Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1)

by Nicole French

  “Hey Jared,” I greeted him. Jane raised a hand, but went back to grabbing books while muttering further obscenities at the stacks. It seemed her Advanced Criminal Procedures course was a particularly expensive one this semester.

  “Hey Skylar,” Jared said, sidling up to me. “Have a good break?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I did that internship at Sterling Grove. You?”

  He whistled at my accomplishment.

  “Nah, I just went home,” he said. “I had a clinic last semester, so I figured I was good on the experience stuff.”

  Jared was the typical Harvard legacy student. He was smart, but it was hard to tell how much of that intelligence was breeding, and how much as innate talent. I didn’t know him well, but I knew that his dad and grandfather had both attended HLS and that his dad was a sitting congressman. He had a position waiting for him at his grandfather’s firm, so he had no real need to pursue extra work experience or contacts. With his straight, light brown hair and pin-straight nose, his looks were about as WASPish as it got, further enhanced by pressed chino pants and a blue Polo shirt. His smile, however, was genuine, and his full lips and broad build made him a common target among a lot of the girls in our classes. Even in law school, a few of the girls were only there to get their MRS degrees.

  “So I’m pretty psyched,” he said as the three of us made our way back through the bookstore toward the registers. “I managed to score tickets to one of The Starfoxes shows next week. They’ve been sold out for a while, but my cousin was able to hook me up.”

  Next to me, Jane rolled her eyes—she hated what she called “privileged white people music,” which was usually anything that was on regular rotation at Starbucks. It didn’t matter that she was the daughter of a privileged white person herself, which I often teased her about, despite agreeing with her anyway. She would just shout one of the few vulgar Korean terms she’d picked up from her cousins on her mother’s side and throw the nearest soft object at me.

  “That’s nice,” I said neutrally as we stepped into line, Jared in front of where Jane and I stood side by side. The line wound around several stacks of health and lifestyle books, but luckily it was moving quickly. “I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”

  “It would be better if you took the other ticket.” Just before he turned around for my answer, Jane’s eyes shot open extremely wide at me before she brought them back to an even, neutrally curious expression.

  I blinked. I hardly knew Jared, and hadn’t really interacted with him much socially since we were both in the same study group during first year. He was cute, but I had just told Jane I thought dating was a waste of time. Not to mention I didn’t really like The Starfoxes anymore than she did. My own tastes in music tended to run toward classical, having double-majored in music as an undergraduate. I was pretty open to different styles, but whiny, pseudo-folk music wasn’t really on my radar.

  “Um…” I said, trying unsuccessfully to stall. “You know, I’m going home next weekend, so I can’t.” I breathed out. It was actually a good excuse, and one that was mostly true.

  Jared nodded affably. “Okay. Another time, then.”

  The line moved up and one of the cashiers flagged him forward to her stall. Beside me, Jane grabbed my arm and jerked me around to face her.

  “You should go out with him,” she said.

  “But I am actually going home,” I told her. “And I don’t even like that band.”

  “Oh, no, that band sucks balls, big time,” she said. “They’re the musical equivalent of IHOP. But another time, I mean. You should definitely hit that.”

  Another cashier waved me forward, and Jane followed with her own basket. The cashier frowned, but said nothing as she started to ring me up.

  “You don’t even like guys like that,” I pointed out. “He’s so preppy. My dad doesn’t even wear pants that pressed.”

  “Whatever. Your dad doesn’t even know what an iron is,” She retorted. “And that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be good for you. He’s nice. Not just for hump ‘em and dump ‘em. He’s the kind of guy you might actually date because he won’t fuck you over. And you deserve nice after that last train wreck.”

  “Four-ninety-two, eight-seven,” the cashier proclaimed, now watching us with obvious interest. I ignored her and handed over my credit card while addressed Jane.

  “I do not want to talk about him,” I said vehemently. With eyebrows raised, the cashier handed me my card and receipt, which I signed with more flourish than normal while Jane placed her books on the counter with a bright smile.

