Page 9 of Hooked on Dallas
“How on earth did I get so lucky as to get you, Ms. Stevens?”
My cheeks flush with pleasure at the compliment. Maybe I am getting closer to cracking that tough exterior after all.
I clear my throat, willing my blush to fade. “Shall we order in some dinner? I’m afraid it’s rather late and we still have more work left to do.”
“An excellent suggestion. Chinese?”
“Perfect.” My stomach rumbles. In the day's rush, I forgot to eat lunch.
It takes twenty minutes before the savory aroma of garlic, ginger and chili envelopes the office. We order several dishes to share, and when we eat an awkward silence falls between us.
“So, how did you first become interested in law?”
He pauses, as if deciding how much to reveal. “My father was a lawyer. He always hoped I would follow in his footsteps, so I felt obligated to pursue a law degree to please him. But I never enjoyed it.”
“Then why did you stick with it?” I ask, tilting my head. This is the most he’s ever opened up about his personal life. I hang on his every word, eager to learn more about the man behind the intimidating facade.
“Family obligations. Duty. Pressure to meet expectations.” He shrugs, a wry twist to his lips. “The usual reasons people end up in careers they don’t find fulfilling, I suppose.”
His words strike a chord in me.
I bite my lip, hesitating, then say softly, “I can understand that. My parents always wanted me to become a teacher, like my mother. But I never really felt passionate about it. I just went along with their plans because I wanted to please them.”
Mr. De La Cruz’s gaze sharpens, and for a moment we simply look at each other with a kind of quiet understanding.
“So why did you become a legal assistant instead?” he asks.
I smile. “To rebel, I suppose. After graduating, I realized I couldn’t face a lifetime in a classroom. I wanted to break free, find my own path. Even if it meant disappointing my parents.”
“And do you regret your choice?” His tone is neutral, but his eyes are intensely focused on me, as if my answer matters a great deal.
“Not anymore,” I say. “Working at this firm has been challenging, but it’s helped me discover what I’m passionate about. What I’m good at.” I duck my head, feeling shy. “It’s made me realize I don’t need my parents’ approval to find fulfillment and purpose in my life.”
When I glance up again, Mr. De La Cruz is looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. But for the first time since I met him, I sense the hardness around him softening, revealinga glimpse of the vulnerability beneath. My cheeks warm, but I can’t tear my gaze away from his.
At that moment, something shifts between us. An understanding passed, fragile yet profound, and the distance I always sensed narrowed into something that feels almost like intimacy.
I clear my throat and look away, breaking the spell. But the feeling lingers, and when I risk another glance at Mr. De La Cruz, I find him watching me with a curious half-smile.
“What is it?” I ask, self-conscious.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “I was just thinking...”
“Thinking what?” I prompt when he doesn’t continue.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That maybe I misjudged you. I expected an eager young woman desperate to please. But you’re not that at all, are you?”
My heart swells at the compliment, spoken so grudgingly yet with such conviction. “I just want to do good work,” I say. “To contribute something meaningful. I think we both want the same things, in the end.”
“Do we?” He arches an eyebrow, but his tone is light, teasing. “Well, I suppose there are worse faults to share with one’s assistant.”
I laugh, the sound bright and airy in the cozy confines of the office. When is the last time I laughed like that with Mr. De La Cruz? If ever?
The thought sobers me, and I glance at the clock on the wall with a start. It is midnight, and we still have a full day ahead. Yet despite the late hour, I am less tired than I have been in weeks.
As I gather the empty takeout containers, I catch Mr. De La Cruz’s eye again and we share a private smile, full of promise and understanding. Yes, something has shifted between us tonight. And as I make my way home through the empty streets, I hope, perhaps for the first time, that it is only the beginning.
The next morning, I arrive at the office with a spring in my step and a latte in each hand. When I enter the lobby, Mr. De La Cruz is already there, poring over a stack of case files.
