by R. C. Martin
“You got it. I’ll be back with your beers right after I put your order in to the kitchen.”
“You drink beer,” Dane speaks as our waitress walks away.
I can’t tell if he’s asking or stating a fact, but I nod my reply either way. I then sweep a bit of hair behind my ear as I admit, “My sister, Ellery, she’s constantly giving me a hard time about it. If she knew I was here with you, about to have a beer, she’d give me hell. She of the opinion that it’s not very lady like.” When he doesn’t say anything in response, I anxiously keep prattling on about my beverage of choice. “I want to get to know the local brews around here. Domestic is fine, I just prefer the microbrews. They have better flavor.”
“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, running a hand down his face. He rubs his chin, his pretty eyes intently staring at me, then rests his arm on top of the table. “What are you doing here?”
Caught off guard by his question, I don’t know what to say at first. Tilting my head to the side, I try and understand what he means. “Here?”
“Why are you in Denver? Why aren’t you in California practicing law? Why aren’t you here practicing law? Why didn’t you tell me that you could write an extension request for the Bridgewater case the moment I told you to take the file to Chandler?”
I hesitate to answer him. I’m not sure what it is I want to say. The truth is probably my best bet, but it’s also something I don’t share often. Not even Rebecca knows the full story. After my interview, I’m sure she has her suspicions. The only reason that logically explains why I applied for this job with my background is because I can’t pass the bar exam. She was too polite to ask, and I respect her for that, but she must know.
“Sigourney.” The look in Dane’s eyes softens a touch.
The way his gaze holds mine—like he won’t be able to let it go until I tell him the truth; like a lawyer who’s used to being able to find the answers; like a man who wishes to understand the complexities of a woman’s mind—I know I can’t hide from him. As much as I want to, it’s hard to deny those eyes.
Except, when I tell him the truth, it’s those same eyes I can’t bear to look into. I don’t want to see whatever judgement he’ll have at my admission. Casting my gaze down my cheeks, I suck in a breath for confidence, blowing it out before I open my mouth to speak. I don’t get a chance to utter a word before our waitress is back, delivering our beverages.
“Sandwiches will be right out, you two,” she assures us before disappearing.
I watch her leave, then glance at my beer before lifting my eyes to look at Dane. He’s staring at me as if he never stopped. Feeling more intimidated now than I did a moment ago, I take a big sip of my beer and then blurt, “I can’t pass the bar. I’ve tried. Twice.”
“How is that possible?”
As he asks, he leans against his forearms on the table, shortening the distance between us. His movement causes me to meet his eyes, and I’m relieved to find no judgement in his expression. All I see is confusion.
“Your résumé says you were valedictorian of your high school class. You graduated college and law school with honors. How is it possible that you can’t pass the bar?”
Lifting a single shoulder in a shrug, I confess, “I get testing anxiety.”
He furrows his brow, and I can read the question in his expression before he even gives voice to it.
“It’s not the same with tests handed out by a professor or a teacher. There’s something about standardized testing that makes me freeze. It happened when I took my SAT, and when I took the LSAT, too. I had to take a year off after my undergrad because of this anxiety.”
“Have you seen a doctor or a therapist about it?”
“When I was in high school,” I reply with a nod. “It didn’t help.”
“Shit,” he mutters, leaning back in his seat.
It’s all he says before silence settles between us. I have another sip of my beer, waiting for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Chancing a glance at him, I find him staring at me contemplatively. Feeling momentarily brave, I ask, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking you should be a goddamn lawyer. With your history, that’s irrefutable.”
I force a smile, my stomach fluttering in response to his adamant vote of confidence while my heart breaks a little. It hurts more than I’d like to admit, having someone like Dane believe in my potential.
“Why did you move here? Why apply to our firm?” he queries before taking a drink of his beer.
