The Bridgewater Case Read online

  It doesn’t take me long to spot what I’m looking for, and I take it with enough confidence that nobody who might see me finds the need to question my actions. I hurry back upstairs, hoping I can draft the letter before Dane returns to the office. I’m sure he won’t think anything of it when I ask for his signature. After all, he did request that it get done. While I don’t exactly like the idea of Chandler getting credit for my work, I’m willing to take one for the team this time—the team being Dane, Janet, and her boys.

  I PULL INTO my reserved parking space a little regretful that I’ll be driving into work for the rest of the week. However, if my sessions in court are as successful as the one I had this morning, I can’t really gripe about it too much.

  I grab my briefcase from the passenger seat of my navy, Mercedes-Benz, G-Class SUV and climb out, well aware that I still have a full day’s work ahead of me. The ride to the forty-ninth floor is almost three times as long as it is when I arrive on my bike in the morning, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s a few minutes after eleven when I reach my destination, giving me enough time to catch up on all I might have missed while I was in court this morning before my lunch with Maverick.

  When I pass by Sigourney’s desk, speaking a brief greeting, I’m caught off guard when she ignores me. Turning away from my office and taking a step closer to her, I wonder what has her so focused. I can tell when she’s finished as she sighs before clicking a button on her screen. The printer in the corner of her space comes to life as it spits out her document. At the same time, I notice the familiar file she’s got sitting in front of her.

  “What are you doing?” I inquire, my confusion tugging at my brow. “I thought you gave that file to Chandler yesterday.”

  Sigourney jumps as she gasps, spinning around in her chair. Her lips are parted in the shape of an O, and I try to shove aside how fucking cute she looks and focus on the issue at hand. After a moment of silence, during which she doesn’t so much as attempt to answer me, I step closer to her desk and reach around her, snatching the paper off her printer.

  “Wait—no,” she exclaims, seizing it right out of my hands.

  In spite of her efforts, she isn’t quick enough.

  “Why are you doing something that I asked Chandler to do? You’re wasting valuable time. If that’s not right—”

  “It is. It is right!” she argues defensively. She closes her eyes and pulls in a deep breath, her shoulders sinking before she looks at me once more. “Earlier, I asked Chandler if he had this handled. He hadn’t even started. He was working on something else, and I didn’t think this should wait. Rather then argue with him about it, I decided I would just do it myself. So, you see, I’m not actually wasting time—I’m trying to save it.” Holding out the sheet for me to take, she murmurs, “It is right.”

  I study her for a moment, trying to make sense of her. Falling short, I accept the draft of her letter and look it over carefully. I read it twice, impressed when I realize I couldn’t have written it better myself. Without a word, I reach inside of my bag and pull out a pen. I then lean over to sign the bottom against her desk. When I’m finished, I straighten and hand it back to her.

  “Give it to—”

  “I can do it. On my lunch, I can take it down to the courthouse,” she insists, those green eyes practically pleading with me.

  “Very well,” I mutter, turning to make my way to my office.

  Christ, I’m no match against those damn eyes.

  As I set my bag down and settle myself behind my desk, I think of all the ways Sigourney has surprised me over the course of the last twenty-four hours. I need to stop saying I’m going to look into her and actually do it. There’s more to her than meets the eye. A lot more. Glancing out at her from where I sit, I make a mental note to have a chat with Rebecca about my secretary before the day is done.

  UPON RETURNING FROM my lunch with Maverick, I decide to pay Rebecca a quick visit. Before I left, I took a minute to glance at Sigourney’s résumé. Needless to say, what I found answered as many questions as it posed. When I arrive at Rebecca’s office and find her door propped open, I step inside without bothering to knock. She’s standing with Avangeline, doling out instructions, so I wait silently. Holding up a finger when she notices me, she proceeds to finish what she’s doing.

