Page 6 of Breaking the Lawyer (Straight No More #4)

We round a corner and emerge into a large open space filled with desks and the low hum of productivity. People are scattered throughout, heads bent over laptops, phones pressed to ears. It's busy but not chaotic, the kind of efficiency that probably bills a lot of hours.

"Your desk," Christian says, pointing to a spot near the windows. "Laptop should be set up with your temp password."

I nod, taking in what’s going to be my new home. It's nice enough—decent chair, good lighting, enough space for the inevitable case file explosion.

But what really catches my attention are the glass offices lining the far wall. Partners, probably, based on the expensive suits and serious expressions visible through the transparent walls.

"Any questions?" Christian asks.

"Nope. Looks straightforward." I'm proud of how casual I sound, all things considered.

"Good. I have a meeting to prepare for, so you're on your own for orientation part two." He checks his watch. "There should be a welcome email with all the boring policy stuff. Try to at least skim it."

"Will do."

Christian turns to go, then pauses. "And Brooks? Try not to cause any scandals on your first day."

"What kind of scandals could I possibly cause?"

That earns me another one of those looks. "With you? I'm not taking any chances."

He walks away, and I watch him go, noting the confident stride and the way people automatically step aside. He's clearly got serious clout here, which makes sense. The guy's obviously brilliant, even if he is annoyingly smug about it.

And apparently I'm the type of person who finds smugness attractive now. Great. Add that to the growing list of things I need to unpack with my therapist.

I make my way to my desk, exchanging awkward introductions with my new neighbors. Everyone seems friendly enough, though busy, which suits me fine. All it would take is a single ‘ How was your weekend? ’ to trigger my internal nuclear meltdown.

My laptop is waiting with a post-it note containing my password. I boot it up and open my email, finding the promised welcome message with various attachments. Company policies, employee handbook, case management tutorials.

How thrilling.

I'm about to dive into the sad world of billable hour requirements when I glance up and immediately spot a familiar figure through one of the glass walls.

Wait.

Hold the fuck up.

I blink once. Twice. Rub my eyes like I'm in a cartoon.

Nope. Still there.

Christian's sitting at a desk, jacket off, completely absorbed in whatever's on his screen. The early afternoon light streaming through his window catches the strong line of his profile, and I have to grip the edge of my desk to keep from sliding out of my chair.

Of-fucking-course. Of course he has an office.

Of course I'm going to have a front-row seat to Christian Johns: The Professional Years, Monday through Friday, eight hours a day, for the foreseeable future.

Because apparently the universe looked at my life and thought, ‘ You know what this needs? More psychological torture .’

I'm supposed to work like this? With a perfect view of the man who made me question my entire identity over a weekend? The man whose voice I can't stop replaying in my head like a broken record?

This is like putting a pyromaniac in a fireworks factory.

Maybe I'm having a stroke. That would explain the sudden inability to form coherent thoughts and the way my heart is trying to escape through my throat.

I consider my options. Option A—quit immediately and become a hermit. Option B—ask for a desk transfer to literally anywhere else, because reasons . Or C—accept that my life really is a cosmic joke and I'm the punchline.

Or else I could just pretending this is totally normal and I'm definitely not having a breakdown.

Yep. Seems like the most professional choice.

I force my attention back to the laptop and open the first document.

It's mind-numbing stuff about vacation policies and dress codes, but I dutifully start reading. Or rather, trying to read, because my eyes keep drifting back to Christian's office like they're controlled by some cruel puppet master.

He looks different here. Focused and serious, sure, but at the same time relaxed, like he’s in his element. Which he probably is.

It makes me wonder what he looks like at home. Is he always this put-together or is there a version of him who wears sweatpants and gets bedhead?

And why the hell am I wondering about his bedhead?

I'm so busy having yet another crisis, I almost miss it when he looks up and catches me staring. Our eyes meet through the glass, and I feel my face burn as I quickly look away, pretending to be fascinated by the section on professional conduct.

Nice. Maybe I should just wear a neon sign that reads ‘ Inappropriate workplace thoughts in progress’.

A few minutes later, I risk another glance.

Christian's rolling up his sleeves, the simple action revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair.

I've never been particularly interested in forearms before—hell, I'm not sure I've ever consciously noticed them—but watching his hands work the fabric is doing things to me that are definitely not appropriate for the workplace.

Or anywhere, really.

A quiet ping from my laptop saves me from my spiral into madness. A chat window has appeared in the corner of my screen—some kind of internal messaging system.

Christian Johns : You should at least try to look busy.

I glance up to find him watching me with that familiar smirk, and my heart does a little flip that I'm choosing to ignore.

Brooks Lang : I AM busy. Taking everything in.

Christian Johns : Funny, because it looks like what you're busy with is staring at me.

Oops.

Brooks Lang : I'm not staring. I'm observing my new work environment.

Christian Johns : Right. And what observations have you made?

I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I probably shouldn’t do this, but the safety of the chat window makes me bold. Or stupid. Most likely stupid.

Brooks Lang : Your tie looks funny.

I watch him glance down at his perfectly normal tie, then back at his screen. Even from across the room, I can see him fighting a smile.

Christian Johns : My tie is fine. Unlike yours. Did you buy it in the kids' section?

Fuck. I've been so busy enjoying the view I forgot to keep my jacket on.

Brooks Lang : It's the newest fashion statement. You wouldn't understand—you're too old to keep up with trends.

I send it before I can think better of it.

Yeah, maybe insulting your coworker on your first day isn’t the brightest idea .

But he’s not just a coworker, is he? He’s…Christian.

He’s already typing, so I send a quick follow-up to distract him.

Brooks Lang : How old are you, anyway?

Christian Johns : Old enough.

Oh, cryptic. How very him.