“I was making barely more than minimum wage as a file clerk before I took the job as your secretary. It was depressing and more frustrating than I could ever explain. Ellery was the one who told me I needed a new start. The secretary position was an opportunity I couldn’t turn down. I needed something in the field to keep me sane while I studied for the bar.”
“So you’ll be taking it again?”
I clamp my mouth shut, knitting my eyebrows together, wondering if I’ve said too much.
“Sigourney?” he asks impatiently.
“If I tell you yes, will you want to fire me? If I pass, that means—”
“If you pass, you’ll be doing what you worked so hard to be able to do. I’m not going to punish you for taking advantage of an opportunity. It sounds like something I would do.”
I free a silent sigh, grateful for his response.
“Then, yes. I am going to take the exam again. In February.”
“Good.”
Our food arrives not even a second later. Our conversation falls to the wayside the instant Dane wraps his fingers around his sandwich. Even though it’s not my favorite thing to talk about, I’m a little surprised that he drops the subject so quickly. Nevertheless, I don’t try bringing it back up, graciously accepting my out.
Between bites of what is definitely the best sandwich I’ve had since I moved to this city, we talk about work. There’s still plenty for me to learn, and I appreciate the time he’s giving me to guide and help me to understand how I can support him to the best of my ability. With the difficult part of our conversation behind us, I find myself relaxing in his company. It’s nice to be seen as the educated woman I am, and I decide that I’m glad he insisted we come out tonight. This was the clean slate we needed.
Dane foots the bill a half an hour later, and we take our leave shortly after. On our way back to the building, I think about how well he took my news. Even still, it’s not something I’d like widely known. When we reach the lobby and he presses both call buttons—one for me going down, and one for him heading up, I grasp the courage to request, “About the bar and my history, as well as my future intentions, can we keep that between us?”
“I’m not a gossip. The information I asked of you was for the benefit of our working relationship, nothing more.”
“Thank you,” I murmur as my elevator car arrives.
I step inside, pushing the appropriate button before taking one last look at Dane.
“Goodnight, Sigourney.”
“Thank you for dinner, Dane,” I reply as the doors slide closed.
TUESDAY MORNING, WHEN I arrive in time to deliver Dane his coffee before he leaves for a few client appointments, I find that I’ve already grown quite fond of our routine. Even more, the tasks he leaves me to complete in his absence make me feel confident in a way I haven’t felt since my last semester in law school. I can tell he’s pushing my boundaries and testing my knowledge, offering me a little more responsibility than he did my first couple of days. I’m thrilled to be considered useful; and while I’m not exactly doing the work of an associate, I appreciate the trust he’s offering me as his secretary.
On my return trip from the file room to my desk, the elevator stops on the forty-eighth floor, revealing Lydia, waiting to board. Upon noting that it’s me in the lift car, she offers me a friendly smile before she asks, “Hey, is Dane back yet?”
“No. I don’t expect he’ll be in for another couple of hours. Did you need som
ething?”
I notice her thinly veiled disappointment as she sighs, her posture saying what her mouth isn’t. I’m not sure what that’s about, but I don’t have time to read into it. As the elevator doors begin to close, she shoots out her arm, keeping them open.
“I was hoping to deliver this myself, but he said if he wasn’t around, I should give it to you,” she tells me, handing me a folder.
“What is it?” As I say the words, I accept it, my attention drawn to the documents on the inside.
“Research for the Bridgewater case.”
“Oh.” My gaze shoots up to meet hers before I ask, “Anything good?”
Shaking her head with a shrug, she replies, “It’s just information. Definitely not the most thrilling part of my day. Just remember to give it to him, okay? I want to make sure he knows I did my part.”
She speaks her last sentence pointedly, and I know she’s thinking about the extension incident. I wasn’t around to see it happen, but I’m sure Dane had a word with Chandler about his negligence.
“I’ll be sure he gets it.”
“Great. Thanks.”
