The Intern (The Dalton Family #4)(6)

There was absolutely no need to.

Besides, I didn’t want him to think, due to my family ties, I was a shoo-in.

Because that wasn’t true.

My family had made it clear to me and Camden—my twin brother who attended law school in New York—that we needed to earn our positions at their company.

I’d never worked so hard at anything in my life.

“You’ll be taking the California bar?”

I nodded. “This is home. It’s where I’d like to stay.”

I took another drink of my martini, surprised that the vodka and the two shots of tequila that I’d taken earlier were already hitting me.

Or am I?

It had been almost a day since I’d eaten anything, too nervous before class to really chow down, knowing I was going to be mentored and judged by Declan Shaw.

“Can I ask you a question?” The sound of my voice came as a shock. I hadn’t planned to take over the conversation or take more of his time since it seemed I’d already gotten more than everyone else, but every minute I got with him was vital.

“Yes.”

“Let’s say you have a client you know is guilty, but you’re skilled enough to get them off.” I cleared my throat, cursing myself for phrasing every conversation I had with him in such a sexual nature. “Are you able to close your eyes at night? You know, sleep eight hours and wake up the next morning like nothing happened?”

He crossed his hands over the table. “Are accountants able to sleep at night, knowing their clients are embezzling money that’s not reported to the IRS? Or how about a cardiothoracic surgeon who performs open heart surgery on a patient who will return home post-surgery and eat a stick of butter with dinner, washing it all down with a pint of ice cream?”

His fingers formed a triangular peak, drawing my attention to them. Their length, thinness. How masculine they looked with a slight dusting of hair on the backs of his hands.

Hands that I could picture running across every inch of my body.

Oh man.

“We can’t control what our clients do or what they admit to or withhold from us,” he said. “Our job is to get them a fair trial and win their case.” His thumb grazed the length of several of his fingers. Back and forth. Baaack and fooorth. “We can’t let their crimes—or lack of—affect us personally, nor should it change who we are as humans.” He glanced around the table, addressing all of us. “This isn’t a job for the weak. For the person who’s going to rush into the restroom and throw up when the court breaks for lunch. You’re either made for this job or it’s going to break you.” His eyes returned to me, causing my breath to hitch in my throat. “Remember, your reputation is everything. You’ll be hired because of your ability to win. If you can’t win, you’re going to be paid what you’re worth. And that’s absolutely nothing.”

The pressure.

I had been feeling it long before this meetup.

Now, it was intensifying.

Could I shut off my personal feelings when it came to these cases?

Did I have the skills to give my clients a fair shot?

Because I wasn’t far from being in that position. I was graduating at the end of the semester, followed by a couple of months of studying, and then I would be practicing law, assuming I passed the bar.

It was so much to process.

I downed the rest of my drink, chewing the olives at the bottom.

I needed more food.

And more vodka.

With Declan speaking to one of the other students, I returned to the bar and waited until I could order, “An extra dirty martini, please,” from the bartender. “With double blue cheese olives.”

“Exactly the way I would order it.”

Declan’s voice made my back straighten until I was no longer slouched over the bar top.

I hadn’t realized he’d left the table.

Or that he was behind me.

But I should have. The second he was in close vicinity, the air seemed to change.

It thickened.

It turned hotter.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Would you like one?”

“Yes.”

“Make that two, please,” I said to the bartender.

Before I could reach into my pocket to grab my credit card, he was already handing his to the bartender.

I put my hand up. “No, no. Please let me pay. It’s the least I can do for everything you’ve done for us today.”

“You’re not paying for my drink, Hannah.” His stare deepened. “You’re not paying for yours either.”

He leaned his stomach against the edge of the bar, the closeness sending me his cologne. I hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe I had just been too absorbed by his handsomeness, obsessed with this perfect man the previous two times he was near me, that I missed that detail. But a richness was now filling my nose, one that was heavy, but not overpowering, with a hint of spice.

A scent that had a bite … just like him.

With my breathing untamed, almost panting, I replied, “Declan, I don’t mind paying.”

His arms rested on top of the bar, his back hunched so we were eye-level. “Listen, I was in your shoes once. When you’re in mine, you can buy me a drink.” His stare dipped to my mouth. “So, remember this moment.”