Dream On(9)

I knock softly before opening the door a crack. Three pairs of stunned eyes land on me and ohhhh no. This is definitely not the right room. A middle-aged man and woman wearing neatly tailored suits swivel to stare at me while an elderly gentleman wobbles to his feet on the far side of the oversized conference table.

“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m in the wrong place.” I begin shutting the door, but a gravelly voice makes me pause.

“Where are you heading to?” the older man asks. His shock of white hair, deeply lined face, and expensive gray suit are strangely familiar…

“The conference room where the summer associates were asked to meet.”

“You’re in luck. I’m on my way there now.” He gives me a sly grin.

My stomach nearly bottoms out and I swallow down the panic. This is Glenn Boone. I recognize him now: he was on the hiring panel that originally interviewed me last year. And he’s caught me red-handed arriving late on my first day. This is not the impression I wanted to make, but there’s nothing I can do. Lifting my chin, I force myself to stay calm.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Glenn adds to the other two people in the room—presumably attorneys. “Then we’ll go over those depositions again.” They both nod.

“Now, which summer associate are you?” he asks once he’s in the hallway.

“Cassidy Walker.” I surreptitiously brush my sweaty palm against my thigh and extend my hand. When he takes it, I give him a firm handshake. His hand feels like fish bones in a leather pouch. “I had the pleasure of meeting you when I interviewed for a first-year associate position last year.”

“Ahhhh, yes. Ms. Walker. The survivor. I was sorry to hear about your accident, but it looks like you’ve healed well.” His baggy-eyed gaze drifts down and his thin lips crease into a frown when he reaches my trousers. Heat climbs up my neck. I know some old-school judges don’t like to see women attorneys wear pants in a courtroom—they prefer skirt suits only—but I didn’t think Smith & Boone operated under the same sort of antiquated culture. Apparently, they do.

“Thank you. I have, yes.”

He lifts his eyes to my face and nods solemnly. “Good. We’re delighted you could join us this summer to ease into firm life, especially after all you’ve been through.”

“I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity, sir. Thank you.”

We begin walking down the hall. My feet itch to double-time it to wherever we’re going, seeing as I’m already late, but Glenn seems content to saunter along at a stroll, one hand in his vest pocket. When we reach the elevators he turns left—down the hallway that was originally on my right. I was way off. He pivots toward me as he walks. “So, what did you think of my joke this morning?”

I blink. “Joke?”

He leans in like we’re coconspirators in a heist. “I like to razz the summer associates on their first day, so I ask David the receptionist to play a little trick and make you all think you’re late.”

So… I’m not actually late?

His chuckle sounds more like a wheeze. “Make no mistake. We work hard here, but we have fun too.”

Yeah, if your definition of “fun” is giving hapless, type-A twentysomethings a heart attack. Some of the tension seeps out of my shoulders and I roll them. “Oh, that’s, ah… a good one.” I force a laugh.

We stop, and he motions toward a door marked five. “After you.”

“Thank you.” I open the door, and this is definitely the correct room. Ten people are seated around a conference table and they all sit up a little straighter when they spot Glenn Boone behind me. Most of the other summer associates are roughly my age—mid-to late twenties—and all are wearing their professional finest along with expressions of focused anticipation.

Pounding footsteps approach, and a red-faced man wearing a navy suit bursts into the room. Like the rest of us, he must have fallen for Glenn’s joke and probably sprinted up here, judging by the sweat beading on his forehead and the panic oozing from every pore.

“Welcome,” says Glenn, sauntering toward the head of the table. “Have a seat.”

The guy doesn’t need to be told twice. He barrels past me toward the closest empty chair, but veers at the last second and opts for a seat on the far side of the table. Okay then. I cross the distance to the chair he snubbed, which is situated between a man wearing a wrinkled khaki suit and a pinched expression and a primly dressed young woman with an air of unflappable intensity.

I pull the nearby rolling chair away from the table, and okay now I understand why the other guy didn’t sit here. An oversized red shoulder bag is occupying the seat. Clearly, it belongs to the woman on my right. Her silk blouse is the same shade of crimson, and so are her perfectly manicured nails. She flicks her gaze between me and her bag. I clear my throat. With a toss of her sleek strawberry-blond hair, she swivels to face Glenn, who’s easing himself into a seat at the head of the table.

My jaw muscles twitch. She doesn’t move her bag.

It’s a power play. She’s subtly attempting to throw off the competition by forcing the last summer associate to arrive to sit at the head of the table across from a managing partner—awkward at best and an office faux pas at worst. I purse my lips. I forgot how cutthroat summer associates can be, especially when it comes to competing for jobs at top firms. Five minutes into the job, and this Gloria Allred wannabe is already trying to establish herself as the one in control—the one to beat.