Page 7 of Breaking the Lawyer (Straight No More #4)

I'VE BEEN SITTING in my car for the past ten minutes, gripping the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality, trying to work up the courage to walk into what is clearly the most expensive bar I've seen in my life.

The Lagune looks like the kind of place where they charge fifty dollars for a glass of whiskey and the bartenders have graduate degrees in mixology. Floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek black exterior, and a valet who keeps eyeing my beat-up Honda like it's personally offending him.

I should have a plan. Some kind of strategy for what I'm going to say when I see Christian. The problem is, I don't know what the hell I want out of this conversation. All I know is that I've been thinking about him for the past six hours straight, and it's driving me insane.

My phone buzzes, making me jump in my seat.

Christian : You know there are windows in here, right?

Fuck. I glance up at the tinted glass, where Christian is apparently watching me have a breakdown in the parking lot. Heat floods my cheeks as I imagine him sitting inside, probably laughing at my pathetic attempt at psyching myself up.

Well, that settles it. I can't look like more of an idiot than I already do.

I give myself a nod in the rearview mirror—because why not lean into the crazy at this point—and get out of the car. The valet gives me a look that suggests my presence is lowering property values, but I ignore him and stride toward the entrance like I have every right to be here.

The inside is exactly what I expected. All warm amber lighting, leather everything, and clientele that probably considers my monthly salary pocket change.

I spot Christian immediately at a corner booth, already nursing what looks like whiskey, and my stomach does that thing it's been doing all day—the flip-twist-clench combo that's becoming my body's default response to this man.

He looks up as I approach, that familiar smirk playing at his lips. "You know, most people don't need a pep talk in their car before entering a bar."

I slide into the booth across from him, grateful for the dim lighting that might hide my flushed cheeks. There are two whiskey glasses on the table, which means he ordered for me. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

"Most people don't have to psyche themselves up for conversations with their new boss who they may have accidentally chat-sexted with."

"I'm hardly your boss. Also, chat-sexted isn't a word."

"It is now. I'm a lawyer, I can make words legally binding."

"That's not how words work."

"Says who? You?" I take a whiff of the whiskey, enjoying the richness of it. "I think we've established that you're not the authority on everything."

He leans back against the leather, studying me with those dark eyes. "We should probably establish the ground rules now. What happened today—"

"You mean when you couldn't stand up because of me?" The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I watch Christian's jaw tighten.

"Jesus, Brooks." He glances around nervously. "Keep your voice down."

I lean forward slightly, emboldened by the whiskey I haven't even really touched yet. "I'm just clarifying which part we're setting rules about. The messaging part, or the part where I made you hard enough to—"

"The messaging part," he cuts me off quickly, but his pupils are dilated now, and somehow, that feels like victory.

I take a sip, studying Christian over the rim of my glass. He looks even better in the dim lighting—all sharp angles and barely contained tension. The suit doesn't hurt either.

"Okay, so no more messaging. Got it. What about in-person conversations?"

"What about them?"

"Are we allowed to talk about how good you look in that suit? Because I have thoughts." I let my gaze drift over his shoulders, the way the fabric stretches across his chest.

"Brooks..." There's a warning in his voice, but it's half-hearted.

"Professional thoughts. Like, professionally speaking, you look nice."

He keeps his matter-of-fact expression on, but I don’t miss how he shifts in his seat. "We work together now. There are protocols."

"Right. Protocols. Like the protocol that says I shouldn't be thinking about what you look like under that shirt? " I reach across the table to straighten his tie, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of his throat. Totally by accident.

Christian's breath catches. "Exactly like that protocol."

"Good thing I'm a rule-breaker then." I deliberately mess with the tie, watching his face.

He looks down, then back up at me. Up close, I can see the single dimple on his cheek when he’s trying not to smile. I missed it already

"Your tie was crooked," I say.

"No, it wasn't."

"It is now." I grin, then add, "Oops."

He stares at me for a long moment. "You're trouble."

"You have no idea." I take a sip of my drink, suddenly feeling like I need it.

Because the truth is, it’s me who has no idea.

