Page 4 of Making It Burn
“Lisa Morales,” she said, grinning as she extended her free hand.“Senior paralegal.Mrs.Hollingsworth asked me to show you around and then take you to a meeting.”
The elevator dinged again, and the doors opened onto the 19th floor—sleek, polished, and humming with quiet energy.
“Welcome to the big leagues,” Lisa said, stepping aside so I could follow her out.“Try not to look too impressed.”
Too late for that.I was already impressed—and just a little terrified.
Lisa guided me through a maze of glass-walled offices and open workspaces that hummed with quiet productivity.Associates hunched over laptops, paralegals shuttled between cubicles with armfuls of files, and somewhere a printer churned out what sounded like the entire U.S.Tax Code.
“Coffee station’s over there,” Lisa said, gesturing to a sleek chrome setup that looked like it belonged on a spaceship.“Free espresso, cappuccino, whatever keeps you upright.We go through about forty pounds of beans a week, which tells you everything you need to know about this place.”
I grinned.“Noted.What’s the office culture like?”
She gave me a look that was equal parts amusement and warning.“Competitive.Everyone’s smart, everyone’s hungry, and everyone thinks they’re one billable hour away from making partner.”She paused at a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows.“Case in point—Mason Price.”
My stomach dropped.
Through the glass, I could see him: bent over a stack of documents, one hand holding a pen, the other pushing through that wavy blond hair I remembered too well.He wore a charcoal suit that was perfectly tailored, and even from here I could see the sharp focus in his expression—like the rest of the world had faded to static and only the case in front of him mattered.
Fifteen years.It had been fifteen goddamn years since that lacrosse field, and somehow he looked exactly the same.Older, sure—sharper lines around his jaw, broader shoulders—but still unmistakably him.
“Mason’s our golden boy,” Lisa continued, oblivious to the fact that my pulse had kicked into overdrive.“Joined the firm straight out of Princeton Law, works like a machine, clients love him.He’s probably going to make partner before he’s thirty-five.”She lowered her voice conspiratorially.“He’s also a bit of a robot.Polite, professional, but I’ve never seen the man crack a genuine smile.I’m pretty sure he irons his underwear.”
I forced a laugh.“Sounds like a blast at parties.”
“Oh, he doesn’t go to parties.He works.”She started walking again, and I followed, grateful to put distance between me and that glass wall.“Come on, the conference room’s this way.Mrs.Hollingsworth wants to introduce you to the team.”
My heart was still pounding.Mason Price.Here.Of all the law firms in Virginia, of course I’d end up at his.
The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
The conference room was all polished mahogany and leather chairs, with a view of downtown Richmond that would’ve been impressive if I wasn’t too busy trying not to throw up.Around the long table sat a handful of attorneys and paralegals, all looking extra caffeinated.
At the head of the table sat two people who could only be the senior partners: a silver-haired man in an immaculate suit who radiated quiet menace, and a woman with honey-blonde hair and pearls who looked like she hosted charity galas in her sleep—because she did.
“Beau!”The woman stood, her face lighting up with genuine warmth as she rounded the table.“Oh, sweetheart, look at you!All grown up and polished.”
Patricia Hollingsworth pulled me into a brief hug—the kind that smelled like Chanel No.5 and old Richmond money—before stepping back to look at me properly.“Your mother is absolutely beside herself with pride about you working here, though she’d never admit it.”
I couldn’t help but smile.“Hi, Mrs.Hollingsworth.It’s good to see you.”
“Patsy, darling.We’re colleagues now.”She squeezed my arm affectionately.“Though I have to say, the last time I saw you, you were what—nineteen?Twenty?Home from college for the summer and trying to avoid one of your mother’s garden parties?”
“Guilty as charged.”
She laughed, that easy Southern warmth making the formal conference room feel a little less intimidating.“Well, you’ve certainly come a long way since then.Your mother brags about you every Thursday at bridge.‘My Beau graduated from Stanford Law, top of his class’—I could recite her speech in my sleep.”
I felt my neck flush.“She exaggerates.”
“Does she?”Patsy’s eyes twinkled.“We’ll see about that.”
She gestured to the man beside her, who had been watching our exchange with the patient stillness of a predator.“This is Carter Rhoads, my co-founder and managing partner.”
Carter stood, extending his hand.His handshake was firm, calculated—the kind that tested you without seeming to.Up close, he was even more imposing: sharp gray eyes that missed nothing, a jaw carved from granite, and a stillness that made you want to confess to crimes you didn’t commit.
“Mr.Thatcher,” he said, his voice smooth and measured.“Welcome to Hollingsworth, Rhoads, and Brown.”
“Thank you, sir.It’s an honor to be here.”