  When I first started at HLS, I was still dating Patrick Harlow, otherwise known as the world’s second worst person after Robbie. Patrick was certified asshole investment banker I had met at Goldman. We had dated for almost a year before I quit that job, and continued seeing each other on weekends for another year before I discovered he was cheating on me by way of a surprise bout of Chlamydia. When I confronted him about it, he shrugged and told me he was “sorry about the clap, but we had never decided to be exclusive.” I had slapped him in the face and gone straight to the pharmacy. Ten weeks of antibiotics cleared up the STD, but I had never quite healed from the damage he had done to my heart.

  Jared was waiting by the door for Jane and me when we finished paying for our books. I caught his eye, and he waved and stepped out of the way of the other students to continue waiting. With his toggle-front parka and nicely combed hair, he looked the very definition of safe. It had become extremely clear over the past year and a half that one-night stands weren’t my thing. It had certainly occurred to me that maybe my general unexceptional experience with sex had more to do with the fact that I had yet to find a partner who actually cared about me. Patrick hadn’t given a shit, that was for sure. And, despite the way a certain tall, blond god kept creeping into my thoughts, there really weren’t any other prospects on the immediate horizon. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in, well, someone.

  Maybe the key wasn’t chemistry, but intimacy. Jared and I were sort of friends. Maybe I needed to start there.

  Jared stood to the side, opening the door in a way that demonstrated just how good his manners really were.

  “Thanks,” I said as Jane and I stepped out into the snow-covered street with him. “So, I can’t go to the show next weekend, but would you want to go out another time?”

  Jane was barely able to contain the boomerang-like double take and obvious grin, so she scampered down a few steps ahead of us to offer some privacy.

  Jared looked down and smiled brightly. “Yeah,” he said. “I would. Do you still have my information from study group?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it’s in my Contacts. I’ll call you when I get back from New York. Maybe after we settle into classes, okay?”

  He smiled again and nodded. “Sounds good. I’ll see you around, Skylar.”

  With a brief wave, he turned down a side street leading off Harvard Square. I watched his tall, confident form for a moment before turning back to Jane, who was practically jumping up and down on the sidewalk next to me.

  “Don’t. Say. Anything,” I warned her, but we both grinned as we started to make our way back across the snowy campus to the warmth of our apartment.

  ~

  Chapter 5

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the other castaway! Lemme guess, you and Eric were up to no good, huh?”

  Steve greeted me with uncomfortably loud hoots and hollers as I walked to my desk on Monday morning. Like most of the other interns and junior associates, I made a point to be at least ten minutes. It was seven-forty-five. None of the senior associates would be in to brief us for another fifteen minutes.

  I dropped my messenger on my desk, took off my parka, and sat down to remove my snow boots, which were laced up to my knees over my carefully folded pants. The blizzard that had coated Boston with another two feet over the weekend had let up late last night, but made snow boots and thick coats requirements on the commute t
o work. Shearling boots over wool cigarette slacks wasn’t the best look, but I wasn’t alone in my style in a city like Boston. Besides, my ankle-length parka hid the worst of the fashion faux pas.

  Reluctantly, I slid my toes into the cheap black pumps I kept in my desk for days like this. My boots were ugly, but at least they didn’t pinch my toes. I dearly missed my Manolos, but they were now at the cobbler, being treated for the salt stains that had persisted despite Sterling’s careful treatment.

  Just the thought of his hands on my feet made me shiver in spite of the overly heated office. The sad truth was that I hadn’t been able to get the encounter out of my head no matter how many briefs I’d read over the weekend. I doubted he had been as affected, but I had never known the brief touch of someone’s hands—large, slightly callused hands—on my toes could be so erotic. God, and the way he worked those pants…

  “So how was he, counselor? As good as he looked? Or at least the way his overpriced suit looked?”

  I snapped my head up out of my daydream. “Who?”

  God, could he know?

  “You know, the investment asshat you were chatting up at the bar. Cherie and I saw him follow you out. What was his name? Rico Suave? Was his apartment massive and full of high tech gadgets?”

