Page 5 of Breaking the Lawyer (Straight No More #4)

I'VE ALREADY SIGNED my name so many times the word has lost its meaning and I'm not even halfway through the stack of papers in front of me.

A loud voice in the back of my head reminds me I should be actually reading them instead of just skimming, but it's not like I can focus on words when the lady on the other side of the desk sends me polite smiles every time our eyes meet, but deep down wishes I'd scram already so that she can get back to her actual work, instead of babysitting me.

Welcome to the first day of the rest of my life.

"You missed a page," she points out with patience that must be running thin.

Her name is Monica and she's the head of HR, and even though her name is pretty much all I know about her, she's the most familiar face in this entire twenty-three-story building, having been present during three of my seven— seven! —interviews for this job.

"Sorry." I smile apologetically and scramble to find the page I skipped. "Kinda nervous."

"Oh, don't be." She waves her hand in front of her face. "First days are for trying to memorize the office layout and judging your coworkers by their appearance."

I make sure to produce an appropriately dry chuckle, her mentioning appearance stressing me out even more because I haven't exactly thought mine through. Good luck charms may be fun and all, but Tyler's about five inches shorter than I am and so is his stupid tie.

I place my final crooked signature on the last page of a document that might as well be asking me for my firstborn for all I know before sliding the stack across the desk for Monica to check, then lean back and pat the front of my suit jacket to make sure the exact spot where my tie ends and my embarrassment begins remains hidden.

No one will ever know.

Monica nods as she goes through the pages and I turn my head to the left, where an all-glass wall exposes the perfect view of…ugh. The skyscraper next door.

"Perfect," Monica says, separating her copies from mine.

"Attorney Johns will give you your orientation," she says, and I nod like it's not the first time I hear the name.

Maybe if I spent a little less time having an existential crisis over the weekend and more time going through the company's LinkedIn I wouldn't feel so out of place.

Monica turns the last page, then checks her watch. "In fact, he should be—"

The sound of doors opening cuts through her last word.

"Perfect timing," she says and stands up.

I follow suit, then turn to where a man in a suit—attorney Johns, I assume—is currently closing the door behind him.

Then, I keep on turning until I've done a full three-sixty and silently say goodbye to my mom, assuring her that I love her, because I'm about to have the type of heart attack you don't recover from.

"A bit late actually, sorry about that." A male voice grows louder as he approaches.

I remain unmoving, my eyes wide and glued to Monica, although I don't really see her, my attention hyper-focused on the man who's just stopped to my right.

"Got held up—" The pause is minuscule, so short Monica has no chance of noticing.

It also happens to coincide with the exact moment his gaze rests on the side of my face. "—on a call."

On the off-chance I survive this, I make a decision—starting tomorrow, I'm wearing make-up to work because I don't even want to think about what color my cheeks are right now.

"Christian, meet our new associate, Brooks Lang. Brooks, this is—"

"Christian Johns," he cuts her off, and it takes me a moment to register the hand hanging firmly in the air a few inches in front of me.

I simultaneously swallow, mumble a "Hi," and discreetly wipe my palm on the leg of my pants, trying to somehow get rid of the sweat, then shake his hand and risk a half-second glance at his face.

Yep. I'm fucked.

I keep my eyes on Monica, but all my attention is fixed on the man in my peripheral. He glances at the messy desk and clears his throat. "Alright, so… You're all done here?"

Realizing that's my cue, I gather my share of the papers, crumpling half of them in the process and clumsily shove them into my briefcase.

"I think we're set," Monica says. "Unless you have any more questions?"

It takes me a beat to realize she's talking to me.

Not really trusting my voice right now, I summon a polite smile and shake my head, all the while trying to ignore Christian's overwhelming presence.

Maybe if I ignore him long enough, I'll somehow jump to a timeline where my career isn't over before it has even begun.

"Great. If you do need anything, you know where to find me. Otherwise, have a great first day."

I mouth a silent ' Thank you ' and before the absolute shittiness of the situation fully sinks in, I find myself following Christian across Monica's office.

