Five Ways to Fall Page 7

  He closes the distance until he’s hunched over the front of my desk, a frown flittering across his forehead. “I thought you were working for Natasha?”

  Closing and piling Natasha’s case folders on top of each other, I push them to the edge, gesturing for Ben to pick them up. “Sorry, but Nelson came by earlier today, begging for my help, and I agreed. I’ll be tied up with him for the foreseeable future. Didn’t you know? I go where people need me the most.”

  The thing I love most about Jack is that he has never assigned me to specific lawyers. He lets me go where the work is and my interests lie, treating me kind of like a freelance paralegal. I’m the only one who gets to do that and I’m pretty sure the other paralegals hate me for it, but I don’t care. I’m not here to make friends.

  As irritating as Natasha can be, I tend to work with her most. She’s busy, her cases bring in a lot of money for the firm, and there’s usually a fight involved. I love a good fight.

  When Natasha came by my desk this afternoon, she came ready to stroke my ego, telling me what a valuable asset I would be to her because she’s super busy and doesn’t have the extra time needed to help a new lawyer. Apparently the learning curve is steep and regardless of how smart Ben is—according to the chatter, he graduated near the top of his class—he’s in for a rude awakening.

  And now, Nelson and I are going to be attached at the hip, whether he likes it or not. I’ve just decided.

  “Huh.” Ben’s lip curls into a smirk. I think he just figured out what’s going on here. That he has royally fucked himself.

  “But I’m sure you’ll do just fine without me, seeing as you’re so clever,” I offer with mock sincerity.

  “I’m not worried, Reese. Disappointed. I think you would have enjoyed working with me.”

  Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I call out, “Close the door behind you.”

  He leaves it wide open and strolls past my window, winking at me as he passes.

  Chapter 8

  BEN

  My mama is always warning me that I have no common sense when it comes to women.

  I’ve proven her right, yet again.

  Why did I have to be such a jackass?

  If I had just listened to Mason and shut my big mouth, Reese would be helping me figure out some of this shit. Now I’m stuck with June, a fifty-year-old woman who wears the same blue cardigan every day, constantly mutters under her breath, and has turned me off of luncheon meat forever.

  Two weeks into my job at Warner, and I’m buried in paperwork. The number of ugly divorces and custody battles in the state of Florida only solidifies my resolve to stay the fuck away from anything that looks like a marriage. I haven’t left my office before midnight once this past week, and here I am on Saturday morning, dragging myself through the trenches, feeling less like the guy who finished near the top of my law class and more like the village idiot who should have stuck with kicking drunks out of Penny’s.

  A knock pulls my attention to the door, where Jack looms with a coffee mug in one hand and a plate of muffins in the other. “I hear you’re a fan of Mrs. Cooke’s baking.” He sets the plate down on my desk. “God love the woman, but I wish she’d stop bringing this stuff to the office. I blame her for my weight gain.” He pats his soft belly for effect.

  Mrs. Cooke, Jack’s assistant, is a heavy forty-five-year-old woman with short brown hair, a giant mole on her upper lip, and Coke-bottle glasses, who sweats profusely and probably won’t live past her sixtieth birthday if she doesn’t start eating better. But damn, can the woman bake. She’s almost as good as my mama.

  Jack’s gray eyes survey the stacks of files on my desk. “How is everything? I see Natasha is keeping you busy?”

  “She is.” I nod slowly. My office is starting to look like a storage locker and my fingers are covered in paper cuts. “Who knew there’d be so much paper in a digital world?”

  “How are you liking it so far?”

  Besides wanting to shoot myself in the head at least once a day? “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Jack smiles sympathetically. “I remember my first year. It was hell. I wanted to quit. But don’t worry—it’ll get better. Half the battle is having the right team behind you so you can focus on what’s important.”

  First year. Great. “I’m going to hold you to that,” I chuckle, just as the rumble of a bike engine sounds outside my window.

  “Ah, good. She came,” Jack murmurs, taking a sip of his coffee as he wanders over to look out on the Warner parking lot.

