Page 14 of How Freaking Romantic
BEATRICE
ARE YOU HERE?
NATHAN ASSHOLE
Just coming up.
BEATRICE
WE SAID 12:30
NATHAN ASSHOLE
It’s 12:34.
BEATRICE
IF I HAD KNOWN YOU WERE GOING TO BE LATE I WOULD HAVE GOTTEN HERE AT 12:55
NATHAN ASSHOLE
Why are you yelling?
BEATRICE
I’M NOT YELLING
I look up from sending my text to see the elevator doors at the end of the hall open and Nathan emerge.
He pauses, his eyes doing a quick survey of the floor before turning to find me at the end of the hall.
As he approaches, I notice he’s wearing a suit beneath that familiar camel coat, but this time without a tie.
“I wasn’t yelling,” I say as soon as he’s close enough to hear.
His brow furrows as he arrives a few feet in front of me. “Then why were you typing in all caps?”
“My phone screen is cracked right over the caps button, so I can’t turn it off.”
“Why don’t you fix your phone screen?”
I expertly balance my “I Hate It Here” mug and my phone in one hand as I unlock Frank’s office door with the other. “Because it’s cheaper to type in all caps.”
He stares down at me, then at my mug, then frowns before heading inside.
The office looks exactly the same as when we were here the week before.
Frank didn’t even bother to clean off his desk before going on leave, so the crowded space feels like a still life, everything frozen in time, just waiting for him to return: the piles of papers on his desk, the books thrown haphazardly on the shelves.
The warm smell of Frank’s cologne has faded, though, and as Nathan enters behind me, a fresh, clean scent of whatever soap he uses replaces it.
There are two chairs in front of Frank’s desk.
I drop my bag beside one and fall into it.
I expect Nathan to take Frank’s seat, but he stops next to the chair beside me.
He doesn’t appear to be in any rush as he places his computer bag on the ground between us and begins to pull off his coat.
I try not to watch the motion, but there’s no avoiding it.
His broad frame takes up the entire view; all I can do is watch how he takes hold of each cuff and pulls it down his arms. Then he lays it against the back of his chair and sits down, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
I had practiced this conversation in my head all morning.
I know I have to apologize for the kiss outside my building, obviously, and that alone has planted a seed of annoyance in my chest. Best to just get it out there and move on.
But I also have to be clear that I’m apologizing about the assault outside my building and not the verbal assault in his office, which, honestly, wasn’t an assault at all.
I’m about to open my mouth and begin my well-rehearsed monologue, but he beats me to it.
“Before we get started, I’d like to apologize.”
I blink. It’s so far from what I expect him to say that it takes my brain a moment to recalibrate. And even then I’m confused. “What?”
“For what happened after the bar event,” he replies. “I’m sorry.”
My eyes narrow on him. “Why the hell are you apologizing?”
There’s that condescending frown again. “I kissed you without your consent, Bea. You made it clear that you weren’t—”
“What?” I blurt out again, louder this time.
“Do I need to repeat myself?”
“Ah, no.” I scoff. “No. No, no. I kissed you.”
A moment. He blinks, the only clue that it’s now his turn to be confused. “Excuse me?”
“This isn’t even a question, Nathan. You leaned down to speak to me, at which point I kissed you.”
He tilts his head to the side as if he’s contemplating the memory. “That’s not—”
I hold up my hand to stop him. “We’re not debating this. I kissed you. Without your consent, I might add. So, if anyone should be apologizing, it should be me. But I won’t, because you kissed me back, so I could argue that there was informed consent—”
“Implied consent.”
“Implied consent,” I repeat through gritted teeth.
I can’t believe I’m flustered enough to give him an opportunity to correct me.
“So, I’m not apologizing. In fact, I think we need to go back to you apologizing, since you were obviously aware that this current work situation was a possibility and chose not to tell me prior to the events of that night.
You withheld information that would have informed my decision-making.
That has to violate some of the bar’s professional conduct rules, right?
I could submit a formal complaint. Or at the very least inform the board of trustees here so they know who they’re dealing with.
Tell the chairman or maybe write an email to all of them or…
or… something.” I’m rambling, and I know I’m rambling by the expression on his face, how one eyebrow slowly arches up until my voice finally fades.
“Are you done?” he asks.
I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, mining the last of my patience. “That really depends on what’s about to come out of your mouth.”
When I open my eyes again, I find him staring at me, and there’s something there in his gaze that causes me to go still.
“I’m sorry, Beatrice,” he says. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
It feels odd to hear him say “sorry” out loud. It’s like the apology somehow solidifies the memory, and now all I can think about is the taste of bourbon on his tongue. My heart does an odd stutter in my chest, and I wave my hand in the air between us like I can somehow bat the words away.
“Fine. Great. Apology accepted. Can we get back to work now?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
He leans back in his small chair, clasping his hands together in his lap.
“Frank told me that you rely on the stipend from your TA position to help pay for school. He also said you weren’t thrilled with the idea of me taking on his class.
If you’re thinking of resigning and putting your degree in jeopardy because of this, I’ll step down and help Frank find a replacement. ”
I watch him for a moment, looking for a tell that might reveal some ulterior motive. “Why do you care?”
His lips flatten and he dips his head so he can stare at me from under his brow. “I know you think I’m an asshole, Bea, but I’m not that much of an asshole.”
I should feel a wave of relief. There’s an escape hatch to this situation, one he’s offering up freely.
But I hesitate at the thought. Pride muscles in, shouting in my head that he can’t force me to reveal a weakness so easily.
So I stare at him, in no hurry to reply, and he waits, still meeting my gaze.
“Did you tell him?” I ask. “About what happened?”
Does Frank know that I kissed you and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since?
“No.”
The knot of anxiety in my belly releases a tiny bit.
