Overruled(16)

Which is precisely why Brent went out and became a criminal defense attorney.

“Hey, Shaw,” he greets.

I nod. “Mason.” I gesture once again to Drew. “Brent Mason, this is Drew Evans, an old friend.” My eyes fall to him. “Brent’s another lawyer at our firm.”

They shake hands firmly, then Drew remarks, “Jesus, is anyone in DC not a lawyer?”

I chuckle. “Most per capita in the country.”

Before he can respond with what I’d bet my life on would’ve been an insult, Brent pipes up. “You ready to go, Sofia? I have a client coming in twenty minutes.”

“I’m all set. It was nice meeting you, Drew. Stanton, I’ll see you at the courthouse soon.”

I feign confusion. “You mean the office?”

With a shake of her head, she lets Brent lead her out the door.

I watch her go. And I enjoy every damn second of it.

Which does not go unnoticed. “Do you really think that’s wise?”

My attention drags back to him. “What’s that?”

“Screwing your coworker,” Evans clarifies. “Do you think that’s wise?”

I pause a moment, wondering how he knew . . . and then I laugh at myself for wondering . . . because of course he’d know.

“This coming from the man who married his coworker a few months ago?”

Drew leans back, resting one arm on the chair beside him. “That’s completely different. Kate and I are special.”

I sip my water. “What makes you think Soph and I are screwing?”

“Ah . . . because I have eyes. And ears. And nothing about the sexual tension I just witnessed was unresolved. You sold yourself short on the bet, by the way. My terms would’ve been f*cking her on the hood of the car first—then she washes it.” He shrugs. “But that’s just me. Now back to my original question . . .”

There’s really no point in denying it. “Sofia is without a doubt the wisest woman I’ve ever done—pun intended.”

He doesn’t approve. “That’s a dangerous path you’re walking, Shaw. A minefield of awkwardness and female scorn.”

I understand his concerns, but they’re not necessary. Sofia’s a woman in all the important places, but with the practicality of a man. There are no minivans or white picket fences in her future, just corner offices and billable hours. She’s frank, direct, but also fun. A woman I consider a friend—someone I enjoy going out with as much as I enjoy going down on.

Our arrangement started six months ago. The first time was spontaneous, reckless. I’d known I wanted her, but didn’t realize how much until the night we were alone in the firm’s basement library. Both working late, tense and tight for time—one minute we were discussing the finer points of Miranda v. Arizona and the next we were tearing each other’s clothes off, up against the stacks of thick, leather-bound volumes, rutting like wild animals.

Sounded just like them, too.

I get turned on every time I think of the noises Sofia made that night, a symphony of gasps, whimpers, and growls as I made her come three times. A trifecta. And when my orgasm finally flooded me—shit—I couldn’t feel my legs for five full minutes.

Afterward, when we were sweaty and disheveled as soldiers after battle, we talked. We agreed that it was something we both wanted to do again—and again—a needed stress reliever that would fit perfectly into our mutually packed schedules.

It’s not as cold as it sounds. But it is . . . easy.

I grin. “Nah, man, Sofia’s like . . . one of the guys.”

“You’re screwing one of the guys?”

I frown. “It doesn’t sound nearly as hot when you say it like that. What I mean is—she lives for the job, like me. Trying to make partner doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for anything else. She’s convenient and f*cking beautiful. I know you’re married and all, but you’d have to be half-dead not to notice. And even then, her tits would coax an erection from a corpse.”

“Oh, I noticed, believe me,” he says. “Does she know about your Mississippi booty call?”

“Jenny’s not my booty call,” I grumble. “Dick.”

“Well, she’s not your girlfriend or your wife. She’s the chick you bang when you happen to breeze into town. Hate to break it to you, but that’s the definition of a booty call.”