Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(21)

Jack is always telling me that I need to make decisions based on common sense and not emotions. After spending a few weeks with Ben, my mortification will disappear.

Right?

So making peace with Ben now would be win-win.

Right?

I open my mouth.

And then I see that devilish twinkle and the corners of his mouth twitch. “They make extra-strong margaritas at Amigos, down the street. Just like you like them. I’ll bring a change of clothes, for after, of course.”

“Get out.” This is going to be hell.

“We could take a nice long crawl down the boardwalk, and then—”

“Fuck. Right. Off.” I hate him.

He grins, completely at ease, his attention grazing over my life-sized cardboard cutout of that stupid alien thing I ordered online a few weeks ago as a “f*ck you” to Nelson, the annoying contracts lawyer down the hall. “Oh, come on, Reese. It’s not that big a deal. You need to learn how to laugh at yourself.”

Maybe if reality—in the form of a troll in a gingham dress—hadn’t just stuck its spike heel into my heart again, this wouldn’t bother me so much. But I walked in here already feeling pathetic. Now I’m beyond livid.

I feel the wicked smile stretch across my lips as I turn my attention to my monitor. “Enjoy your first few months here. I imagine June will be helping you out, seeing as her caseload is light. I think you’ll enjoy working with her.” He won’t. June talks to herself and has permanent pastrami breath. Her caseload is light because she’s every lawyer’s last pick. She’s slow as molasses.

He closes the distance until he’s hunched over the front of my desk, a frown flittering across his forehead. “I thought you were working for Natasha?”

Closing and piling Natasha’s case folders on top of each other, I push them to the edge, gesturing for Ben to pick them up. “Sorry, but Nelson came by earlier today, begging for my help, and I agreed. I’ll be tied up with him for the foreseeable future. Didn’t you know? I go where people need me the most.”

The thing I love most about Jack is that he has never assigned me to specific lawyers. He lets me go where the work is and my interests lie, treating me kind of like a freelance paralegal. I’m the only one who gets to do that and I’m pretty sure the other paralegals hate me for it, but I don’t care. I’m not here to make friends.

As irritating as Natasha can be, I tend to work with her most. She’s busy, her cases bring in a lot of money for the firm, and there’s usually a fight involved. I love a good fight.

When Natasha came by my desk this afternoon, she came ready to stroke my ego, telling me what a valuable asset I would be to her because she’s super busy and doesn’t have the extra time needed to help a new lawyer. Apparently the learning curve is steep and regardless of how smart Ben is—according to the chatter, he graduated near the top of his class—he’s in for a rude awakening.

And now, Nelson and I are going to be attached at the hip, whether he likes it or not. I’ve just decided.

“Huh.” Ben’s lip curls into a smirk. I think he just figured out what’s going on here. That he has royally f*cked himself.

“But I’m sure you’ll do just fine without me, seeing as you’re so clever,” I offer with mock sincerity.

“I’m not worried, Reese. Disappointed. I think you would have enjoyed working with me.”

Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I call out, “Close the door behind you.”

He leaves it wide open and strolls past my window, winking at me as he passes.





Chapter 8




BEN





My mama is always warning me that I have no common sense when it comes to women.

I’ve proven her right, yet again.

Why did I have to be such a jackass?

If I had just listened to Mason and shut my big mouth, Reese would be helping me figure out some of this shit. Now I’m stuck with June, a fifty-year-old woman who wears the same blue cardigan every day, constantly mutters under her breath, and has turned me off of luncheon meat forever.

Two weeks into my job at Warner, and I’m buried in paperwork. The number of ugly divorces and custody battles in the state of Florida only solidifies my resolve to stay the f*ck away from anything that looks like a marriage. I haven’t left my office before midnight once this past week, and here I am on Saturday morning, dragging myself through the trenches, feeling less like the guy who finished near the top of my law class and more like the village idiot who should have stuck with kicking drunks out of Penny’s.

A knock pulls my attention to the door, where Jack looms with a coffee mug in one hand and a plate of muffins in the other. “I hear you’re a fan of Mrs. Cooke’s baking.” He sets the plate down on my desk. “God love the woman, but I wish she’d stop bringing this stuff to the office. I blame her for my weight gain.” He pats his soft belly for effect.

Mrs. Cooke, Jack’s assistant, is a heavy forty-five-year-old woman with short brown hair, a giant mole on her upper lip, and Coke-bottle glasses, who sweats profusely and probably won’t live past her sixtieth birthday if she doesn’t start eating better. But damn, can the woman bake. She’s almost as good as my mama.

Jack’s gray eyes survey the stacks of files on my desk. “How is everything? I see Natasha is keeping you busy?”