Page 2 of Breaking the Lawyer (Straight No More #4)

"Into what, exactly?" Christian's voice has a teasing lilt to it now, like he's enjoying my discomfort.

"Men," I say, the word feeling strange on my tongue in this context.

Christian leans in slightly. The movement brings his face closer to mine, close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tiny flecks of amber in his otherwise dark eyes.

"You know, most straight guys who find themselves in a place like this are either terrified or overcompensating. You're doing a bit of both."

"I'm not overcompensating," I protest.

"No? ' I'm going to seduce you '?" Christian mimics, his voice dropping an octave in imitation. The sound sends a strange shiver down my spine. "That's not overcompensating?"

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, trying to stop the smile that threaten to make itself visible. "Maybe a little."

"A little," he agrees, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The expression softens his otherwise sharp features, makes him look younger, more approachable. "So tell me, Brooks-who's-definitely-not-overcompensating, what do you do when you're not making bets in gay bars?"

"I just landed a job at a law firm," I say, feeling on safer ground. "Start Monday."

"A lawyer?" He raises a brow and studies me for a few moments. "Should have guessed. You've got that argumentative streak."

"Says the guy who's been arguing with me since I bumped into him."

"Touché." Christian clinks his glass against mine. The sound is crisp, like the breaking of a spell. "So what kind of law?"

"Corporate, mostly," I say, then grin. "Boring, I know."

"Oh, I don't know," Christian replies. "There's something to be said for a man in a suit who knows how to argue his case."

The way he says it—low and suggestive—sends a strange tingle down my chest. I find myself imagining what he'd look like in a suit, all sharp lines and confident posture. The image is...not unpleasant.

"What about you?" I ask, eager to shift the focus. "What do you do?"

"This and that," Christian says vaguely, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"Now who's being evasive?"

His smile is enigmatic, a small quirk of his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Maybe I like being mysterious."

"Or maybe your job is embarrassing," I tease. "Are you a professional clown? A telemarketer? Oh god, you're not an influencer, are you?"

"Would it matter if I was?"

"Depends. What would you be influencing? Fashion? Fitness?" I let my eyes drift over his well-fitted shirt, the way it stretches across his shoulders. "You could probably pull off either."

"Was that a compliment?" Christian ask, expression unreadable.

"Just an observation," I say, but I can feel my face warming again. What is it about this guy that keeps making me blush like I’m sixteen all over again?

Christian checks his watch, a sleek, understated timepiece that probably costs more than my rent. "Well, as fun as this has been..."

"You're leaving?" I ask, surprised at the disappointment that surges through me.

"I told you, I'm here for a reason." His tone is casual, but there's something slightly rigid in his features.

"Right. A hot date?" I try to keep my tone light, but it comes out sounding a bit bitter. Why do I care who he's meeting?

"Could be," Christian says with a shrug that does interesting things to the muscles in his shoulders. "Or I could just be trying to escape your terrible pickup lines."

"My pickup lines are excellent," I protest. "You just haven't heard my best material yet."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

I lean in, close enough that I can smell his cologne again, stronger now. "If I told you, I'd have to use it on you. And then you'd be powerless to resist me."

He laughs, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down my spine. "You're something else, you know that?"

"Is that a good thing?"

"I haven't decided yet." He studies me for a moment, his gaze so intense I almost look away. Almost. Then he sighs, a soft exhalation that seems to carry some decision with it. "Give me your phone."

"Why?"

"Just give it to me."

I unlock my phone and hand it over, watching as Christian taps on the screen. His fingers are long and elegant, moving with the kind of precision that suggests he knows exactly what he's doing. When he hands it back, there's a new contact: " Christian " with a phone number.

"There," he says. "You win your bet."

I stare at the number for a moment, then say, "You didn't have to do that."

"I know." He stands up, gathering his jacket, a sleek leather number that looks soft to the touch. "But I wanted to."

I narrow my eyes. "Will you answer if I call?" I ask, trying to establish if the number is even real.

Christian's smile is small but genuine. "Guess you'll have to find out."

And with that, he gives me an up-nod, turns around and walks away. I find myself watching the way he moves—confident, fluid, like he’s aware of the effect he has on people. There's a strange pull in my chest, an urge to follow him, to keep talking.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

"No fucking way," Tyler barks a few minutes later, peering at my screen over my shoulder. "You actually did it."

"Pay up," I say, pocketing my phone. The number feels like it's burning a hole in my pocket.

"How'd you manage it?" Alex asks, looking genuinely impressed.

"Charm and good looks," I reply with a confidence I don't entirely feel. "The usual."

"Bullshit." Tyler says. "You must have told him it was a bet."

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't." I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "A win's a win."

Alex slaps a hundred onto my waiting palm with an eye roll, at the same time Tyler mutters, “Fine. I’ll Venmo you.”

Mike glances into his wallet, then sighs. “Same.”

As we gather our things to leave, I can't help but glance around the bar, searching for a glimpse of dark eyes and a sharp jawline.

I spot him at the other end of the room, talking to someone else now—a tall blonde with a model's build. They're standing close, laughing at something. I feel a strange twist in my gut, something that might be jealousy if that made any sense at all.

But then, as if sensing my gaze, Christian looks up. Our eyes meet across the crowded space, and for a moment, everything else fades away. He gives me a small nod, a half-smile that feels like a secret between us.

"Brooks? You coming?" Tyler calls, already at the door.

"Yeah," I say, tearing my eyes away from Christian. "Right behind you."

Suddenly, the newfound hundred in my pocket feels a lot like guilt, and an entire letter-bound tome filled with questions I don’t have any answers to.