Page 3 of Never In My Wildest Dreams

After several rings, the call finally connected. “It’s Ginty. Leave a message.” But it was just a recording.

“Hey, man. I’ve got some news on that contract. Give me a call.” It was probably a good thing his client hadn’t answered. He didn’t want to talk to him in the office.

Better to make the call from home.

Grabbing his briefcase, he started for the door. In case things went sideways, though, he should probably take the signed baseball from his first deal, the puck that got Ginty’s team into the playoffs, and the brass scale of justice his dad had kept on his desk throughout his entire career as an attorney.

Well, wait. He had to play this carefully. If he took anything, Marcus would notice.Best to leave it.If things went south, he’d have George grab them.

But his gaze lingered on the scales, and he snatched it up and stuffed it in his briefcase. It was the only thing that really mattered.

As he and his mom had sorted through his dad’s belongings, she’d asked him to take whatever he wanted. That was the only thing he took. Tarnished, dusty, and given to his dad by his father, it encapsulated the character of the Hayes men.

Another blow struck him right in the solar plexus.

I’m not a Hayes man.

The truth sent a prickling sensation down his spine.

But he wasn’t going to think about that now. He had to handle this situation with Marcus.

His boss had drawn a line in the sand, and Booker knew from experience the man never walked it back. He either followed orders, or he’d be punished.

Even if Marcus didn’t fire him—though he certainly might—he’d pull the partnership, just to make a point.

Glancing at his laptop—owned by the firm—he wondered if he had anything incriminating to delete.Nope. He didn’t live his life like that. Any transmission sent, any correspondence—everything he did was aboveboard.

He pulled his overcoat off the hook and headed down the hallway.

Vaguely, he heard someone call his name, but he didn’t break stride. Only after the elevator ride, when he reached the marble-floored foyer, did the voice get stronger.

“Booker.”

He spun around to find George hurrying toward him, out of breath. “Jeez, I thought I had to tackle you. Were you fired?”

“No, why?”

“Because Marcus stormed over to his assistant and told him to ‘put a file together on that Detroit kid.’”

Something cracked inside him. “Fuck.” Marcus would actually do it. He’d fire him.

Any hope he had of staying with this firm died in that moment.

“What’s going on?” George asked. “Why’s he taking your prospective client?”

“He wants me to do something I can’t do. And if I don’t, he’ll fire me.”

George’s eyes went wide. “So, you’re quitting?”

“I haven’t decided, but it looks like I’ll have to.”

“This is about Ginty, right?” George asked. “The whole Boston thing?”

“Yeah.” He should’ve known his colleague would put the pieces together. They’d known each other eleven years—through college, law school, and now Elite.

George’s gaze dropped to his briefcase. “If you’re not quitting, then where’re you going?”

“I have to talk to Ginty, and I can’t do it in the office. But now that I know Marcus is making a grab for the guy I’ve spent the last year developing a relationship with, I don’t think I can stay here.”

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