Not That Kind of Guy

by ANDIE J. CHRISTOPHER

  When he’d stopped by Brent’s desk to see if he wanted to go check out the light of day, Brent told him that he wasn’t meeting his supervising attorney until the afternoon. Also, his possibly new friend had gotten the memo about bringing lunch from home.

  He was on his own. But, on the bright side, he found the bathroom while on the hunt for vending machines. He also found Bridget staring at the paltry selections. She didn’t acknowledge him.

  “No one told me to bring lunch.” When she jumped, he realized that she hadn’t even noticed that he was there.

  But once she clocked him, she slowly turned and looked at him, one brow raised in skepticism. “Do you need someone to tell you to brush your teeth and pick up after yourself?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Perhaps you don’t belong in law school if you can’t meet your basic needs?”

  Matt’s first instinct was to get defensive. She didn’t know anything about him, and yet she was treating him like he was an annoyance. And yet, she kind of had a point. He knew that this summer wasn’t going to be about schmoozing law partners who were probably friends with his parents over lobster lunches. He could have guessed that he would have to fend for himself in terms of food if he’d thought about it. But he hadn’t thought about it.

  He scratched the back of his head, something he did when he was nervous. And she made him nervous. Her attention on him was something he liked, but it made him uncomfortable. A people pleaser by nature, he didn’t like being in trouble. And, though he couldn’t know how at this particular moment, he knew he was in trouble with Bridget Nolan.

  With most beautiful women, he would crack a smile and offer to take her out somewhere nice. Circumstances and the hard look on Bridget’s face made him think that would be the worst thing he could do.

  Instead, he turned to the vending machine. “Pringles or Cheez-Its?”

  That made her laugh a little, which tasted like a victory. Either that, or he was really hungry. “Pro tip—those Pringles have been there for months. Which they should be, because Pringles are gross.”

  * * *

  • • •

  MATT’S DESK FOR THE summer was right outside Bridget’s office. He could see her working inside, chewing on her pen and alternately tapping it on the yellow legal pad.

  She hadn’t spoken a word to him all day. Thinking that he could make up for the rough start they’d had on his first day, he’d brought her a cup of coffee. His limited office intel—an empty cup with her name and order on it in her trash—told him she drank a latte with whole milk.

  He’d been so proud of his instinct to brownnose his way out of the doghouse . . . until she took a sniff of the coffee, looked at him pointedly, and threw it away.

  Then she’d taken a stack of paper off her desk, sauntered over to his desk, and dropped it without even looking at him.

  He watched her walk away, despite himself. Her gray wool skirt suit was just . . . a lot.

  When he flipped his attention away from the sway of Bridget Nolan’s hips, he saw the note she’d left on the top of the stack.

  MAKE COPIES

  CHAPTER THREE

  BRIDGET DIDN’T FEEL GUILTY very often. Not because she was perfect by any measure or imagining, but because she made a conscious effort not to do anything to feel guilty about. Also, she’d hated going to confession before her First Communion. Having to tell some old dude about putting her Legos right next to her brother Michael’s bed so that he would step on them upon waking wasn’t a picnic. He’d totally deserved it because he’d cut all the hair off her favorite Barbie, but the priest made her say a lot of Hail Marys regardless.

  So she wasn’t sure how to assuage the oily feeling of guilt that hit her when she saw Matt’s face as they were leaving a police interview a few weeks after he started to work for her. She’d only meant to scare the police officer who came in after having misplaced a rape kit. As soon as he called her “miss,” she kind of lost it and threw him a glare that would have made a less oblivious douche piss his pants.

  She launched into a Julia Sugarbaker–esque speech that was wasted on the police officer, who cared about getting his collar, but not enough to ensure that the chain of custody on the evidence was unimpeachable in court. Unfortunately, the only person she succeeded in putting the fear of God into was Matt.

  And, to her surprise, she felt bad about that.

  When her boss had told her that she would be saddled with some rich dilettante over the summer, she’d decided to punish him for slowing her down. If he was only in this internship to waste her time, she was going to make him feel it.

  She should have known when he made copies and straightened out files for weeks without complaint that she’d been wrong—or maybe quick to judge. But because changing her mind was anathema, she’d doubled down, intent on icing him out, because it wasn’t like he could be that helpful to her for three months. He was just an inconvenience that she had to bear for the sake of getting out from under her student loan debt.

  Her need to keep him compartmentalized as a burden had nothing to do with the fact that he was almost overwhelmingly attractive. It was utterly unrelated to the fact that she always knew when he was approaching because of the delicious way he smelled. Really, she couldn’t help but notice that. It was different from the antiseptic, almost hospital-like scent of the office.

  She shouldn’t be thinking about the way he smelled at all. But if she had to think about it, it should be reminding her that he smelled like a rich guy—one who never had to sweat for his dinner. Unlike her dad and oldest brother. Even if Matt Kido weren’t completely off-limits, he would not be the kind of guy you could cuddle up and eat atrocious junk food with at the end of a long week juggling twenty cases. He was the kind of guy who attended galas and would expect any woman on his arm to know which fork to use.

