Dream On(22)

Groaning, I bury my face in my palm. Nearly a year of little to no social contact other than family, Brie, and doctors must have zapped any flirtatious texting prowess I previously possessed—weak as it was.

A dull knock reverberates against the wall of my cubicle. Dropping my phone into my lap, I take out my earbuds. Andréa Miller, a senior attorney at the firm and the leader of the litigation group, is standing beside my desk, deep brown eyes crinkled in a smile. Her white button-down is rolled up to her elbows, exposing her dark, toned forearms, and the pleat in her tailored skirt is so sharp it could cut glass.

Warmth fills my chest. Andréa is the reason I landed an offer from Smith & Boone in the first place. She was my mentor at the US Attorney’s Office when I clerked there after my first year of law school. We stayed in touch, and when she landed a job at Smith & Boone as a senior litigator two years later and found out I’d applied for a first-year associate position, she put in a good word for me with the hiring committee. And now that I’m a summer-but-hopefully-soon-to-be-first-year associate, she specifically requested me for her practice group: litigation, one of the most well-respected—and lucrative—groups in the firm.

“How’s the memo for the Beckley appeal going?” she asks.

I flick my gaze to the open Word document on my screen. The rough draft is done but still needs to be properly formatted with citations and a hefty dose of proofreading. Mercedes has stopped typing. She appears to be checking her email, but her back is unusually straight. She’s totally eavesdropping.

“Great. I’ll have it in your in-box before I leave today.”

“Excellent! Do you have an hour? I’m hopping on a conference call with a client to go over some questions before his deposition next week. It’d be good for you to listen in. And if you don’t mind, take some notes.”

My phone buzzes from where I’m clutching it in my lap. Devin’s texted me back. I quickly glance down.

Roger that, Nancy Drew. See you at 7



I swallow the dry lump rising in my throat. If I sit in on the conference call, it won’t leave me much time to finish my memo and get home in time to get ready for tonight’s meet-up.

But this is big law life. There’s only one answer. “Of cour—”

“I’d be happy to take notes for you, Andréa,” Mercedes cuts in.

Every muscle in my body goes tense. I know what Mercedes’s doing. And I don’t like it. Not one bit.

Andréa blinks. “Thanks, but Cass has it covered… Mercedes, isn’t it?”

Mercedes pops out of her seat and extends her hand. Her charcoal skirt hugs the voluptuous curve of her hips. “Trowbridge. Ohio State University Law School graduate, magna cum laude.”

What the hell? I thought I was the only graduate in the summer associate program. Typically, summer associates are rising second-and third-year law students. My situation was unique. Or so I thought. That would explain her extra helping of competitiveness toward me. We’re competing for the same position in real time.

“A fellow Buckeye. Nice to meet you.” They shake. “Which practice group are you assigned to?”

“Public law.”

“Ah, Frank Carlson’s group.”

“Yes. But I’d love some exposure to litigation, and I’m always happy to help if you need an extra hand.”

From anyone else, I’d consider this a run-of-the-mill, benign request for practical experience in a different area of the law. But from the tone of Mercedes’s voice and the way one corner of her lips curl into a split-second smirk, it’s clearly an indictment of my perceived skills. An attempt to hip check me out of her way and into my assigned group. Heat pulses through my veins and I ball a hand into a fist on my lap. My nails dig into my palm.

Andréa blinks twice. “I’ll talk to Frank and see what we can do. Ready?” She says to me.

With a nod, I stuff my phone into a drawer, unplug my laptop from its docking station, and follow Andréa out.

“She’s intense, that one,” she says once we’re two hallways down and out of earshot.

The temptation to drag Mercedes from here to Timbuktu pounds in my chest, but I shove it down. I prefer to take the high road. It’s less crowded up there.

I shrug one shoulder. “She wouldn’t be at Smith & Boone if she wasn’t.”

Andréa chuckles. “True.”

We enter her windowed office and she closes the door behind me. I settle into the sleek, upholstered chair across from her desk and send up a silent prayer to whatever god is listening… please, don’t let this call take too long. I have a memo to finish and the meeting of my life to get ready for. No problem, right?



* * *



“Brie, I have a problem.” My voice comes out a choked whisper even though I’m alone in the women’s bathroom at the end of the hall.

“What’s up, buttercup? It’s almost seven—why aren’t you home getting ready for your get-together with Dream Boy?”

“Because I’m still at the office.”

“What! Why?”

“I got roped into a client meeting and then I had to finish a memo for my supervisor that took way longer than I thought.” At least Mercedes already went home. The last thing I need is for her to walk in on my bout of unbridled panic.