  Rebecca is a petite woman. Looking at the two of them, thick as thieves, is always like a lesson in contrast. While Avangeline is tall, Rebecca is short—standing no taller than five-five in heels. While Avangeline’s skin tone is warm and colorful, Rebecca’s is smooth and pale. And while Avangeline’s long brown locks are curly, Rebecca’s shoulder length, black hair is straight.

  “Good afternoon, Dane. How can I help you?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

  Avangeline smiles as she passes by me quickly, clearly in a hurry to see to whatever it is that she must. I offer her a small nod before focusing my attention on my intended audience.

  “Sigourney.”

  “Oh, yes,” she begins with a pleased expression. “I’ve been meaning to ask how she’s fairing. Ava told me she’s a quick one and seems to be picking things up fine.”

  “She’s right. However, given Sigourney’s law degree, I suppose I shouldn’t find this to be surprising.”

  “I did hire her for good reason. I thought she’d be most helpful.”

  “What I’d like to know is why she applied for the position in the first place? What’s a law school graduate doing working as a secretary instead of busting her ass as an associate? She’s not even a paralegal.”

  Rebecca clasps her hands together behind her back and asks, “Why don’t you ask her that yourself?”

  “Because I’m asking you. You’re the one who hired her. I wasn’t even aware that she had a law degree until an hour and a half ago.”

  I watch as her lips twitch, fighting a smile, the look in her eye both mischievous and knowing. “I hired her because I found her qualified. I hired her because I thought you would find her qualified, not to mention quite useful. However, now she’s in your hands. I suggest, if you’d like to know her story, that you take the time to ask her. In my experience, bonding with your secretary can get you quite far.”

  Shaking my head at her, I feel the corner of my mouth lift before I murmur, “Always trying to teach me a lesson, aren’t you?”

  “It’s good for you. One must continuously be willing to grow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to work,” she says, walking behind her desk to take a seat.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I reply, turning to exit.

  “By the way, I thought she liked to be called Sally?”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I offer no more than a shrug as I remind her, “I’ve never been one for nicknames.”

  EARLIER THIS AFTERNOON, when Dane returned from his lunch, he asked that I make sure to stop in his office before I left for the day. After powering down my computer and clearing my desk, I grab my purse and walk the short distance to Dane’s office. I knock on his door, but I don’t bother waiting for him to invite me in before I push the glass slightly and peek my head through the small opening.

  When he looks over at me, I remind him, “You wanted to see me before I left?”

  “Come in. Give me a moment.”

  I do as I’m told, taking a couple steps into his office. While I wait, I let my eyes wander around the room, and I notice the bike that’s usually mounted on the wall is missing. My curiosity getting the better of me, I don’t stop myself from interrupting him as I ask, “What happened to your bike?”

  “I had to drive in this morning. I don’t bike to work on the days I have to be in court.”

  Whipping my head around to look at him, my eyebrows shoot up in surprise as I blurt, “You actually ride that? I thought it was for decoration or something.”

  Speaking through a chuckle, his focus still directed toward whatever paperwork is in front of him, he says, “It has a dual purpose. I prefer to ride it more than anything e
lse.”

  I try—and fail—not to picture his chiseled, lean physic, which I now seem to understand a bit better than I did before. He’s a cyclist. I’m not sure how far away he lives from here, but my assumption is that it’s far enough to make him work up a sweat before the sun has had a chance to fully rise, which explains his need for a shower before he begins his day. For obvious reasons, an explanation as to why he was in a towel when we first met wasn’t exactly at the forefront of my mind. Now that I’m thinking about it, it’s not as strange as I originally thought. Based on his appearance, I imagine he rides for sport; however, not wishing to disturb him again, I don’t ask.

  “You good to walk a block in those?” he questions as he stands, distracting me from my thoughts. He nods down at my three inch, black heels, and I glance at my feet.

  Tilting my head in bewilderment, I watch as he comes out from behind his desk as I ask, “Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”

  “That’s how far we’ll be walking,” he answers, strolling right by me.