  She? “Who?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. I join him at the window just in time to see this “she” slide her helmet off, her long blond hair spilling out over her shoulders. “Holy shit,” I blurt out, staring down at Reese as she straddles a Harley in a pair of jeans and a tight leather jacket, a rare tranquil look on her face as the engine idles, completely at ease, as if she were born to ride a motorcycle.

  Looking hot as hell.

  I feel Jack’s gaze on the side of my face and I realize I’m ogling his stepdaughter in front of him. Swallowing, I add quickly, “Those things are dangerous.”

  Shaking his head as if in defeat, Jack mutters, “I know. You should have seen the piece of junk she was riding before I co-signed for this one with her. It’s the best one on the market for women.”

  “You let her ride that?”

  He snorts. “There’s no ‘letting’ Reese do anything. That girl has been making her own rules for as long as I’ve known her. At least this way I was able to get her to agree to some basic safety in return. She’s usually more agreeable when she feels like she’s making the decisions.”

  Noted.

  I wonder if that’s why he gives her free range over the cases she’s going to take on. Wandering back over to my desk, Jack picks up the framed picture of me. It’s Mama’s favorite—me at fourteen and in a blue-and-white football uniform, standing on the field next to her after having won my first freshman game as quarterback. “You play at all anymore?” Jack knows the basics about my football career from my interview.

  “Here and there, for fun. I help my old high school coach out sometimes but I can’t run like I used to, with the pins in there.” I sigh. “It was good while it lasted.” I have buddies in the same boat as me, permanently benched from concussions and torn ligaments. Years later, they’re still not taking it well, hung up on the “what ifs,” depressed about their monotonous day jobs and their one-car garages. I try not to think like that. If I do, I’ll be a helluva lot more depressed than those guys. There were no “what ifs” for me. With my ranking and the scouts circling, I was a guaranteed draft into the NFL. All it took was one tackle to destroy my right knee. Took me right out of the game. Out of what I loved.

  My dad nailed it when he said what goes around, comes around.

  And man, did he ever enjoy saying that right to my face.

  “I’m sure it was,” Jack agrees, setting the frame down gently. He strolls over and pokes his head out just as the elevator dings. “Reese?” We’re the only ones in the office, so the name echoes through the open space. There’s no doubt she heard him. The sound of footsteps approaches. My stomach does a weird flip of excitement as she appears in my doorway. During the week she wears nice office stuff. Today she’s in ripped jeans that hug her thighs and that nice round ass of hers. Beneath her unzipped jacket, I can see an old Mötley Crüe T-shirt that stretches across her tits. I’m not even sure if she ran a brush through her hair. Maybe that’s from the bike ride. It doesn’t matter, though. I like this look.

  Of course, she doesn’t so much as glance in my direction, though I’m sure she knows I’m standing right here, staring at her. It is my office, after all.

  She hasn’t spoken a word to me in two weeks, since that first day. She’s made every effort to be excessively busy on cases for Nelson, who, according to a very annoyed Natasha, she once declared she’d rather peel her fingertips off with a grater than work with.

 
; “You got my note?” Jack asks.

  “That’s why I’m here,” she says, her voice much softer and friendlier than anything ever directed at me. “What do you need help with?”

  “I need my best paralegal to help my newest lawyer get on his feet. Natasha told me that Nelson’s been monopolizing your time. She and Ben are struggling to keep up with cases, so I’ve told Natasha that family law can have you a hundred percent for the next few weeks, if you don’t mind.”

  I watch as she turns those shrewd eyes on me, narrowing slightly, clearly thinking I had something to do with this. I have to press my lips together tightly, fighting the urge to laugh. If I laugh, she’ll hate my guts. I need her to not hate my guts. Ideally, I need to find a way to make her love my guts. I get the impression she doesn’t even like most people, so this may be a challenge.

  Jack pats her shoulder, his voice softening, as if coaxing a frightened animal out of a corner. “Help the poor guy out in whatever way you can. He’s practically sleeping here.”