  Someone not at all like Bridget.

  Despite knowing that Matt was the last man for her—even if she wasn’t off men—sometimes she caught herself staring at the way his lips and throat moved as he talked. She wasn’t in danger of asking to lick his dimple—the one that popped out when he was laughing about something with the other interns coming back from grabbing coffee from the cart outside—not at all.

  Since she wasn’t in danger of becoming obsessed with him in a way she hadn’t been obsessed with anyone since the kiddie-pool incident when she was four, it couldn’t hurt anything to ask him if he wanted to have a drink with her.

  She absolutely wasn’t palms-sweating nervous as she approached his desk and he was packing a notebook into his beat-up leather messenger bag.

  “Do you have plans tonight?” She didn’t mean to sound breathless, but she most definitely sounded breathless.

  He looked up with wide eyes, and she almost walked it back. Or asked him to stay and file something. But his face changed and softened when he met her gaze. As though he saw her nervousness and responded to it. “Probably just going to get a pizza and drink a couple of beers on my patio.”

  It sounded so normal, like a summer evening she’d like to have with a man who definitely wasn’t him. Someone who might be for her. She looked down at her hands, chickening out as the seconds ticked away.

  “Did I miss some important bit of filing?” There was a hint of humor in his tone.

  She shook her head and met his gaze again, careful not to tilt her head in a way that could be interpreted as flirting. This was why she needed to keep him at a distance. The last thing she needed was him running back to his parents and telling them that she was a dirty old lady hitting on her interns. Or for him to think that she thought she could flirt her way into the fellowship.

  She needed to maintain professionalism. They could have a professional drink, where she would ask him professional questions. And she certainly wouldn’t touch him unprofessionally—like the way she wanted to personally investigate whether his mouth t
asted as good as it looked.

  “No, I was just wondering if you had time for a drink.” There went the breathy voice again.

  For the first time that summer, his dimple popped in reaction to something she said. “I’d love to.”

  “I mean . . . I just think that since you’re missing out on all the lunches and fun summer things at a big firm . . . the least I can offer you is a cheap beer at a dive bar.” She needed to make sure that he didn’t think she was asking him out on a date. That wouldn’t do.

  But he winked at her, and it definitely felt like sparks hit her skin when he did that. “I would love a beer at a dive bar.”

  * * *

  • • •

  AGAINST HER BETTER JUDGMENT, they went to Dooley’s. Chances were that Chris would not be there. He was mostly likely at his office until the wee hours, doing very important work defending a big corporation doing awful big-corporation things, like dumping plutonium into schoolchildren’s water.

  But there wasn’t a more authentic Irish dive bar in all of the South Side of Chicago. Patrick and Chris’s great-grandfather had founded the place, and the dark mahogany bar, lovingly maintained booths, and stained-glass windows held a huge amount of history. Dooley’s was basically her second home.

  She’d spent summers during college slinging beers from behind the counter after spending the days doing admin work for her dad’s contracting company. It had been convenient to work there, because she and Chris could always sneak off to the supply closet for a quickie if things were slow.

  It was a bad idea to be here, but she didn’t want to take Matt to some other dive bar. This place, where she had so much history with the only man she’d ever been in love with, would force her to behave. It would remind her of the connections and complications that she didn’t want anymore.

  Being here with a guy who very inappropriately made her heart race would remind her with every strain of Irish music from the ancient sound system that she couldn’t let herself fall in love again. Or even in lust.

  She definitely hadn’t brought Matt here in hopes that Chris would find out that she’d moved on and might be a little less smug about his flavor of the week or month or whatever when she had to spend a whole weekend with him in Vegas in a couple of months.

  Mr. Dooley had mostly retired. He came in every once in a while and hollered at the manager and bartenders his sons had hired after his second heart attack. But he was mostly at home, cussing at the housekeeper his sons had also hired after their mother passed.

  To her surprise, Chris’s older brother, Father-as-in-priest Patrick Dooley, was behind the bar. Despite the fact that she now hated his younger brother with the chill of a thousand dead suns, she couldn’t help but smile seeing Patrick. As much of a fixture in her upbringing as Chris, he’d always felt like another big brother. Only, he was always nice to her, and patient. And he always listened when she had a problem. It helped that she hadn’t wasted a dozen years of her life on him.

  She loved him, and a small pang of grief that he’d never be her real family hit her.

  “Patrick,” she called out with a wave as she and Matt sidled up to the bar. The place was middling busy, but he wasn’t filling any beers at that moment.

  “Kiddo!” Patrick’s face lit up, and he waved them over.

  As they approached the bar, Patrick filled a pint glass with a dark lager, her usual. Matt surprised her by saying, “I’ll have what she’s having. Thank you.”

  “Good taste.” Patrick had an inconvenient knack for seeing things that other people didn’t want him to see. For years, she’d taken his “What are you doing with my idiot brother?” comments as a joke because they were so good-natured. Only after the breakup had she realized that Patrick was seriously befuddled about what she’d been doing with his idiot brother. So when Patrick said “good taste,” Bridget knew that Patrick was complimenting more than Matt’s taste in beer. He was complimenting him for being in here with her.

