I blink, startled at the sound of the office doors clicking open again behind me. I spin around in my chair, and frown in confusion at the man standing just inside the glass doors now.
I know Max Davis, of course. Resident cocky asshole, bent on singlehandedly seducing our entire female staff. Everyone in the office knows all about Max fucking Davis, and his various sexcapades. Yes, plenty of people sneak around the non-fraternization policy we have here, but he makes a damn contest of it, I swear. If there’s a single woman in this company he hasn’t banged or tried to bang, I’ll eat my shoe. Hell, he tried to get me to fall for his shit when he first started. Thank God I make it a policy never to mix business and pleasure.
It doesn’t help that he’s ridiculously, stupidly, unfairly good-looking. Hudson Pierce good-looking. Even right now, at 9:45am on a Monday, he’s got effortlessly tousled black hair falling just far enough into his dark green eyes that it makes it seem like he doesn’t try to look this hot at all, it just sort of happens. Ugh.
I’m still staring at him in confusion as Paul keeps speaking behind me. “We would like the two of you to partner on this case.”
Say what now? the part of my brain not distracted by warring sensations of disgust for and attraction to Max.
“You two are the most promising young litigators we have here at Greaves, Morrell and Stuyvesant, and all three of us are confident that you will bring two differing, but equally important work styles and views to this case. Really, it’s a perfect partnership, I think.”
Oh hell no. No, I am not sharing this case—this make-or-break, could land me on the partnership track case—with Max Davis. He’s the last person I would want to co-host a general office meeting with, let alone work on a case that could change my entire career.
But Max just stands there, smiling at Paul—no, at me, his eyes are on me now, and fucking hell, those have to be contacts, right? Nobody’s eyes are that green, like shards of emerald got trapped in his irises. “I can’t wait to get started,” he says, and just like that, I feel doom closing in on me.
It’s not like I’m any more thrilled about this assignment than she is, but Chloe MacIntyre could at least pretend not to utterly loathe the idea of working with me on this. I’m not sure whether to find it irritating or flattering—I honestly thought the girl had a better poker face than this. She’s a shark in the courtroom, all fire and fury. Not gonna lie, the one time I watched her speak, I had to sit hunched over the whole time. Something about her soft, supple curves, combined with that fierce mouth of hers makes the blood rush to my cock every time.
Anthony Stuyvesant, my boss slash mentor slash personal torturer here at the firm insisted on sending me to watch every single one of my colleagues litigate over the course of a year. Of everyone I watched speak, Chloe was the most memorable. She had a way of twisting every eye in the room to her—and not even in a sexual way.
Yes, she was drop-dead gorgeous, and between her petite yet striking frame—at a guess, perfect B-cups, a tight ass, and shapely legs, made even shapelier by those heels she insists on wearing every single day—her sharp hazel eyes and her head full of riotous blonde curls, I’m sure she gets people staring at her on the regular for more reasons than one. Not to mention the dark-framed glasses she wears, which amp up the sexy librarian vibes by about a thousand.
But in the courtroom? She has a whole other level of energy. Every word out of her mouth is calculated, precision-honed to pierce its target for maximum effect. On the street she’s the kind of girl you’d hit on, then limp home after being shut down, but in court, she’s goddamn terrifying.