His hair is tamed now, neatly styled, not a strand out of place.

He moves gracefully, broad back shifting under the fabric of a perfectly fitted suit that must be custom-made.

We reach the door at the right time because for reasons I can't explain my eyes have just fallen to his ass, and even though I watched him the entire way, don't even try to ask me about the color of his suit.

Well, if it isn't the most fucking Monday Monday to ever Monday.

All of my hopes of wordlessly tailing him to wherever it is we're heading get shattered the second we're out in the hallway, where Christian stops, turns to face me, and raises his chin along with one brow as if to say ' Well? '

Like it's my fault we're here.

Speaking of…it's not my fault, is it?

I cross my arms and lift my chin up as well. Two can play this game. "So I guess you're not an influencer, huh?"

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he holds his stance otherwise. "What was your first clue?"

"Hey! Don't you—" I cut myself off as distant footsteps reach me and lower my voice, along with my hand, accusatory finger already pointing in his direction.

How did that happen? "Don't act all smug.

I told you who I was. You didn't," I half-whisper, and just as he's about to retort, a new thought pops into my head.

"Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Did you know about this? "

His brow falls back into place. "About what?"

Either he didn't, or he's a good actor.

I narrow my eyes and focus on reading his face as I speak. "I told you I'm a lawyer. I told you I got a new job. You knew your firm was hiring. Am I supposed to believe you didn't put two and two together?"

Christian looks just genuine enough, but barely. "Brooks, there are a thousand law firms in this city. And we hire monthly. It didn't even cross my mind that—" He sighs. "Of all the law firms in the city, you chose to walk into mine."

"Right, because that would be my luck. You sure you didn't Google me or something?"

"Google you?" Christian's eyebrow arches. "What would I even search for? Argumentative blonde guy with questionable pickup lines ?"

"Hey! My pickup lines are excellent."

"' Come here often ' is far from excellent, Brooks."

I open my mouth to argue, then remember where we are.

A professional workplace.

Where I'm supposed to be professional.

With my new colleague who definitely doesn't need to know about my wounded pride.

"Hearsay," I mutter.

Christian's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "Come on. Let's get this tour over with before someone starts wondering why we're having a staring contest in the hallway."

The next hour is a special kind of torture.

Christian leads me through the maze of floors, spouting off information about case loads and billing procedures while I try desperately to focus on literally anything other than the way he moves.

It's like watching a master class in controlled confidence—every gesture deliberate, every word measured.

And here I am, nodding along like a bobblehead while my brain catalogues completely inappropriate details.

The way his suit jacket stretches across his shoulders when he gestures.

How his voice drops half an octave when he's explaining something technical.

The fact that he smells like expensive cologne and competence.

And that’s not good. Not good at all.

"The library's on the fifteenth floor," he's saying as we pass a row of conference rooms. "Most research is digital, but if you ever feel like huffing some dust—"

I nod along, making appropriate sounds of interest while internally wondering if it's normal to find a man's voice this distracting. There's something about his particular brand of authority that makes me want to do stupid things.

Like ask him to read me the phone book. Or anything, really.

"—and the break room coffee is terrible, so most people hit the Starbucks on the ground floor."

"Got it. Terrible coffee, good Starbucks."

"You’re not really listening, are you?"

Busted. "I’m listening." Sort of. In the same way people listen to white noise. "You said something about libraries and precedents and..." I gesture vaguely. "Legal stuff."

Christian stops walking and gives me an amused look. "This is important information, you know."

"I know. I'm just..." I run a hand through my hair. "It's been a weird few days, okay? I'm still processing."

"Processing what?"

You , I want to say. This whole mess. The fact that I can't stop staring at your mouth when you talk. The way you make me feel like I'm seventeen and discovering porn for the first time.

"New job," I say instead. "Big life change and all that."

He studies my face for a moment, and I get the distinct feeling he can see right through my bullshit. But all he says is, "Fair enough. Try to pay attention to this next part though—it's where you'll actually be working."