  Chapter 9

  REESE

  “You really should try the key lime pie,” the waitress suggests as she slides my usual order in front of me.

  “Maybe next time.” I impale a pecan with my fork. If I keep this up, my ass is going to start spilling over the sides of the brand-new Harley SuperLow that I found sitting in the driveway when I came back from Cancún. It was a birthday/graduation present from Jack. After a brake line snapped in my old Honda Shadow, he had deemed it unsafe and shipped it to the junkyard while I was away. He made a sizeable down payment and I’m making modest monthly installments to cover the rest. I think it’s all part of his plan to turn me into a responsible twenty-one-year-old woman. Who rides a motorcycle.

  I gladly accepted it, unable to contain myself the first time I cranked the engine and got lost in the distinctive rumble deep within my chest. I was planning on getting lost in that rumble all the way down to the Keys today, until I found the note from Jack on my bedside table, asking for my help in the office. After all that Jack has done for me, he’s one of the few people who I’ll go out of my way to please, so of course I changed my plans. Had I known that the law bot and Ben had bid for my undivided attention, I might not have come so willingly.

  Having a smirking Ben sit there watching the ambush, his arms folded over his chest, certainly didn’t help my mood. He knows exactly why I’ve been working on mind-numbing corporate contracts for the last two weeks. Honestly, I don’t think driving a knife into my ear would be as painful as listening to Nelson’s nasally voice drone on about this clause and that amendment and blah, blah, blah . . . But as agonizing as it has been for me, I’ve taken some pleasure in knowing that Ben’s overinflated ego may be taking a hit.

  I agreed to Jack’s request, of course—through gritted teeth—and told them I’d be back in an hour because there was something important I had to do.

  That was almost three hours ago.

  And that’s why I’m not at all surprised that Ben is now standing in front of my table with a big smirk on his face, like he’s caught me red-handed.

  “This does look very important.”

  “Food quality control,” I mumble as the vacant metal chair drags along the patio stones and he takes a seat.

  “Well, I hope you failed the coffee because it tastes like ass,” Ben says, helping himself to my glass of chocolate milk.

  My mouth opens to say something about that but I quickly shut it. I don’t really want to think about where Ben’s mouth may have been. And does he talk to everyone like this, or just me?

  “Jack told me you’d probably be here.”

  “I’m highly predictable when it comes to food.” I eye the boxed pie he just set down with a raised brow. “Hungry?”

  “It’s for a pregnant friend who I want to visit later, if I ever get out of the office.”

  Trying to guilt-trip me. Nice. Unfortunately for him, I grew up with a master manipulator and I don’t generally fall for it. “Good for you, keeping your baby mama happy.”

  That loud, bellowing laughter of his carries through the patio, turning heads. “I can’t wait to tell her you said that.” Yanking my fork out of my hand, he stabs at my plate and shovels a piece of my pie into his mouth. “Damn, that’s good pie. You should try the key lime next time, though.”

  “I hate limes.”

  He shakes his head and says in a slightly exasperated tone, “No you don’t, Reese. You’re just being difficult.”

  “Says who?”

  His gaze roams around, stalling at a table of young women. “Says the margaritas I ended up wearing.”

  I grab my fork out of his hand and pull my plate closer, my free hand wrapping around the outside of the plate as if to protect it. “I actually do hate limes. That night was about me embracing change.”

  “And how’d that go?”

  “Well, now I’m positive that I hate limes and change.”

  Ben’s head tips back to take in the blue skies with a smile, and I can’t help but notice his Adam’s apple protruding from his neck. He has a really thick, strong neck, but not like one of those gross no-neck guys. Quite the contrary. “Tell me something . . . is suffering through Nelson’s contracts for the past two weeks—which everyone knows you hate—really worth it?”

  “I love working with Nelson,” I lie. “His voice is enchanting.”

  Leaning back in his chair, relaxed, he watches me quietly for a moment. “Mason warned me not to piss you off.”