She steps away, allowing the doors to close, and I promptly start scanning over the information she found. By the time I get to my desk, I’ve seen enough to know that her research was done in a hurry and with very little attention to detail. There are small gaps that might seem minor to someone rushing to her next project but stick out to someone like me.
From what I can find, she’s discovered that Flash Packing Co. has used the same trucking company to manufacture their rigs for the past few decades—a company called Rollin Mammoth Trucking. She also found a few old articles naming Rollin Mammoth as the manufacturer behind a couple big safety recalls over the years. However, given the company’s history, it seems odd that Flash Packing would not partner with some other, more reliable manufacturing service. There has to be a reason. I’m not certain I’ll be able to find it, but a bit more history about the origins of each company might help point me in the right direction—facts Lydia left out of her findings.
With my mind made up, and a couple of hours before Dane returns, I decide to do some information hunting on my own. Running my teeth over my bottom lip, I recount the list of things I need to get done before the end of the day. Ava and I made plans yesterday afternoon—when she was too swamped to join me for lunch. We agreed that we’d go out after work tonight. Hopefully, I’ll be able to catch up on my other responsibilities before quitting time. I could use a bit of a low-key girl’s night out. I still don’t know very many people here.
Certain that I’ll never be able to get everything done if I don’t get started, I shove all thoughts of my social life aside and get to work.
MY LAST CLIENT meeting runs long, putting me behind schedule. Nevertheless, I charge by the hour, so I certainly won’t complain; and the legal advice this particular company was after was needed. I might be an expensive fuck, but I never half-ass anything, and I’m worth every penny.
I stop to pick up lunch before retuning to the office. With every intention of tearing into my cold cut sub as soon as I get to my desk, I don’t linger in my Benz after parking it in the garage. Thankfully, what client appointments I do have for the rest of the week will be conducted here at the firm, and I don’t have to be in court again until next week. This means I’ll be able to leave the SUV at home for a few days. With October on the horizon, the temperatures are starting to drop. Soon, I’ll have to hang up my ride for the winter. I want to take advantage of the nice weather every chance I get.
My cell phone alerts me to a new message as soon as I step off of the elevator, but I’m in no rush to reach for my phone. I’m hungry as fuck, and it can wait until after I’ve had at least a bite of my lunch. As I approach Sigourney’s desk, she lifts her head, those remarkable eyes lighting up at the sight of me. I ignore the tightening in my chest when she grins, standing to her feet before hurrying out from behind her work space.
I have no clue why she’s so excited to see me, but it feels good.
It shouldn’t—but it does.
“Dane! You’re never going to believe what I found,” she exclaims, hugging a folder against her chest.
The sleeveless, pale pink, silky looking shirt she wears tucked into her light, floral print, pencil skirt is far from risqué—but with the way she’s holding that file, her arms squeezing it in excitement, it gives me a view of her cleavage I’ve never seen before. I will myself to concentrate on her face and stay focused on whatever her news might be.
It’s the most difficult thing I’ve had to do all day.
“To what are you referring?”
“The Bridgewater case.” I open my mouth to respond, but she speaks again before I can. “I know, I know—it wasn’t something you asked me to do, but Lydia dropped off her research. It wasn’t bad. It was actually quite helpful, but something about it seemed to be missing.”
A crooked smile curls my lips as it becomes clear that it’s not me she’s excited to see, it’s her discovery that’s brought her to life. Somehow, that makes me like her even more than I already did.
“Come. Tell me what you’ve found,” I insist, continuing toward my office.
She doesn’t waste a second, her words falling out of her mouth faster than I can catch them as she trails behind me. Once at my desk, I set my sandwich down, dropping my briefcase to the floor, and arch an eyebrow at her.
Shrugging off my jacket, I interrupt, “Sigourney, where’s the fire?”
“What?” She tilts her head to the side, in that irritatingly cute way of hers, as she stands on the opposite side of my desk, still clutching the folder in her arms.
