“And then, I shit you not, she says ‘So are you coming to my place, or what?’ Can you believe that worked?”
“I really, really can’t. Sure you didn’t just dream that part?” I lift my beer for another swig as Marcus aims a slug at my arm. It doesn’t even interrupt my drink. “Weak, Marcus.”
“Whatever, man, you’re just jealous. How long has it been since you got any action?”
“None of your business, that’s how long.”
Across the table, Jim whistles in response.
“So that’s at least six months to a year, don’t you figure, Jim?” Marcus shoots back, though he’s grinning as he picks up his own pint glass.
“That, or someone’s hindered by the non-fraternization policy,” Jim points out, and hoists his eyebrows significantly at me.
“Tempting as it may be, I don’t mix business and pleasure,” I reply evenly.
“Tell that to the new girl at the front desk.” Marcus smirks. “What’s her name? D-something—no, wait, that’s her cup size.”
“It’s Hannah,” I interrupt. “And she’s not really my type.” Too much giggling and following me around the hallway all day for my taste. But I don’t need to add that. Clearly the guys already noticed. Great, I wonder how long this rumor train will last. Couldn’t be any worse than the time Marcus told half the office I was hooking up with that girl Melanie in accounting who wouldn’t stop interoffice mailing me Sweetheart candy, at least.
That was a new personal low.
“If she’s not your type, you’re either a zombie, or you’re more into Marcus here,” Jim replies, jerking a thumb at Marcus, who has chosen this moment to stuff a fistful of loaded fries into his face.
“Pass.” I push back my chair. “I’m going for another round, anyone else?” They both nod, so I head up to the bar to order three more. The pub is quiet tonight. It’s a tiny little hole-in-the-wall a block from our office—a shit hole, really, with sticky floors, a weird smell that I’m pretty sure is still lingering from back when you used to be able to smoke inside dives like this, and only one bartender slash server, the gruff old Irish guy Seamus who runs the joint.
In other words, exactly the dive we always need after a long day of bullshit.
As I collect our beers, Seamus slides me a shot glass filled to the brim with what smells like Jameson.
“Look like you could use it,” he says.
I toss back the shot. Great. Even the bartender can tell I’ve had one of those days.
And all thanks to Chloe goddamn MacIntyre.
The more I review the files, the more annoyed I get. This case is going to need a lot of attention, and she only wants to slot me in for 15 minutes? I’m going to spend half the day tomorrow working on this, and she’s acting like it’s just another normal case. Not one with a celebrity that could land us more attention than anything I’ve worked on in my career here so far.
Not to mention her attitude in the meeting today. I mean, yes, okay, it was kind of sexy the first couple times she death-glared at me. But after a while that disdain gets old. I know exactly what she thinks about me, like it or not.
Suck it up, Davis. Ignore her attitude. Ignore her shapely ass. Ignore your constant mental images of tearing that silky blouse off of her body and pushing that tight skirt up her legs, leaving the garter belt and her glasses on.
Ignore the constant throb of your cock every time you fucking think about her.