavy and urgent, grew closer. My stomach. I was setting myself up for disappointment, I knew, but at this point, I couldn’t care less. He was finally here.
“Do you realize that we forgot to trade cell phone numbers?” Brandon demanded as he strode into my apartment like he owned the place.
I closed the door. Brandon swiped through his iPhone contacts without even looking at me.
“All your intern file contains is a Google Voice number that apparently you don’t check. I wanted to call this week to confirm our date, but I couldn’t. Shit, I wanted to let you know I was stuck in traffic just now, but I couldn’t.”
Immediately, I was glad I had gone with a more casual dress instead of something more formal. He looked good—amazing, actually—in tailored jeans, a light-gray button-up shirt, a black skinny tie, and a leather bomber jacket. A black scarf and a pair of leather gloves were clutched in one hand, and his tousled blond hair was unruly and free. My fingers ached to grab it.
“I sent you an email,” I said in a small voice.
“Margie checks my Sterling email. I never go through it.”
The catch of the lock finally made him look up. I stood against the door, my hands wrapped around the knob behind me. A sly half grin spread over Brandon's face. He dropped his phone into his pocket and blew out a slow, uneven breath.
“Damn, Red,” he murmured. “I thought you were gorgeous before, but…wow.”