  Steve waggled his eyebrows jokingly, but I could hear the note of hurt in his voice. He was the kind of guy who would comment on another man’s expensive suit precisely because he couldn’t afford it. He was from a middle-class town in Long Island and was putting himself through law school with a combination of expensive private loans and a lot of hours as a waiter. Most of his suits were purchased consignment and were at least ten years out of style, but it would probably be another fifteen years more before he could afford decent ones.

  I rolled my eyes as I stood up to hang my parka, hat, and scarf. “A, his name was Trevor, not the name of a shitty one-hit-wonder. B, I have no idea, as I went home after leaving the bar. And C, counselor, even if I did, it would be none of your damn business. Don’t ask women you hardly know about their sex lives!”

  Steven frowned and rubbed his face with a “Touchy!” under his breath as he sank back into his cubicle. I smoothed the lines of my favorite suit as I sat back in my desk chair.

  It wasn’t exactly a secret that Steve had wanted to be the one to take me home on Friday night, and I felt a pang of guilt at his insinuation that the reason why was because of his background. I had felt that kind of classism myself more than a few times at Harvard once people found out that I was the daughter of a garbage collector.

  “I couldn’t bring a guy like that home anyway,” I said more generously. I pointed at myself with my thumb. “Daughter of a city employee. Trust fund brats need not apply.”

  In return I got a wide grin and a wink. “Ha! Good for you, Crosby,” Steve chortled before ducking back down into his cubicle, dignity intact.

  Despite my lack of stylish footwear, it hadn’t escaped me that I had put in slightly more effort than usual getting ready for work that morning. I had just ‘happened’ to wake up an extra fifteen minutes earlier than normal, and just ‘decided’ on a whim to straighten my wayward red waves down my back instead of tucking them into a practical bun. I was wearing my favorite gray herringbone suit that I had bought in Paris while studying abroad, a crisp, ironed white shirt, and emerald studs that made my green eyes stand out. The cut of the ankle-skimming pants flattered my swimmer’s legs and the matching jacket cut expertly around my waist in a trim, yet professional hourglass shape that was infinitely more stylish that the usual cheap suits interns wore.

  Deep down, I knew what it was for. Or whom. Though it was extremely unlikely that I would run into a certain devastatingly handsome boss of mine, I couldn’t help but daydream a little in between the reading assignments about what might happen if, say, I ran into him in the elevator. Where he might shove me against the wall. And kiss me. And maybe rip the buttons off my jacket as he tore it from my heaving body.

  Okay, so I hadn’t spent the rest of my weekend daydreaming about Jared. Not even close.

  “I heard you met Sterling.”

  Eric’s voice shook me out of my daydream, and I swiveled around on my chair to see him shaking snow off his parka. He hung it over the side of his cubicle and sat down in his own desk chair, facing me as he leaned over to clean off his shoes. I scooted over to him so I we could speak in hushed tones without anyone else overhearing us.

  “Hey, be quiet,” I said. “I’d rather the peanut gallery next door didn’t find out I ditched everyone to gallivant all night with our boss.”

  “Gallivant, huh? And all night? Damn, Crosby, you must have some serious game. Not to mention stamina,” Eric teased.

  I kicked ineffectively toward his chair. “You know very well that is not what happened. I’m sure Ana filled you in.”

  Eric shrugged and gave me a sly grin. “All she knows was that you ate breakfast there in the morning. Somebody helped you work up an appetite, huh?” He started grooving in his seat to self-made porn music sounds, which earned him anther kick. “Okay, okay!” he stopped, stifling chuckles. “She might have also mentioned that you slept in the guest room, right?”

  “Right,” I hissed. “Did you know that was his place? Tell me the truth.”

  Eric shrugged. “Sure. Probably.”

  “‘Just some rich guy.’ Right. And you didn’t think to tell me that before I went wandering around our reclusive boss’s personal home?” I leaned back in my chair and shoved my hands through my hair, mortified all over again by the memory of being caught sitting in the window, all Little Miss Muffet on my very own damn tuffet.

