Page 2 of Three Bossy Boyfriends (Honeysuckle Harbor #3)

Finley

“Sleeve!”

“What?” I’m too busy trying to juggle a cardboard coffee tray containing four jumbo takeout cups and figuring out how to open the conference room door to comprehend what my coworker is urgently whispering to me. I turn to glance back at Kyle, the law firm’s other paralegal.

She’s gesturing wildly. “Sleeve. Mary Grace will be here in five, and she’ll lose her mind if she sees your tattoo.”

I roll my eyes at the closed door before turning to make a face at Girl Kyle.

I decided immediately upon meeting her that this will be her nickname because I’ve never met a woman named Kyle before, and yet I’ve never seen someone so effortlessly feminine as the willowy brunette.

She looks like she can stroll down the runway at Paris Fashion Week right into the courthouse to file a motion for a mistrial.

“Thanks,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t want to upset Nurse Ratchet.”

That’s my nickname for Mary Grace Banks, one of the firm’s partners and daughter of the founding father, Charles Banks. I give everyone a nickname because I’m bad at remembering names. It’s a habit I picked up in middle school.

Kyle claps her hand over her mouth to cover a giggle. “That’s really terrible,” she admonishes, even as she can’t contain her smile.

“Is it?” I ask breezily.

Mary Grace is the one who interviewed me for this position.

She’s in her late forties, never cracks a smile, told me three times she made partner at twenty-eight, and regaled me with tales of nepotism in the legal field while never seeing the irony of having been hired by her father.

She pointed out smugly and with a very obvious pat-on-her-own-back that she lives with her parents and cares for her elderly mother, who, unless Charles married a woman twenty years older than him, is probably all of seventy.

I have a feeling Mrs. Banks would be thrilled to be living alone with her husband over being cared for by Mary Grace, who hates everyone, life, and probably even puppies.

“Do I knock?” I ask Kyle as I attempt to tug the sleeve of my blouse—God, I hate the word blouse almost as much as I hate wearing one—down over my apparently scandalous tattoo. “Is someone in there?”

She shakes her head. “Never knock on the conference room door. That’s more of an interruption than just slipping in and delivering them the coffee. Mr. Davis is in there with Mr. Young.”

I feel myself getting annoyed, and I take a deep breath through my nose.

I should be grateful I have this job for the next few months.

I should be appreciative of the fact that my father got me this job, even if it resulted in Mary Grace’s nepotism speech. It is nepotism. And I’m grateful. Just like I’m grateful to my sisters for letting me stay with them for free.

So, so grateful.

Just super happy to have to give up the entire life I’ve built for myself in New York City to return to Honeysuckle Harbor, South Carolina, and wear a fucking blouse with a pencil skirt and heels while covering up the basic little cluster of stars on the inside of my wrist. I got it at eighteen, and I don’t see how anyone could object to a couple of stars, for fuck’s sake.

It’s not like I have “cum slut” inked on my forehead or anything.

That thought makes me grin as I turn the knob and shove the conference room door open.

The door opens harder than I intended, flying out and smacking against the stopper.

Damn.

That door looked so much heavier. Like law firm heavy.

Mahogany heavy. I use so much more force than is necessary that, when it flies open, I stumble into the room, jostling the coffee, nearly losing my grip on the tray.

I reach out with my free hand to catch the tray, and I realize that makes my sleeve ride up, exposing my tattoo.

I tug it back down, and now I’m giggling for real.

Cum slut.

I can’t help it.

This is all so stuffy.

“Can I help you?”

The confused but commanding male voice has me pursing my lips closed and looking up from my coffee tray.

“Coffee. Mary Grace gave me your order for your morning meeting.”

There are two men standing there in suits looking like a TV show version of a law firm.

Charleston Confidential . One is older, classically handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair, trim and tidy, and hands in his pockets.

He’s frowning at me. The other man is closer to my age, trimmer in build, a pretty boy.

Like, very pretty. He could stroll next to Girl Kyle on the fashion runway.

He looks intently curious, his eyes sweeping over me briefly before he gives me a polite smile of encouragement.

“Let me help you with those.” He walks away from the other man toward me.

Wait. It suddenly occurs to me that they were standing really close to each other. Interesting.

“Thanks, but I’ve got it.” I set the tray on the conference table. “Are you Evan or Christopher?” I ask him, reading the labels on the various cups.

“I’m Evan. Staff attorney. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I pull his coffee out of the carton and turn to hand it to him. Now he’s standing close to me. “Oh! Here you go.” I shove the cup at him. Maybe he just stands close to people to intimidate them.

I refuse to fall for that.

“Your name?” he asks me with a smile, taking the cup and a step back.

God, he’s pretty. I’m kind of dazzled by how ridiculously beautiful he is. Men shouldn’t have eyelashes that thick. It’s just rude.

