Off Limits(4)

By: Lola Darling


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.





Two





Max





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.

I have no problem admitting that.

Unfortunately, it also makes her pretty judgmental of the rest of us mere mortals. The first week after I watched her litigate, I asked her out for a beer after work, mostly to pick her brain, look for pointers on my own game. To say that she shot me down would be putting it lightly. She basically verbally eviscerated me.

So, okay, some part of me is enjoying watching the disbelief and dismay war on her face as I pull out the chair beside her and plunk myself down across from Paul Greaves. Turnabout is fair play.

The moment I sit down, she scoots her chair as far from mine as possible. Paul’s still busy with digging around in his papers for some files, so I wheel my chair a little closer to hers.

“I don’t bite, you know,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” she responds without even a glance in my direction.

I lift an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“Oh I don’t. But in your case, the evidence is rather overwhelming.” Her lips twist into a moue of distaste.

Fucking hell, she’s hot when she’s angry. It makes me want to piss her off more often. It also makes me take a deep breath. Any more of that death glaring from her and I’ll get hard right here.

“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I ask.

Before she can reply, Paul finally withdraws the papers he’s been looking for and slides them across the table to us.

“I’ve put together some basic details on the case,” he says.

Chloe pulls herself together enough to stop glaring daggers at me and picks up her copy of the file instead. I page through mine, though truth be told, I already have the details. Anthony gave me a heads-up in our catch-up this morning, about an hour before he sent me over here.

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