  “What? Where are we going?”

  I turn to face him and find him at the door, holding it open for me. “The Wild Rover.”

  Scrunching my brow, feeling utterly confused, I don’t think to move my feet as I repeat, “The Wild Rover?”

  “My favorite pub. Let’s go.”

  I place one foot in front of the other, leaving his office only because of the slight look of impatience he throws my way. Except, how he could be lacking in patience when he’s not being very clear, I do not know.

  “Dane, I don’t understand—”

  I shut up the instant he places his hand on the small of my back, urging me to continue toward the lobby at a pace that matches his.

  “It seems you and I got off on the wrong foot. I seek to rectify that. Right now, over dinner.”

  It takes me a moment to wrap my head around the idea of sitting down to dinner with Esquire Lickable—a feat that is difficult to concur with his hand still guiding me toward the elevators. He presses the call button, and I manage a feeble, “How? How did we start off on the wrong foot? Is this about—?”

  Turning so that he’s facing me directly, he smooths a hand down his suit jacket before he announces, “I’m Dane Croft. I’ve recently been named partner at Croft, Sloan, Parker, & Croft, though I’ve been practicing law at this firm for the last ten years. My specialty is in both corporate and commercial law.”

  “Dane?” I ask, shaking my head at him. “What are you—?”

  “You are Sigourney Salenger,” he interrupts, slipping his hands into his pant pockets. “Graduate from the University of California Los Angeles Law School, with a concentration in business law.”

  The chime of the elevator causes him to break his concentrated gaze into my eyes. Holding open the doors with one arm, he signals with the other for me to board. As I pass, he leans toward me, his breath tickling my ear as he murmurs, “Wrong foot, indeed.”

  I try not to let it show when a thrill races down my spine, causing me to shiver as my belly flutters. I’m not sure how successful I am, making me feel even more anxious than I did a second ago. It didn’t take me long to come to the conclusion that Dane wasn’t aware of my law degree. Truth be told, I was relieved Rebecca hadn’t passed along that information. Explaining to people why I’m not a lawyer is humiliating, and I avoid it as often as is necessary. However, it’s apparently something I can no longer sweep under the rug, as my boss seems to have found out my secret.

  I can’t tell if he’s pleased or irritated with this new information. Remembering the stunt I pulled this morning with that extension letter, it’s no wonder he got curious about my background. While this could work to my advantage, providing the opportunity for him to see me in a new light—for him to see me as more valuable than he originally thought—it could also go the other way. He could consider me untrustworthy; not simply because I lied by omission about my experience, but also because there’s obviously something wrong with me, preventing me from being the lawyer I dream of becoming.

  We’re silent for the duration of our ride down to the building’s lobby, and even still as we make our way outside. The temperature is just right, the cool, autumn air a bit chillier than what I’m used to around this time of year in Cali. The breeze makes me wish I had a sweater, but I don’t think on it much. I’m too busy worrying about dinner.

  “Did you have any trouble at the courthouse today?”

  I peek up at him as we walk along the sidewalk, remembering how I got turned around a bit. The city’s one way streets and lunch time traffic, in combination with my GPS not giving me proper warning before I’m meant to turn, made my journey a little difficult. I don’t tell him that. Instead, I admit, “Once I was inside, I was fine.”

  “I appreciate your tenacity,” he tells me, his focus trained straight ahead. “It wasn’t your responsibility to complete the task, and you saw it through from beginning to end.”

  A small smile crosses my lips, and I manage a soft, “Thank you.”

  My stomach clenches in excitement when he glances down at me, his blue eyes staring straight into mine as he replies, “Thank you. I take each case I’m responsible for seriously, even the pro bono ones.”

  When I can no longer stand the fluttering sensation his gaze inflicts in my belly, I shift my attention in front of us. “I’m glad to hear that. I like Janet. I only got to speak with her for a few minutes, but she seems like a good woman with a tragic story and a solid case. I’m glad she’s got a lawyer who respects her and what she’s fighting for.”