I have no idea what I’m doing exactly, or why. I do, however, know what I’m hoping for, but the thought stays safely tucked on the back of my head. I’m not sure I’m ready to face it yet.

He leans back against the leather booth, his eyes never leaving my face. "You know what the really fucked up part is?"

"That you're attracted to the office newbie?"

"That I haven't been able to stop thinking about Sunday night." His voice goes quiet. Intimate. Like he's telling me a secret in a room full of strangers.

I swallow hard. "Which part specifically?"

The look he gives me is pure heat. Raw want. It hits me somewhere between my ribs and my gut, settling low and insistent. "All of it. Your voice, the things you said..."

"The part where I told you about my dick?"

His grip tightens on his glass. Knuckles white. Jaw clenched. Like he's physically restraining himself from doing something stupid.

"Especially that part." His words come out barely audible, and fuck, I can almost taste the tension crackling between us.

I'm staring at him across the table, and my brain is trying to make sense of what's happening to me. This isn't some casual attraction. This is need. Desperate, clawing need that's making me forget basic social conventions like not eye-fucking a man in public.

"Can I ask you something?" I set down my glass, suddenly needing to understand what's happening to me.

"Shoot."

"How long have you known you were gay?" The question feels important somehow, like the answer might help me make sense of the chaos in my head.

He tilts his head, studying my face. "Since I was fourteen. Why?"

I rake my fingers through my hair, suddenly feeling like I'm sitting naked in this booth. "I'm trying to figure out if I'm having a sexuality crisis or if it's just you."

His eyebrows raise. "Just me?"

"I mean, I've never looked at a guy and thought ' I wonder what he sounds like when he comes '. Until you."

He chokes on his whiskey. Actually chokes, coughing and sputtering as he sets down his glass. When he recovers, his eyes are darker. Hungrier.

And that's when it hits me.

This isn't about discovering I'm attracted to men.

This is about him. This specific man who somehow crawled under my skin and flipped every switch I didn't know existed.

"You're staring," he says, voice rougher now.

"Can you blame me?" I let my gaze drift over his face, memorizing the line of his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead. "You're fucking gorgeous."

"Brooks..."

I can't think. Can't breathe. The way he's looking at me, like he wants to consume me whole right here among the expensive whiskey and judgmental rich people, is making my head spin.

Without fully deciding to do it, I stand up and move to his side of the booth.

His eyes widen. "This is probably a terrible idea."

"Probably." I slide in next to him, our thighs touching. The contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with static electricity. "Fortunately, I don't care."

I turn to face him. My heart is hammering so hard I'm worried it might actually burst through my chest. The space between us feels electric. Dangerous. I reach up, cupping his face with fingers that are definitely trembling, feeling the slight roughness of stubble against my palm.

"I've never done this before," I whisper, suddenly needing him to know.

"I figured." There's something gentle in his voice. Patient. Like he's willing to wait for me to figure out what I want. "We don’t have to—"

"I want to." The words come out fierce, certain. "I want you."

I watch his entire face change. The uncertainty melts away, replaced by something that looks like determination. He leans in, closing the distance between us, and I meet him halfway.

The first touch of his lips against mine is like getting struck by a fucking lightning.

They're soft and warm and taste like expensive whiskey, and something inside my chest cracks wide open. He goes statue-still for a heartbeat—probably as shocked as I am that I actually did it—before he responds, his mouth opening under mine, and suddenly we're really kissing.

And Jesus Christ, I had no idea.

It's not like I've never kissed before, but this? This is like discovering I've been living in black and white my whole life and someone just handed me a box of crayons.

His tongue slides against mine, and I make a sound that's sits somewhere between a moan and a desperate plea. Something needy and raw that I don't recognize as coming from my own throat.

My free hand fists in his shirt, pulling him closer. More contact. More everything. More of whatever the hell this is that's currently rewiring my entire nervous system.

His hand comes up to tangle in my hair, and when he gives the slightest pull, I gasp into his mouth like he's just discovered the secret to making me lose my shit. The kiss gets deeper. Hungrier. It’s almost like I'm drowning. And I never want to come up for air.

We break apart breathing like we've just run a marathon, foreheads pressed together.

"Fuck," Christian whispers, his voice completely wrecked.