Chuckling softly, I toss my tie over my shoulder and lower myself into my chair. Extending a hand, I signal for Sigourney to do the same. “Sit. Slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”
She plops down at once, resting the file on top of her lap as she blows out a deep breath.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize—explain,” I instruct, unwrapping my lunch.
“Okay. What Lydia uncovered is that Flash Packing has been in business with Rollin Mammoth spanning decades. In and of itself, that’s not usual. If you find a partnership you like, why change what’s working? Only, Janet’s research found they had had a notable amount of mechanical issues with their trucks. Now, I get it—that happens. No machine is perfect. What Janet didn’t know was that Rollin Mammoth has been in the news, their safety recalls turning heads and probably losing them business. I can’t prove that, but it made me question—why didn’t Flash Packing jump ship? Why stay with Rollin Mammoth?”
She pauses to take a breath. With my mouth still full of food, I curl my fingers in a wave, silently asking for more.
Her smile returning, as if she’s found some sort of hidden treasure, she announces, “Flash Packing and Rollin Mammoth are not just in business together—they’re tied together by blood. The owner of these companies? They’re brothers.”
Swallowing my bite, I set aside my sandwich as I process this new information. “That means, when Flash Packing offered Janet that settlement deal, they could have been trying to do a lot more than cover their own ass.”
“Exactly. It’s obvious the two are loyal to one another.”
“Sigourney, you do realize we might have a case against both companies now?”
“Well, you don’t have a case against Rollin Mammoth until you file a claim,” she replies, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Speaking through a smirk, I ask, “Can you handle it?”
She stands to her feet right away, nodding as she assures me, “I can have it drawn up in an hour. You can look it over, and I could have it filed at the courthouse before the end of the day.”
“Very well.”
She flashes me a cheesy grin, her excitement undeniably contagious. As she turns to take her leave, I don’t stop myself from admiring her. Her strawberry blonde hair is slightly curled, as it has been e
very day since she started, her quick pace making it move against her back with every stride. Her ass in that skirt makes my dick jerk, and those legs, which stand out even more with those heels—fuck me.
I come to my senses, cognizant of the fact that I let myself get carried away. She is not fair game. No matter how much I like what I see, I refuse to stoop to that level. I refuse to become my father. I will not play with my secretary. She’s far more valuable to me than that—a truth she’s proven repeatedly in just one week.
My thoughts quickly shifting back to the task she’s setting out to do, I realize there’s a lot more work that needs to be done. “Sigourney,” I call.
Having just crossed over the threshold, she spins around, her hair following after her and falling down her chest as she pushes open my door. I twist my neck, trying to steer my thoughts away from what it might feel like to run my fingers through those silky strands.
“Yes?” she asks when I don’t speak.
“Lydia—get her in here for me, will you?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“And Sigourney?”
“Hmm?”
“Good catch.”
Her smile turns slightly bashful before she goes to do as I’ve asked. I pick up my abandoned sandwich, taking another bite. While I chew, I try to think about the files that need to be subpoenaed for the Bridgewater case, not Sigourney.
My phone alerts me to another message. This time, I pull it from out of my pocket to see who it is trying to reach me. The text I received a few minutes ago was from my mother, reminding me that I promised her I’d come over for dinner on Thursday evening. I send her an affirmative reply, and then open a new message from Hale.
Drinks. Friday. Don’t tell me no. I’m not on call for the first time in three weeks. We’re going out.
9. Club Saxton. Maya?
Nah. Just the fellas. I owe you a drink—partner.
I shake my head in amusement before tossing my phone aside. Glancing beyond the glass boundary of my office, I steal a glimpse at one of the reasons I was so quick to agree to go out with my friend. I need to get Sigourney out of my head. I need a night out with Hale. The fact that he’s not bringing his girlfriend makes me look forward to going to the club even more. He’s a solid wing man, and that’s exactly what I need. It’s been a while since I’ve taken a woman to bed—but I intend to follow Hale’s lead. Friday night, I’m leaving work behind.