  “See? Jiminy Cricket knows things.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Washing the last bite down with my chocolate milk, I offer in a patronizing tone, “It’s a good thing that you don’t need me.”

  “Oh, but Jack thinks I do, so . . .” He stretches those arms above his head—the sleeves of his loose black T-shift falling to reveal how much time Ben must spend in the gym—and smiles proudly. “I guess you’ll be helping me whether you like it or not.”

  I heave a sigh as my gaze roams the patio, knowing that I’m stuck. Jack never steps in to dictate who I work with. He always says he’s just happy that I’m working so hard and keeping out of trouble. If he has done it now, it’s because he thinks it’s necessary.

  “Look.” Ben rests his elbows on the table as he stares at me with that penetrating gaze that probably enraptures many women. “If I promise to never mention anything to do with Cancún again, can we start over?” He dips his head a bit, his big blue eyes full of sincerity. “What do you need me to do? Cry? Grovel? I’ll do whatever you want. Please.”

  I like this side of Ben. I’m sure it doesn’t happen often, and I’m sure he has this conversation well planned out, but still. I like listening to him beg.

  “Come on. Anything. Do you want something embarrassing to hold over my head, too?”

  The spark of interest—not so much about balancing the scales as curiosity about what could possibly embarrass this jackass—must be evident in my face because he quickly pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket. “Here, look at this. At least there’s no concrete evidence of you ass-up on the ground.” Not sure what to expect, I take the proffered iPhone, acutely aware of his fingers grazing mine in the exchange, and turn it around to see a guy climbing up onto a stage of some sort, with a scrap of what looks like a pink bikini riding up his ass and a set of—“Oh, my God! Is that . . .?” With a cringe, I zoom in on the screen to see a very unflattering angle of Ben.

  “Yup. I keep waking up to texts of these pictures from my friend. She must have taken about fifty of them. Thinks it’s hilarious.” Ben smoothly grabs the phone out of my hand as I burst out in laughter.

  “I need to meet this friend. I like her already.”

  “Yeah, you’d probably get along well with Kacey. You’re a lot alike.” Pausing to drop his phone back into his pocket, he suddenly turns serious. “Look, I’m drowning in this shit, Reese. And June . . . holy fuck!” His enormous hands cover his face, dragging down to reveal his fru
stration. “If I have to sit in a room with her for one more hour, I think I’ll slit my fucking wrists. I can’t be spending every weekend in the office. My mom runs a citrus grove and she’s gonna need me there when the season opens, and I just need help. Please help me.”

  I heave a sigh. Maybe he did learn his lesson. Maybe . . . my thoughts trail as I watch the hostess lead two people to a table on the other side of the patio. I recognize that slight swagger in the guy’s step; the curly wisps of hair around his ears and down the back of his neck are slightly longer, urging fingers to swirl them.

  Waves of emotion crash into me as I watch Jared slide into a chair. He’s wearing his usual dark blue jeans, hanging off his hips provocatively. I’m sure that if I lifted up that soft gray T-shirt, I’d see the elastic band of his Calvin Klein briefs—he won’t wear anything else. His naturally dark skin is darker than normal, as if he’s been spending more time in the sun. He probably is, if he’s working outside. His arms also seem bigger than they . . .

  “Earth to Reese?” I hear Ben call out, adding, “What is it with chicks gaping out?”

  I manage to turn my attention back to Ben’s waiting face for all of three seconds before I’m compelled back to Jared.

  And I watch. Like a lunatic who deserves a sedative cocktail and a padded room, I watch Jared for the first time in almost nine months, as he entwines his fingers through hers and brings her hand to his lips, kissing it softly, mouthing something that looks like “I love you.”

  He used to do that with me.

  “Shit,” I mutter, swallowing the rising sickness and jealousy as I angle my face away, trying to discreetly block my profile with my hand should Jared glance over in this direction.

  “What is it?” Ben begins, turning in his seat.