Page 19 of Breaking the Lawyer

I sit there staring at my screen, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free and chase after him.

It shouldn't be like this. I should be attracted to one of the many beautiful, intelligent women around me. Monica from HR with her warm smile. The brunette associate who introduced herself earlier. Any woman, really.

Instead, all I can think about is making Christian regret agreeing to meet me tonight.

And the twisted part? I can't wait to see what regret looks like on him.

Chapter 4

I'VE BEEN SITTING in my car for the past ten minutes, gripping the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality, trying to work up the courage to walk into what is clearly the most expensive bar I've seen in my life.

The Lagune looks like the kind of place where they charge fifty dollars for a glass of whiskey and the bartenders have graduate degrees in mixology. Floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek black exterior, and a valet who keeps eyeing my beat-up Honda like it's personally offending him.

I should have a plan. Some kind of strategy for what I'm going to say when I see Christian. The problem is, I don't know what the hell I want out of this conversation. All I know is that I've been thinking about him for the past six hours straight, and it's driving me insane.

My phone buzzes, making me jump in my seat.

Christian:You know there are windows in here, right?

Fuck. I glance up at the tinted glass, where Christian is apparently watching me have a breakdown in the parking lot.Heat floods my cheeks as I imagine him sitting inside, probably laughing at my pathetic attempt at psyching myself up.

Well, that settles it. I can't look like more of an idiot than I already do.

I give myself a nod in the rearview mirror—because why not lean into the crazy at this point—and get out of the car. The valet gives me a look that suggests my presence is lowering property values, but I ignore him and stride toward the entrance like I have every right to be here.

The inside is exactly what I expected. All warm amber lighting, leather everything, and clientele that probably considers my monthly salary pocket change. I spot Christian immediately at a corner booth, already nursing what looks like whiskey, and my stomach does that thing it's been doing all day—the flip-twist-clench combo that's becoming my body's default response to this man.

He looks up as I approach, that familiar smirk playing at his lips. "You know, most people don't need a pep talk in their car before entering a bar."

I slide into the booth across from him, grateful for the dim lighting that might hide my flushed cheeks. There are two whiskey glasses on the table, which means he ordered for me. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

"Most people don't have to psyche themselves up for conversations with their new boss who they may have accidentally chat-sexted with."

"I'm hardly your boss. Also, chat-sexted isn't a word."

"It is now. I'm a lawyer, I can make words legally binding."

"That's not how words work."

"Says who? You?" I take a whiff of the whiskey, enjoying the richness of it. "I think we've established that you're not the authority on everything."

He leans back against the leather, studying me with those dark eyes. "We should probably establish the ground rules now. What happened today—"

"You mean when you couldn't stand up because of me?" The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I watch Christian's jaw tighten.

"Jesus, Brooks." He glances around nervously. "Keep your voice down."

I lean forward slightly, emboldened by the whiskey I haven't even really touched yet. "I'm just clarifying which part we're setting rules about. The messaging part, or the part where I made you hard enough to—"

"The messaging part," he cuts me off quickly, but his pupils are dilated now, and somehow, that feels like victory.

I take a sip, studying Christian over the rim of my glass. He looks even better in the dim lighting—all sharp angles and barely contained tension. The suit doesn't hurt either.

"Okay, so no more messaging. Got it. What about in-person conversations?"

"What about them?"

"Are we allowed to talk about how good you look in that suit? Because I have thoughts." I let my gaze drift over his shoulders, the way the fabric stretches across his chest.

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