Page 14 of Breaking the Lawyer

Busted. "I’m listening." Sort of. In the same way people listen to white noise. "You said something about libraries and precedents and..." I gesture vaguely. "Legal stuff."

Christian stops walking and gives me an amused look. "This is important information, you know."

"I know. I'm just..." I run a hand through my hair. "It's been a weird few days, okay? I'm still processing."

"Processing what?"

You, I want to say.This whole mess. The fact that I can't stop staring at your mouth when you talk. The way you make me feel like I'm seventeen and discovering porn for the first time.

"New job," I say instead. "Big life change and all that."

He studies my face for a moment, and I get the distinct feeling he can see right through my bullshit. But all he says is, "Fair enough. Try to pay attention to this next part though—it's where you'll actually be working."

We round a corner and emerge into a large open space filled with desks and the low hum of productivity. People are scattered throughout, heads bent over laptops, phones pressed to ears. It's busy but not chaotic, the kind of efficiency that probably bills a lot of hours.

"Your desk," Christian says, pointing to a spot near the windows. "Laptop should be set up with your temp password."

I nod, taking in what’s going to be my new home. It's nice enough—decent chair, good lighting, enough space for the inevitable case file explosion.

But what really catches my attention are the glass offices lining the far wall. Partners, probably, based on the expensivesuits and serious expressions visible through the transparent walls.

"Any questions?" Christian asks.

"Nope. Looks straightforward." I'm proud of how casual I sound, all things considered.

"Good. I have a meeting to prepare for, so you're on your own for orientation part two." He checks his watch. "There should be a welcome email with all the boring policy stuff. Try to at least skim it."

"Will do."

Christian turns to go, then pauses. "And Brooks? Try not to cause any scandals on your first day."

"What kind of scandals could I possibly cause?"

That earns me another one of those looks. "With you? I'm not taking any chances."

He walks away, and I watch him go, noting the confident stride and the way people automatically step aside. He's clearly got serious clout here, which makes sense. The guy's obviously brilliant, even if he is annoyingly smug about it.

And apparently I'm the type of person who finds smugness attractive now. Great. Add that to the growing list of things I need to unpack with my therapist.

I make my way to my desk, exchanging awkward introductions with my new neighbors. Everyone seems friendly enough, though busy, which suits me fine. All it would take is a single ‘How was your weekend?’ to trigger my internal nuclear meltdown.

My laptop is waiting with a post-it note containing my password. I boot it up and open my email, finding the promisedwelcome message with various attachments. Company policies, employee handbook, case management tutorials.

How thrilling.

I'm about to dive into the sad world of billable hour requirements when I glance up and immediately spot a familiar figure through one of the glass walls.

Wait.

Hold the fuck up.

I blink once. Twice. Rub my eyes like I'm in a cartoon.

Nope. Still there.

Christian's sitting at a desk, jacket off, completely absorbed in whatever's on his screen. The early afternoon light streaming through his window catches the strong line of his profile, and I have to grip the edge of my desk to keep from sliding out of my chair.

Of-fucking-course.Of coursehe has an office. Of course I'm going to have a front-row seat to Christian Johns: The Professional Years, Monday through Friday, eight hours a day, for the foreseeable future. Because apparently the universe looked at my life and thought, ‘You know what this needs? More psychological torture.’

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