Page 6 of How Freaking Romantic

“Yup,” I say. My fake smile feels like an ugly crack across my face, but I don’t care. Because this is bad. So bad that my brain is tripping over all the reasons, throwing them at me so quickly my heart feels like it might explode from my chest.

He’s going to confront you! Here! In front of your boss! You could lose your job! He could ruin your reputation in front of a room of people whom you need to beg for another job! Your career could be ruined before it even starts!

I take a deep breath before I go into full panic mode. Because, I remind myself, there is no reason to panic. He’s on the other side of the room. There is no way he saw me. And even if he did see me, which he didn’t, there is no way he would acknowledge me. As if he would have the gall to just—

“Ted,” a deep voice croons behind me. “I didn’t know you knew Beatrice.”

I turn and there he is, sauntering toward us.

He’s in a navy suit similar to the one he wore the other day, but now his tie is maroon, and there’s a glass of what appears to be bourbon in his hand.

He stops and offers Ted the same smile Ted offered me earlier: a simulacrum of something genuine, used to disarm, to charm.

I remember how some of my professors who still work in law gave each other that same smile, and I suddenly realize it’s probably something unknowingly imbued in the profession, a trait passed down for survival. I wonder if I have it.

And then I blink with another realization: Nathan Asher knows my name.

“Nate!” Ted exclaims, shaking the asshole’s hand. “Good to see you, man.” Then he pauses, motioning between us. “You two know each other?”

I quickly say no at the same time as Nathan replies yes.

I crane my neck to glare up at him. Jesus, he’s tall.

Stupid tall. The kind of tall that would require him to bend down, hands on his knees, to make eye contact with me.

He’d probably do it, too, a small gesture that would be so condescending.

It hadn’t happened in his office, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it here where there’s a larger audience.

Ted laughs, oblivious. “Is it the NYU Law connection?”

An eyebrow arches up Nathan’s forehead.

This is it. He’s going to tell Ted how we really know each other. There will be a whole scene right here in front of everyone, including Frank, and I’ll get fired. God, he’ll likely ruin my chances of getting hired at any law firm in the city before I’ve even taken the bar.

But nothing happens. He just glances down at me and takes a slow sip of his drink. Then he turns back to Ted. “No.”

“Ah. Well, Beatrice here is about to graduate, so I was telling her about the endowment I’m negotiating for that place.” Ted laughs again, as if we’re all in on the same joke. “Trying, anyway. It’s been a pain in the ass convincing them to take it.”

“Why’s that?” Nathan asks in a polite tone.

Ted scoffs. “There are some law students fighting it, as if this kind of cash just grows on trees. I mean, come on. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

This grabs my attention. I turn back to Ted, my eyes narrowing. “Sorry?”

He waves me off. “It’s nothing, just some students petitioning to turn it down because the Haun family made their money in pharmaceuticals or something.”

“Opiates,” I say. “They made their money peddling opiates.”

His expression becomes patronizing. “Well, that’s not entirely correct—”

“Yes, it is,” I cut him off. “I know because I organized that petition.”

He blinks, his Ken doll expression flattening like his brain can’t quite process this information and needs to reboot.

I’m about to challenge him further, to ask why else he thinks the Justice Department is suing the Haun family in federal court, but then Nathan slaps a hand on Ted’s shoulder and asks, “Hey, did you catch up with Jennings? He was looking for you.”

Brain reengaged, Ted turns to Nathan. “Oh shit, really?”

Nathan nods, motioning to the far side of the room. “Yeah, he was by the bar with Neil.”

“Right. Thanks. Uh, it was nice talking to you.” Ted’s already a few feet away as he hurls the farewell over his shoulder, not bothering to look back at where he’s left us.

I watch him disappear into the crowd before turning to look up at Nathan again.

His short brown hair is sticking out in all directions as he surveys the room, like he’s run his hand through it a few times.

It’s at odds with the precise lines of his suit, as if the disjointed mess on top of his head balances out the perfection everywhere else.

“Nice to see you again, Beatrice,” he finally says. His voice is deep, an octave lower than the cacophony of conversation around us.

“You know my name.” I work to keep my tone bored.

He smiles. “Well, you forgot to introduce yourself the other day. I had to ask Josh when he stopped by my office.”

I roll my eyes. Of course Josh sold me out. At this point he would probably supply my social security number and blood type if he had it.

“That must have been a fun conversation,” I reply.

“Depends on your definition of fun.”

I tilt my chin up. “Why, what did he say?”

“Words. Many, many words.”

“What specific words?”

“I believe ‘harpy’ came up once or twice.”

I snort. “Well, at least he found a good use for that classics degree.”

Nathan finally deigns to look down at me again, his eyebrows knitted together in something akin to confusion. But it dissolves almost immediately, as if he remembers who I am. How his client fits into a larger ecosystem, this tight-knit group of friends now picking sides, choosing their weapons.

But the realization doesn’t cause him to look away, just study me further.

His eyes do a slow survey of my face—my nose, my freckles, my mouth—and I suddenly understand why he’s such a good attorney.

I have no idea what’s going through his mind even though it feels like he can see everything going through mine.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asks.

“What are you doing here?” I snap. It is not my proudest moment, but I feel on edge, like I’m a specimen in a glass case about to be dissected.

