Page 9 of Breaking the Lawyer

Yeah, let's go with that.

Christian's response comes almost immediately this time. All two seconds of it.

"Not straight."

I shoot up to my feet, my cheeks momentarily heating up. I press record, and this time, I immediately start rambling. "I wasn't suggesting— I mean, I wasn't implying—" I close my mouth shut and huff. With my finger still on the record button, I give myself a moment.

This is…this is practice. If I'm going to argue for a living, I can't let myself get rattled the second something unexpected comes up. Besides…

"You know what? Scratch that." I finally say, then pause again.

He can wait.

I saunter to my bathroom, switch on the light and look my reflection in the eye. "There's no reason I can't be your type. You can, of course, not be fond of my particular characteristics, straight and all, but on face value?" I look myself up and down. "I'm kind of hot."

I've never said these words out loud before. I'm not sure it was ever really a thought, but somehow now it is. Maybe it's him who brings it out of me.

"I might not have the best sense of style," I continue, because self-deprecation isn't something I can fully eradicate inthe span of five minutes, and the baggy PJs I'm sporting aren't really helping my case here, "but I have good hair. My face card opened some doors for me. And I do have a decent body, objectively—biceps, triceps and all.” My gaze drops to where my junk is hidden under layers of baggy cotton. "Among other things I'll leave to your imagination, because wouldn't you like to know."

I lift the front of my oversized gray t-shirt and flex. "And while you might take your abs for granted, I'm sure proud of mine." And if that manic ramble slash peacocking slash therapy session isn't enough to qualify as the most unhinged, most embarrassing thing I've ever uttered, I add, "But I guess that's something you'll have to take my word for, because I'm very selective about who gets to see all that. I'mthatexclusive."

I manage to release the record button before I put the final nail in this conversation's coffin by saying 'I'm the prize' or some equally dumb shit, drop my phone on the vanity, lean down and pant, forcing myself to hold my own stare.

Okay, that was…bizarre? Overcompensating? Something my therapist will hear about first thing during our next session?

All of the above, and then some, and even though I can't quite unpack it right now one thing's for sure—it has something to do with the stranger from the bar who's probably laughing his ass off right about now and forwarding my ramble to all of his friends with a caption that reads 'CODE RED: A previously undiscovered flavor of crazy on the loose'.

And I will definitely send him an apology message, even though he's probably blocked me by now. As soon as my hands stop shaking.

The buzzing that echoes off the tiles a few seconds later takes me by surprise as if I suddenly forgot phones were a thing,let alone that I have one with me, because at this point I don't expect him to message me back. And he doesn't. Instead…

Christian is calling…

I wince at the screen, scared to touch it. Shit. Almost as if actions have consequences.

I give him a few seconds to give up. When he doesn't, I reluctantly answer, without a word.

"That's quite the case you've put together, counselor." There's a teasing edge to his tone, and I can't quite decipher if it's mocking or friendly. Maybe both. "Except I don't remember arguing against it. Still, I'd say it's impressive."

Jesus. I run my palm across my face, my cheeks burning. "Sorry about that," I mumble through my fingers before gripping the edge of the vanity, hoping the physical action will provide mental support. "I didn't mean to… I guess I'm just stressed about tomorrow or something," I lie. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

Christian hums, and a few painfully long seconds of silence follow before he speaks again. "So what's your deal?"

Damn. Can we get back to the silence please?

"What do you mean?" I feign confusion to buy myself some time, because yeah, I'd like to know too.

His chuckle lets me know he sees right through me. "What I mean is, what's with the advertisement? What is it that you need, Brooks? Validation?"

"Va—? No!" I sigh and force myself to meet my own gaze in the mirror. "No. I…I'm not sure. Actually, I have no idea if I'm being honest." I take a few moments to gather my scrambled thoughts. He lets me. When I come up empty, I ask, "What doyouthink?"

He lets out a prolonged exhale and I'm acutely aware I'm not onlylettinga stranger psychoanalyze me—I'maskingfor it. "I think you're trying to dip your toe in waters you've no intention of swimming in."

I blink at my reflection, the man staring back at me familiar yet somehow strange all at once. Is that what I'm doing?

I shove my free hand into the pocket of my pyjama bottoms and go back to my bedroom, sauntering back and forth aimlessly. "No, that can't be it," I finally say, my voice no longer defensive. "That would be…" It takes me three trips from the door to the window and back again until I find the right word. “Ridiculous. It'd be ridiculous."

He responds immediately. "How so?"

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