  We both fall silent after I speak. While I can feel his eyes on me, I don’t return his stare, too intimidated by the way he makes me feel. Up until five minutes ago, it was as though we had a pretty distant working relationship. He obviously intends to change that. If the circumstances were different, I’d be overjoyed right now. If I was Ava being taken under Rebecca’s wing, I would consider it an exceptional opportunity to be mentored by someone. And even though that still may very well be what’s happening here, I cannot shake this attraction, which doesn’t bode well for me.

  It’s one thing to combat my lust while we’re in the office. It’s another thing entirely to combat it when I know what it feels like to have his hand pressed against me; or what his whisper sounds like in my ear. It reminds me of all the inappropriate thoughts I’ve had about him—conjuring more that I know I shouldn’t. The worst part is, even though he’s not the easiest man to read, what I’m learning about him only amps up his level of attraction.

  “Here we are,” he informs me, his hand at my back once more as he guides me toward the front entrance of the pub.

  It’s brighter inside than I imagined a place like this would be. The lower level of the establishment is designed with a long stretch of windows on the opposite side of the bar, which faces the street. It allows for a good bit of natural light to shine inside, making it look far from dank. The space is narrow, its depth accommodating the crowd that seems to have gathered at the end of their work day, and there appears to be a flight of stairs that leads to a second level.

  The floors, as well as the bar stools and tables, are made of the darkest walnut wood I’ve ever seen, while the bar is constructed with a gorgeous cherry wood. It’s not a particularly fancy place, but I’m positive that’s part of the appeal. There are no table cloths, and the booths are covered in worn, maroon leather. The wall behind the bar is all exposed brick, with the liquor collection stored in a built in shelving unit, above which hangs a row of flat screen televisions.

  Clearly familiar with the place, Dane leads me in and directs me to an empty booth near the rear of the bar area. As I sit, he takes off his jacket, folding it neatly and placing it on the seat before sliding in after it. I stupidly admire the cut of his shirt. I can tell by the way it fits that he has them tailored. If they didn’t look so great, I might roll my eyes at the thought—but…

  The menus are nothing more than a couple sheets of scrappy paper s
tored in the table topper, between the napkins and the ketchup and mustard. He hands me one, and I accept it without question, in need of the diversion.

  “Everything’s good. Fish-N-Chips and the Classic Club are pub favorites.”

  “Do you come here often?”

  It isn’t until the words are out of my mouth that I realize how ridiculously cliché I sound. I scrunch my brow, sealing my eyes closed tight as I shake my head.

  “God, that was awful,” I mutter on a laugh.

  “Are you trying to pick me up, Salenger?”

  My eyes pop open at the same time that my jaw goes slack, my cheeks heating in embarrassment. “No! I—no, I mean—”

  He smiles at me, a real, genuine smile, and I forget to breathe for a second.

  “Kidding,” he mutters just as our server approaches the table.

  “Hey, stranger. Been a few weeks,” says the woman at my side. She’s older, probably in her late forties, with bottle blonde hair she wears pulled up into a high ponytail. She smiles at Dane, as if they’re old friends, and doesn’t bother pulling out a pad or paper as she asks, “Bottle or tap tonight?”

  “What have you got?”

  Lifting her eyebrows, as if she knows what she’s about to say will pique his interest, she informs him, “We just put in a keg of a new red Irish ale this morning.”

  “Say no more. I’ll take a glass with the Club.”

  “You got it. What about you, honey?” she asks, directing her attention at me.

  “Oh, um—” Not wishing to be that girl, whose indecisiveness forces the waitress to have to come back, I think fast. “Do you have any local brews on tap?”

  “Sure do. What’s your preference? IPA or amber ale?”

  “IPA, please. I’ll also have the Club, thank you.”