“This is the New York City Bar Association. I’m a lawyer. Do I need to connect the dots for you?” It’s the tone of someone speaking to a toddler, like he’s explaining why we can’t have ice cream for dinner.

“I’m just surprised you passed the bar.”

His eyes narrow on me, and suddenly it’s the same expression he gave me in his office, that blend of curiosity and disdain. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Passed the bar.”

“What makes you think I’m taking it?”

“Because your friend Ted mentioned you went to NYU Law.”

Alarm bells go off in my head. Too much information. He has entirely too much information, and I need to deflect. Quickly.

“I thought he was your friend.”

Nathan scoffs. “No.”

“Then why did you come over here?”

“Because it looked like you were five seconds away from ripping his balls off.”

For some reason, the word “balls” coming out of Nathan Asher’s mouth sends an odd thrill up my spine, like I’ve forced him to break some asshole code of ethics. “Well, that’s what us harpies subsist on. Testicles and weakness.”

He stills, and for a moment it looks like he might smile, but his stern, unreadable expression is battling against it.

Finally, he hides his lips behind his glass and takes a long sip of his drink.

I watch how his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, how it’s dusted with the same stubble that covers his jaw.

I bring my own glass to my mouth and turn away.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he says after another moment.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, doing my best to convey annoyance. “Which was?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Networking.”

“Huh.” He glances around at the corner where we’re situated, at the tall palm I’m practically standing behind. “And how’s that going for you?”

He doesn’t say it like an insult, just an observation, but there’s still that derisive look in his eyes that somehow makes it worse. It’s like watching a wolf play with a bunny right before he devours it.

“Is this the plan?” I ask, my voice sharp.

“Plan for what?”

“Me. You clearly know my name. And now you know I go to NYU Law. There’s nothing stopping you from contacting the school and telling them what I did.

You could even tell that Ted guy and everyone else here, and I’d never be able to get a job after graduation.

So, I just want to know if that’s the plan.

” The words come out like a threat. Like I wield some power here instead of just this glass of liquid courage.

That law school smile again. “I was waiting to see if we’d get a repeat performance.”

My anger ignites and I open my mouth, ready to demolish my already delicate sense of professionalism, when a hoarse voice calls out behind me.

“Nate!”

I turn just as Frank emerges from the crowd. He hobbles forward with his cane and a rare smile on his face.

I blink as the two men shake hands, and my brain is only half processing what’s happening in front of me. Because if this is happening, my entire evening is going so much worse than I initially thought.

“Good to see you, Frank,” Nathan replies with a smile, one that seems genuine. “How’ve you been?”

“My hip is killing me,” he growls. Then he notices me and turns, offering me a nod. “You met Bea?”

My mind reels as it tries to find something, literally anything, to say, but Nathan beats me to it.

“Not formally, no.”

Frank nods to the corpse flower beside me. “Bea, this is Nathan Asher, the only other TA besides you that I never threatened to fire. Best damn student I ever had. Nate, this is Beatrice Nilsson. She’s one of my current TAs. Graduates in May.”

For a brief moment I’m one-hundred-percent sure I’m high.

Someone slipped something into my drink and I’m hallucinating.

That’s the only explanation for the scene unfolding before me right now.

There’s no possible way that Frank and Nathan know each other, that they’re friends, because that would be bad. Worse than bad, that would be—

“Bea.”

My attention snaps to Frank. He’s staring at me expectantly. “What?”

“Nathan asked about your concentration.”

My eyebrows knit together. “Why?”

Nathan offers that mocking, superficial smile again. “Because this is called networking, Beatrice.”

It’s a challenge. Even worse, I take the bait.

“Healthcare rights.”

He nods, a cursory action. “Interesting.”

I’m so eager to shove that arrogant look off his face that I almost tell him why: that I have firsthand knowledge of how the healthcare industry can destroy people, how multibillion-dollar companies can promise a cure but deliver a curse, right before they wash their hands of it entirely.

How it has affected me, because not so long ago it affected his client.

But that’s too much, too personal, especially for him.

Frank turns to Nathan. “You graduated, what, seven years ago now?”

Nathan nods. I finish my champagne in one large gulp.

“He got published in the Law Review his final year, too,” Frank continues. He looks almost proud. “What was the title of that article again?”

“?‘The Evolving Ethics of Family Court,’?” Nathan replies.

“Ha!” I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. Frank stares at me, and a few people around us turn to look, too, eyebrows raised. The only person that doesn’t seem shocked is Nathan. There’s that almost-smile on his face again, which sits somewhere between amused and predatory.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Oh, just… so many things,” I say, plastering on my own law school smile again. It’s a delicate balance, the appearance of civil discourse. And I hate how he is so much better at it than me.

“You okay?” Frank asks me, frowning.

“Yup.” I can feel the champagne churning with my temper; it’s a dangerous mix. I need to extract myself before I say something I can’t take back. This time, in front of my boss. “I think I need another drink, so if you’ll excuse me…” I take a step backward.

Frank eyes me a moment longer before turning back to Nathan, starting their conversation again. Neither seems to notice as I take another step back. And then another. In fact, Frank is still talking as I turn and practically sprint to the bar.