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“Do you care to use adult language, or are we texting like Gen Z again?”
“What?” I shrug. “It’s my custom stenography.”
“N. G. L. Capping?” He reads my note aloud. “Translate because they don’t teach Slang at Carolina Law.”
Here we go again.Him, shoving his damn degree down my throat.
Yes, I would have gone to law school, too, but I couldn’t afford it. I needed fast income and paralegal was it.
“Not. Going to. Lie,” I translate, “butshe’slying. That’s what it means, but I didn’t think it prudent to note it in Michael Cummings, Esquire’s trial binder as she sits beside you in court on Monday.”
His eyes narrow. “Why do you think my client is lying?”
“She’s not doing it on purpose. She says she needs to break her lease because the mold in her apartment is making her sick. Her landlord’s statement says it’s normal humidity around here, but when I listened to her statement, I could hear it in her voice: it’s not mold making her sick; it’s herlandlord’s harassment.” Suddenly, the timing is too perfect, and I smile. “I kinda know how she feels.”
His sexy face doesn’t flinch. No, satisfaction ignites his icy eyes. “I see.”
“Do you? Or do you need me to use more Post-It notes?”
“I need you to finish your text.” He smirks, sipping his espresso.
“Huh, that sounds like ayouproblem.”
“Ms. Jones,youwork for me. My problemsareyour problems.”
“Perfect: I’ll outperform and add to them.”
“You’re sounding quite sarcastic today.”
“If I sound sarcastic, you should hear what Idon’tsay.”
A smile ghosts his lips. “Which is?”
“This is a trap.”
“This is your free pass.”
I purse my lips, dying to say it, but I won’t be seduced.
Then he raises a dark brow, waiting … and something about his nose ring makes me blurt, “I just look at you sometimes, and wonder what you’d look like with a personality.”
“Hmm.” He fights a sexy smile. “I wonder what you’d look like fired.”
I roll my eyes. “Are we done?”
“For now.” He flits his hand.
Where are my tweezers?
Slowly, I pivot on nude heels I hate. I’m in a purple sheath dress I loathe, too, well aware it hugs my ass, but at least I can swish what Axel can’t have for his gaze.
Then, I do everything possible to piss him off.
I leave his office door open and sit at my desk. I start typing my next report, loving how the clicking of my acrylic nails drives Axel insane. He’s complained about it before. Once I finish, I kick my heels off under my desk and traipse, barefoot, back into his office.
“Here,” I saunter toward his desk, “this is the exhibit tracking of the evidence submitted for Ms. Simpson’s case.”
His cold stare whips to my feet. “Ms. Jones,” he snarls, “we wearshoesin this office.”