Page 19 of Dial L for Lawyer
Our food arrives, and I pour her tea, deliberately not holding her gaze because she'll see exactly what I'm thinking.
"So, strategy." She breaks her chopsticks with a practiced snap. "What am I in for on Friday?"
"The most polite public execution HR can stage. They'll ask about everything, hope you trip up or panic. Which you won't."
She chews her lower lip, and I have to shift in my seat. "And if I do?"
"Then I drag their legal counsel into an alley and verbally mug him until he begs for mercy." I smile at her snorted laugh.
"Their legal counsel is your brother."
"And I'll happily strangle him with his own necktie if he plays dirty. It's called brotherly love. Don't worry—David can take it. Though, knowing how he operates, he’ll play it cleaner than most." I spoon some rice onto my plate, pretending nonchalance, pretending I'm not watching the way her tongue darts out to catch a drop of sauce. "The main thing is to stay calm. All this evidence they claim to have? Most of it is fluff and circumstantial. They'll try to scare you into an admission, or at the very least, a resignation."
She takes a sip of tea, her lips on the rim making me imagine them brushing against mine. "So HR is the enemy?"
I shake my head, trying to focus. "HR is the hitman. The real enemy is whoever wants you taking the fall for this. If they can't bury you in legal quicksand, they'll try to force you out by killing your professional reputation."
And I'll destroy anyone who tries to hurt you. I'll burn their whole fucking life down.
I watch her pick at her food, quieter than usual. The vulnerability makes me want to pull her into my lap, kiss her until she believes everything will be OK.
"They'll push on why you didn't delete the emails," I continue, studying the way her collarbones stand out above that neckline. "They'll imply keeping them shows consideration."
"That's ridiculous."
"It's strategy. They want you to lose your temper." I set down my chopsticks before I do something stupid like reach across the table. "Answer only what they ask. Don't elaborate, don't defend."
She set the tea aside and takes a sip of beer, hand unsteady. "And if they accuse me directly?"
"You look at me and let me handle it."
Look at me like you did at the gala. Like I'm the only person you give a damn about. Like you want me as badly as I want you.
The conversation flows more naturally as we discuss strategy. The more we talk, the more I catch glimpses of the woman I remember. Not the one with the barbed tongue who always claimed she couldn't stand me—although I liked her a lot. But the one from the night of the gala and the weeks after. The woman with the sharp intelligence, the way she processes information and adapts. But there's a wall between us now. And I fucking hate it.
The waiter clears our plates, leaving us with a handful of mints and the check. The silence stretches, and I'm about to suggest we leave when she speaks.
"Why are you doing this? I wouldn't have blamed you for telling me to go fuck myself."
Because if I’m going to tell you to fuck yourself, I’d rather watch...
"You need help. I'm good at what I do."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it. Why are we here?"
Because I'm obsessed with you. Because I can't stop thinking about you underneath me.
"Professional curiosity."
She's not buying it. "I'm glad you had someone to call that night. I'm glad you have so many dinner companions."
There's something in her tone—jealousy—that pleases me immensely.
"I didn't," I say quietly.
"Didn't what?"
"Didn't bring anyone here before you. Didn't call anyone that night at Georgio’s either. I sat there for two hours, ate three baskets of bread, drank an entire bottle of wine alone." My voice has an edge. "And I was pissed as hell."