  Eric smiled that devious grin that I knew had caught multiple other students’ fancies over the years; strangely, it had no effect on me. We were both from New York, albeit completely different parts. Eric had grown up in a classic six on the Upper East Side and attended some of the best private schools in Manhattan, which was a far cry from my family’s shabby house in Brooklyn. Still, the carefree demeanor with which he approached women reminded me of the boys who hung out on the steps in my old neighborhood, jeering casually at women as they walked by. If they didn’t know you, you weren’t much more than a piece of meat to them; if they did, you were practically like a sister. Apparently to him I was the latter.

  I stuck my tongue out, and he laughed.

  “Hey, Crosby, no one told you to start playing Goldilocks up there. Besides, you wouldn’t have come if you knew,” he said simply. “And Ana wouldn’t have let me stay unless you did.”

  “You are so gross,” I informed him.

  “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

  He winked and grabbed the coffee canister he had set on the desk when he arrived. He pulled a Dixie cup out of his desk drawer and poured a small cup, which immediately filled the air with its aroma. Eric was an unbelievable snob when it came to coffee, claimed that the stuff the firm provided was basically battery acid. He came in every morning with a thermos full of some locally roasted, French-pressed coffee.

  “Anyway, of course I wouldn’t have come,” I said as I watched him doctor his coffee. “It’s the freaking name partner’s house! And I was just wandering around the first floor like some drunk college kid!”

  Eric chuckled. “Yeah, that’s pretty classic. You sure you only stayed in your own room? Or maybe you wandered up a few stories…”

  “Oh my God, no!” I hissed. “And I said keep your voice down! I slept in the guest room, like you said. And he was gone by the time I got up. Nothing interesting happened besides me embarrassing myself, thank you very much. He chased me down the street after I ran out of there like a banshee. Then he polished my shoes for me before putting me up in his guest bedroom, probably more out of guilt than anything else.”

  “Jesus Christ, Crosby. Only you would turn a potentially priceless networking opportunity into a way to use the most powerful attorney in Boston as a shoe shine boy.” Eric shook his head, with an expression that
was equal parts grimace and smirk.

  “Yeah, because that would have been super classy,” I replied, shoving my toe into a piece of loose carpeting by my desk. “‘Hey, Mr. Sterling, now that I’ve trespassed on your property, would you mind giving me, some strange girl whom you couldn’t care less about, a huge advantage in my career prospects despite the fact I’ve already turned down a job at your company?’ I’m sure that would have gone over really well.”

  Eric pursed his lip thoughtfully, inhaling deeply into his coffee before taking a sip. “I hate to tell you this, Crosby, but guys aren’t just naturally chivalrous—not these days. Ana said he made you breakfast. Doesn’t sound like a guy who doesn’t care to me.”

  I shook my head fervently. “He wasn’t even there in the morning. I doubt he even remembers who I am.”

  My vehemence was rewarded by another chuckle from Eric, but our conversation was halted as Ben, one of the junior associates working on the trial, wheeled a dolly carrying five cardboard boxes into the room, a smaller box perched on top of the others.

  “I come bearing gifts of farewell!” he called out. “Depositions to summarize! The Walker trial continuance got denied.”

  Everyone groaned, though it was all in good fun. Our trial might be over, but we were being paid through the week, and there was always more work to be done. By this point, we were all used to going through depositions with a fine-toothed comb. Ben explained the case theory and indicated the dates and a few terms he wanted highlighted, along with a few other things he wanted noted and marked in the files, and began to disperse the files to each of the interns’ cubicles.

  “Skylar,” he said as he handed me two of the large bound files and a rectangular box wrapped in unremarkable brown paper. Only my name was marked across the top in curt black print. “Looks like you got an admirer from upstairs. Before you start on these, you’re wanted up on the sixth floor.”

  I furrowed my brow, ignoring the immediate clenching of my gut. The sixth floor was the partners’ floor. “Did they say with whom?”