Page 13 of Breaking the Lawyer

All of my hopes of wordlessly tailing him to wherever it is we're heading get shattered the second we're out in the hallway, where Christian stops, turns to face me, and raises his chin along with one brow as if to say 'Well?'

Like it's my fault we're here.

Speaking of…it's not my fault, is it?

I cross my arms and lift my chin up as well. Two can play this game. "So I guess you're not an influencer, huh?"

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he holds his stance otherwise. "What was your first clue?"

"Hey! Don't you—" I cut myself off as distant footsteps reach me and lower my voice, along with my hand, accusatoryfinger already pointing in his direction. How did that happen? "Don't act all smug.Itold you who I was.Youdidn't," I half-whisper, and just as he's about to retort, a new thought pops into my head. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Did you know about this?"

His brow falls back into place. "About what?"

Either he didn't, or he's a good actor.

I narrow my eyes and focus on reading his face as I speak. "I told you I'm a lawyer. I told you I got a new job. You knew your firm was hiring. Am I supposed to believe you didn't put two and two together?"

Christian looks just genuine enough, but barely. "Brooks, there are a thousand law firms in this city. And we hire monthly. It didn't even cross my mind that—" He sighs. "Of all the law firms in the city, you chose to walk into mine."

"Right, because that would be my luck. You sure you didn't Google me or something?"

"Google you?" Christian's eyebrow arches. "What would I even search for?Argumentative blonde guy with questionable pickup lines?"

"Hey! My pickup lines are excellent."

"'Come here often' is far from excellent, Brooks."

I open my mouth to argue, then remember where we are.

A professional workplace.

Where I'm supposed to be professional.

With my new colleague who definitely doesn't need to know about my wounded pride.

"Hearsay," I mutter.

Christian's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "Come on. Let's get this tour over with before someone starts wondering why we're having a staring contest in the hallway."

The next hour is a special kind of torture.

Christian leads me through the maze of floors, spouting off information about case loads and billing procedures while I try desperately to focus on literally anything other than the way he moves. It's like watching a master class in controlled confidence—every gesture deliberate, every word measured.

And here I am, nodding along like a bobblehead while my brain catalogues completely inappropriate details. The way his suit jacket stretches across his shoulders when he gestures. How his voice drops half an octave when he's explaining something technical. The fact that he smells like expensive cologne and competence.

And that’s not good. Not good at all.

"The library's on the fifteenth floor," he's saying as we pass a row of conference rooms. "Most research is digital, but if you ever feel like huffing some dust—"

I nod along, making appropriate sounds of interest while internally wondering if it's normal to find a man's voice this distracting. There's something about his particular brand of authority that makes me want to do stupid things.

Like ask him to read me the phone book. Or anything, really.

"—and the break room coffee is terrible, so most people hit the Starbucks on the ground floor."

"Got it. Terrible coffee, good Starbucks."

"You’re not really listening, are you?"

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