That’s one good piece of news, at least. Because even without the bruised ego or the irrational need to prove him wrong, I can’t ignore the fact that I need this job.
I worked so hard to get it, and despite the minuscule paycheck, I have no idea how I’ll be able to pay for school—let alone rent—without it.
I need to make this work as much as I need to ensure that he never knows how much of an effort it is to appear nonchalant as I ask, “Why would you even want to do this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, according to New York magazine, you’re one of the top divorce attorneys in the city.
” I reach down into my bag and pull out a bulging binder labeled “Alternative Conflict Resolution.” The small color-coded tabs I used to organize the seminar by lesson stick out of the side like a fringe.
“Don’t you have better things to do on a Tuesday afternoon than teach a basic survey course to a bunch of L1s? ”
It’s only when I see his eyes flare with some indefinable spark and a sly grin turn up one corner of his lips that I realize I’ve said too much.
“You read the article?”
Yes , I think.
“No,” I say.
In my defense, it’s not like I went looking for it.
Maggie texted me the link right after I told her about the kiss, but I hadn’t clicked on it until two nights ago.
It was 3:00 a.m. and I had been staring at the same SCOTUS opinion for so long that I needed to think about something else: namely, whatever this was going to be.
How Nathan and I were supposed to work together, what the next few months would look like…
and then reading the article seemed like the natural thing to do.
Clicking on the link had felt like research, another avenue to further understand the man sitting across from me.
The website loaded, and then there it was: “Asher to the Rescue.” It was a full feature, a supposedly in-depth interview that wasn’t really that in-depth at all.
Yes, it profiled a myriad of his clients (some rich enough to be mentioned without actually mentioning their names), his sprawling Midtown office (marble imported from Italy!
Zero carbon footprint!), and his goals for the future (which was really just the reporter’s way of prodding him for more details about his recent promotion to partner), but there was no tangible information about who Nathan Asher was at all.
I finished the article with an unsated pit in my stomach, and a resolve to never reveal that I had spent twenty minutes reading about Nathan in the first place.
He’s staring at me now, waiting, so I open the binder I’ve meticulously put together, then close it again with a snap. “How does something like that happen, anyway? Does a reporter just call up your office and say they want to objectify you under the guise of a profile piece?”
His eyebrow quirks up. “You think it objectified me?”
“Nathan, they photoshopped your head onto Superman’s body.”
“But you didn’t read it.”
“No,” I lie again.
He nods, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Okay.”
His tone suggests that he doesn’t believe me at all, like he can see right through me as much as I wish I could get a mere peek into him.
“Who do you have to pay to get featured like that?” I ask, leaning an elbow on the arm of my chair so I can prop up my chin, as if I’m riveted.
“No one. One of the other partners organized the interview.”
“Why?”
“He said it would be good PR for the firm.”
“Right. Did they organize the photoshoot, too?”
“No photoshoot. That’s my professional headshot.”
“Ah. So, the smolder is a professional choice.”
His glare becomes condescending, and I’m now aware of how he wields that look; it’s a mask for those moments when he’s uncomfortable. “An inherent trait.”
I snort out a laugh. “Should have mentioned that in the interview.”
“How do you know I didn’t?”
Shit .
His smile is still absent, but there’s a hint of that almost-smile, like he knows it’s coming but he’s trying to edge. Nathan Asher is joy-edging.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I finally reply.
“Which was?”
“Don’t you have better things to do than take over this class for Frank?”
A slight shrug. “Yes. But when a friend needs a favor, that takes precedence.”
The rationality of it catches me off guard. I’m about to retort when a dull ping sounds from my phone. It’s sitting face down on the desk, and when I pick it up, the screen displays a text message.
MOM
Do you think I should go back to being blond?
Annoyance sparks in my chest. I want to text back a reminder that every time she texts me this, I say no, and yet every spring she does it anyway and regrets it, but then I notice the time.
“Shit,” I murmur. “It’s almost one.”
Nathan looks up at me with the same question on his face as I’m sure I have on mine: When the hell did that happen? But he recovers quicker than I do, standing and grabbing his coat.
“Wait.” My eyes widen, holding up my still-closed binder. “We haven’t reviewed anything yet.”
“I went over the syllabus you sent me earlier. It looks good.”
“Obviously. I wrote it.”
His lips quirk up as he starts for the door. “We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”
Conflict Resolution is a few doors down at Furman Hall.
The large lecture room looks like every other room on the fourth floor: three rows of desks set in half circles radiating out from the lectern up front.
When Nathan and I enter, the class is already waiting for us; the room is half full, and the hum of conversation tapers off as their heads turn one by one to the man now approaching the lectern.
I take my usual seat at the end of the back row, so it’s impossible not to notice the wave of looks and whispers, the giggles and gawks from the students as Nathan puts down his bag and turns his attention to them.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” he says, offering the room that lawyer smile I recognize from the bar event.
Everyone falls silent, their attention rapt.
“I’m Nathan Asher. I’ll be taking over for Professor Landry while he’s out on medical leave.
I’ve been practicing family law since I graduated from here seven years ago.
Professor Landry was my mentor back then, and I hope I can fill his shoes adequately now.
Thankfully, I’ll have Beatrice Nilsson to help me. ”
Nathan motions to me, but only a few heads turn to look in my direction.
They already know me; I’m old news. He, however, is fresh meat.
“We’ll be sticking to the syllabus Professor Landry supplied, which means this week we’re discussing Gasley versus Newton.
If you’ll remember from your reading, Patricia Gasley is suing her former employer for unsafe working conditions… ”
He continues talking, but as my eyes glide across the room, I realize very few students are actually listening. No fingers typing, no pens scrawling in notebooks. There are only whispers and barely contained grins and mouths hanging open.
I roll my eyes. It’s going to be a long semester.