I minimize the chat and open a new browser window, navigating to LinkedIn. It takes me about thirty seconds to find his profile, and I do some quick math based on his graduation year.

Brooks Lang : Thirty-two, then. Interesting.

Even from a distance I can see the corner of his mouth twitch as he types.

Christian Johns : Thirty, actually.

Brooks Lang : Liar. I've seen your LinkedIn. Can't hide the truth from me.

Christian Johns : I skipped two grades.

I make sure our eyes meet before I roll mine theatrically, enjoying the way his shoulders shake with silent laughter.

Brooks Lang : Of course you did.

Because of course the guy who looks like a model and talks like a walking law textbook was also a child prodigy. The universe really went all out when it made him.

Christian Johns : Shouldn't you be reading the company policy instead of stalking me online?

I glance at the document I've been ignoring, trying to look productive.

Brooks Lang : I'm multitasking. Very efficient.

Christian Johns : Uh-huh. What have you learned about our dress code?

I quickly scroll through the document, skimming for relevant information.

Brooks Lang : Business professional. No sandals. Ties required for client meetings.

Christian Johns : And?

Brooks Lang : And what?

Christian Johns : Keep reading.

I scan further down the page until I find what he's referring to, and my stomach drops.

Brooks Lang : Ties should extend to the belt line.

Well, shit.

Christian Johns : Might want to invest in some properly sized neckwear.

Brooks Lang : Or I could just wear a bow tie. Very avant-garde.

Christian Johns : I'm sure that would go over well with the partners.

Brooks Lang : Speaking of partners, how does one become a partner around here? Asking for a friend.

Christian Johns : Your friend should probably learn the dress code first.

Brooks Lang : My friend is a fast learner. Other skills too.

Christian Johns : What kind of skills?

The question hangs there, loaded like a machine-gun ready to be used.

I should probably stop. Any rational person would stop.

Unfortunately, my fingers aren’t rational and dance across the keyboard on their own accord.

Brooks Lang : Persuasion. Negotiation. Stamina.

I press send and dip lower in my chair so that my face is covered while I can still see him from above the screen.

Christian Johns : Stamina?

Brooks Lang : For long hours. Intense cases. Demanding clients.

Christian Johns : Of course. What else would you mean?

’Nothing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important policies to get to ’, would be the appropriate response.

My fingers have better ideas.

Brooks Lang : I'm very thorough. I like to make sure I finish what I start.

There's a longer pause this time, and I watch Christian shift in his chair.

Shit. I’ve crossed the line, haven’t I?

Of course you did, you moron .

I’m about to spiral, when—

Christian Johns : How thorough?

It’s like I’m watching myself type, the words coming out of me not really mine.

Brooks Lang : Depends on the job. Some things require a delicate touch. Others need a more... aggressive approach.

Even from a distance I spot his Adam’s apple bob as he types.

Christian Johns : And which approach do you prefer?

My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised it's not audible across the office.

Brooks Lang : Whatever gets the best results. I'm very good with my hands.

Christian's jaw tightens visibly, and I watch him loosen his tie.

Christian Johns : I'm sure you are.

Brooks Lang : I could show you sometime. My technique.

I hit send and immediately want to crawl under my desk. What am I, twelve?

But then I see his reaction—the way his breath seems to catch, how he grips his coffee mug—and I realize I'm not the only one out of control here.

Just as he starts typing, someone appears at his office door. A man in an expensive suit knocks, and Christian waves him in, not before shooting me a look that could melt steel.

I watch through the glass as they have what looks like a brief conversation. Christian checks his watch, nods, and the man leaves. The whole exchange takes maybe two minutes, but it feels like an eternity while I'm sitting here with my heart trying to escape through my throat.

Christian looks back at his screen and starts typing. I lean forward like a desperate teenager waiting for a text back.

Christian Johns : We should stop this.

My stomach drops. Well, that's not what I was hoping for.

Brooks Lang : Why?

There's a pause, and I can see him run a hand through his hair. He looks like he's sighing, which from this distance makes him look even more attractive. How is sighing hot? Since when do I find sighing hot?

Christian Johns : Because I have a meeting to go to, and I can't exactly stand up right now.

Holy. Shit.

He's hard.

I made him hard.

Christian Johns is sitting in his fancy see-through office with a hard-on because of me .

I'm staring at the screen, trying to formulate a response that won't get me fired, when another message appears.

Christian Johns : I'm serious, Brooks.

The use of my name makes my pulse spike. Even in written form, it feels intimate somehow, like he's saying it directly into my ear.

My fingers move before my brain can stop them.

Brooks Lang : How about we meet tonight?

I hit send and watch Christian's face through the glass. He starts typing frantically, and I panic, adding:

Brooks Lang : To set some ground rules.

He stops typing and stares at his screen. From here, I can see his jaw working like he's having an internal debate. God, he looks good when he's thinking. Hell, he looks good when he's breathing. This is becoming a serious problem.

The pause stretches on forever. I'm pretty sure I'm holding my breath the entire time.

Finally, a message appears.

Christian Johns : 7pm. The Lagune. You know where it is?

I don't have a clue, but Google exists for a reason.

Brooks Lang : Yup .

Christian Johns : See you there.

Another pause, then:

Christian Johns : God, I hope I don't regret this.

He closes his laptop with more force than necessary, stands up, and puts his jacket on. I hold my breath again, waiting for him to look at me, but he doesn't. Instead, he walks out of his office without so much as a glance in my direction.

I sit there staring at my screen, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free and chase after him.

It shouldn't be like this. I should be attracted to one of the many beautiful, intelligent women around me. Monica from HR with her warm smile. The brunette associate who introduced herself earlier. Any woman, really.

Instead, all I can think about is making Christian regret agreeing to meet me tonight.

And the twisted part? I can't wait to see what regret looks like on him.