  In retrospect, Bridget should have clarified that this wasn’t a date, that she was just bringing her intern out for a casual beer. But as soon as he put down their drinks, Patrick disappeared to help other customers. Plus, if Chris found out that she’d been here with a guy as ridiculously good-looking as Matt, so be it.

  “Who’s that guy?” Matt’s question, the tone of it, surprised her. He sounded almost—jealous. She should not have enjoyed the fact that Matt was maybe, possibly, jealous of attention on her from another man. He was her intern. If only continually reminding herself of that actually worked.

  Bridget let out a laugh. “Father Patrick Dooley. I’ve known him since I was a kid.”

  “Oh?” Matt looked relieved, and the secret part of her that knew she was lying to herself about not being attracted to him thrilled at the idea that he had in fact been jealous.

  “I dated his brother for over a decade.” She shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t be sharing her dating history with Matt. “It’s been over for a while now.”

  “And I assume we’re at his family’s bar?” One of Matt’s brows quirked up. Shit, he was going to think that they were here to make Chris jealous.

  “Yes. But he won’t show up.” She took a sip of her drink. “And it’s the best dive in town. Promise that’s why I brought you here.”

  Matt smiled at her. He didn’t believe her. But before she could go on trying to reassure him, he waved at her face and said, “You have a little . . .”

  She swiped at her upper lip. “Did I get it?”

  He shook his head. Before she could swipe again, he reached out a thumb and ran it across her top lip. She could have sworn at that moment that her heart stopped. She’d been very careful not to touch him, and he’d just gone and done it.

  Once she’d brushed against his shoulder as they made their way through a scrum in the courthouse. Her shoulder had felt as though it were on fire. She’d touched it on and off the whole day.

  After that, no touching. Until now.

  “Foam.” It felt as though he was twinkling at her. Now that they weren’t in the office together, something felt like it had twisted and loosened. Instead of her intern, it was so easy to see him as a man she would be hopelessly attracted to—if she allowed herself to do that kind of thing anymore.

  She tried to remind herself where he came from—a whole different world. Tried to remind herself that his shoes probably cost more than her first car, and that he was going to tell his parents—the ones who held her financial future in the balance—if she did anything unprofessional.

  She wiped the spot he had touched again, and he smirked. “I got it all.”

  “Um, thanks.” Time to change the subject. “So . . . what made you decide to spend the summer with us?”

  That got her a dimple, and she instantly regretted the question. “Is this a very belated job interview?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m just curious. You could have gone to a firm, worked on Capitol Hill. But you decided to come to Cook County. It’s an odd choice.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Jesus, he made that sound like flirting, and flirting was the last thing she needed right now. His secrets were not for her.

  Still, she nodded, hoping he would tell her that he secretly wanted to slip out of the bar and do all manner of filthy things to her. That would be delicious.

  “I broke up with my girlfriend a few days before we were set to start at the same firm.” He actually blushed, and she found it adorable. “And it had the bonus of irking my parents.”

  “So mature.” She took another long gulp, needing to cool off and remember that he was definitely a dilettante—not her type. And he was off-limits at that. “So why special prosecutions?”

  “You tell me.” Turning things around on her. He was going to be a very good lawyer when he was older and not a punk kid trying to piss off his rich parents.

>   “Law and Order: SVU was my after-school babysitter for a while.”

  Matt laughed again, bigger this time. It sounded like music to her, and it did nothing to assuage her growing fascination with him.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  He sobered. “You knew it was nothing like that going in, right?”

  “Of course. By the time I got to law school, I realized that every case wasn’t going to be as satisfying as an episode. First of all, none of the detectives we work with are Olivia Benson. And second, a lot of the worst people have the most money and can buy their way out of getting prosecuted.”

  Matt looked pained. “That seems like a dig.”

  Bridget’s face heated. She hadn’t meant it that way and didn’t want to hurt Matt’s feelings. She was trying to reverse any damage she’d done by hazing him for the past few weeks. “It’s not. I mean . . . at first when they told me who you were, I worried that you weren’t going to take this seriously. I misjudged you.”

  He nodded and took a sip of his beer. She watched his throat work over the drink, and her face heated even more. This was the first and last time she’d hang out with him outside the office. Without the reminder of her desk and the antiseptic office smell, there was no way she could keep herself under control. She had to stop lying to herself about that.

  “I mean, it’s totally legit that you would think I was an asshole,” he finally said. “I think I’m an asshole half the time.”

  “You’re not an asshole.” The oily, guilty feeling was back. He really didn’t deserve all the shit she’d given him over the past couple of weeks.

  “But you thought I was?” His voice held good humor, and he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. And he was kind of too much for her.

  She’d never felt this way about a person before. Of course, she’d been attracted to people before. But never had she had this intense awareness of a person other than Chris. And at the end, that had faded into anger and resentment. Nothing like the way she was feeling now—as if there were sparklers on fire underneath her skin. Being around Matt made it hard for her to stay still.