Page 15 of Breaking the Lawyer

I'm supposed to work like this? With a perfect view of the man who made me question my entire identity over a weekend? The man whose voice I can't stop replaying in my head like a broken record?

This is like putting a pyromaniac in a fireworks factory.

Maybe I'm having a stroke. That would explain the sudden inability to form coherent thoughts and the way my heart is trying to escape through my throat.

I consider my options. Option A—quit immediately and become a hermit. Option B—ask for a desk transfer to literally anywhere else, becausereasons. Or C—accept that my life really is a cosmic joke and I'm the punchline.

Or else I could just pretending this is totally normal and I'm definitely not having a breakdown.

Yep. Seems like the most professional choice.

I force my attention back to the laptop and open the first document.

It's mind-numbing stuff about vacation policies and dress codes, but I dutifully start reading. Or rather, trying to read, because my eyes keep drifting back to Christian's office like they're controlled by some cruel puppet master.

He looks different here. Focused and serious, sure, but at the same time relaxed, like he’s in his element. Which he probably is.

It makes me wonder what he looks like at home. Is he always this put-together or is there a version of him who wears sweatpants and gets bedhead?

And why the hell am I wondering about his bedhead?

I'm so busy having yet another crisis, I almost miss it when he looks up and catches me staring. Our eyes meet through the glass, and I feel my face burn as I quickly look away, pretending to be fascinated by the section on professional conduct.

Nice. Maybe I should just wear a neon sign that reads ‘Inappropriate workplace thoughts in progress’.

A few minutes later, I risk another glance. Christian's rolling up his sleeves, the simple action revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair. I've never been particularlyinterested in forearms before—hell, I'm not sure I've ever consciously noticed them—but watching his hands work the fabric is doing things to me that are definitely not appropriate for the workplace.

Or anywhere, really.

A quiet ping from my laptop saves me from my spiral into madness. A chat window has appeared in the corner of my screen—some kind of internal messaging system.

Christian Johns:You should at least try to look busy.

I glance up to find him watching me with that familiar smirk, and my heart does a little flip that I'm choosing to ignore.

Brooks Lang:I AM busy. Taking everything in.

Christian Johns:Funny, because it looks like what you're busy with is staring at me.

Oops.

Brooks Lang:I'm not staring. I'm observing my new work environment.

Christian Johns:Right. And what observations have you made?

I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I probably shouldn’t do this, but the safety of the chat window makes me bold. Or stupid. Most likely stupid.

Brooks Lang:Your tie looks funny.

I watch him glance down at his perfectly normal tie, then back at his screen. Even from across the room, I can see him fighting a smile.

Christian Johns:My tie is fine. Unlike yours. Did you buy it in the kids' section?

Fuck. I've been so busy enjoying the view I forgot to keep my jacket on.

Brooks Lang:It's the newest fashion statement. You wouldn't understand—you're too old to keep up with trends.

I send it before I can think better of it.

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