“I’m Finley Anderson. The new paralegal. It’s nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

It would sound flirty if he had a traditional South Carolina drawl, but he doesn’t. His accent is flat—Midwestern. It makes the statement sound appropriately businesslike, not sexy.

“That means you’re Christopher.” I lift the other cup and turn to hand it to the older lawyer.

“Finley Anderson?” He’s still frowning. “You’re Greg’s daughter.”

He doesn’t pose it as a question. I pause, lifting my eyebrows. “Yes, though at least a dozen times he’s probably wished that wasn’t the case.”

“You’re the new paralegal? I had no idea. No one told me.” His hands are still in his pockets, and now his head is tilted like he’s trying to puzzle out my genetics.

“No?” I don’t know what else to say. Sounds like office drama that I want no part of. “Well, here I am.” I give him a little salute. “Reporting for paralegal duty.”

I realize I’m still holding his coffee in my other hand, so I shove it toward him. He doesn’t take it.

“Why wouldn’t Mary Grace tell me you’re Greg’s daughter?”

He exchanges a long glance with Evan, aka Pretty Boy, who just shrugs.

I try to hand him the coffee again. “Here’s your drip coffee, two creams. Very old school. Almost retro, actually. The barista sends you appreciation for easing her workload.”

Evan clears his throat and covers his smirk with a cough.

Christopher takes the cup, but absently. He doesn’t take a sip or acknowledge how obviously funny I am. “Mary Grace just told me she hired a paralegal who failed the bar.”

Damn it. Of course, Nurse Ratchet would lead with my alleged failure.

I fight the urge to snark or sigh. Or both.

“Exam results are confidential.” I have no idea if they are or aren’t. But…rude.

I may be a classic case of a nepotism hire, but it’s not like I don’t feel lousy about it.

I wanted to make it on my own in the Big Apple, but spoiler alert, New York City is expensive as hell, and instead of getting hired at a prominent firm, I found myself begging for more hours at my coffee shop job and then begging my parents to bail me out.

I’m not proud of any of that, and I have been reduced to being a charity hire back in my hometown, where I dramatically swore at eighteen I would never reside ever again.

Eighteen-year-old me was idealistic and emo. Twenty-eight-year-old me is practical as fuck and waffling between defensive and determined, depending on the minute.

Christopher seems to recover. He smoothes away his frown and takes a sip of his java. “Of course. We hear you’ll be taking the bar in July.”

I can hear it in his tone. Patronizing sympathy.

Or maybe I’m projecting.

It’s just…fuck.

I hate, hate that I didn’t pass—even if it wasn’t my fault. It’s not like I could predict the train breaking down and me being stuck underground for forty minutes in a subway car.

I tell myself, Don’t explain to these guys . Don’t apologize. Chin up. I owe them nothing.

“I didn’t fail,” I blurt out.

Damn it. What did I just tell myself?

But God, I hate failing.

“You passed?” Evan asks. “Congratulations then.” He raises his coffee in cheers.

“Well.” I bite my lip, then quit instantly when I see Evan’s eyes drift to my mouth. “No. I didn’t pass.”

The corners of Christopher’s mouth turn up, as if he’s fighting a smile. “Too bad. I hate it when Mary Grace is right.”

That mollifies me a little. Just a smidge.

“You could use a study buddy then. I can help you,” Evan offers.

That makes me blink in surprise. “That’s very generous and very out of left field, but thank you.”

“I’m sure you’re too busy for that,” Christopher says. He claps Evan on the shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze with a broad palm.

It’s not a question. It’s a command.

Evan glances over at Christopher. His eyebrows raise and something sizzles between them.

It’s sexual tension.

Whoa, boy.

Cum slut indeed.

I bit my lip again, this time so I don’t grin.

“Is it hot in here?” I ask. “Or is that just the lingering latte steam?”

Christopher’s hand falls off Evan. “What? It’s actually cold for us for late February. Your blood must have thinned in New York.”

A masterful redirect. I give him credit for trying to hide that he is either fucking or wants to be fucking his staff attorney.

I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that “meeting.” Going over briefs takes on a whole new meaning because these two would make a very hot naked pairing, no doubt about it.

“I’d be happy to help you study, Finley,” Evan says. “We could go to dinner tonight and get to know each other and see where you’re at.”

“Tonight?” Christopher almost sputters. “I thought you were going to go to that, um, event we spoke about.”

Evan looks confused. Did they have plans together for tonight? Am I being pressed into acting as an unwitting cockblock? Do I need to save Evan from the unwanted advances of a senior partner? Or have I been watching too much reality TV that I think there’s an undertone here?

They’re staring at each other, and they’re clearly not understanding each other. The silent communication is failing, and I’m not sure what in the hell I’m supposed to do here. Christopher’s nostrils flare.

Definite undertone.

I blink again. “I…”

I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I have plans. Fiona has to work, and Frannie has a date with her FBI agent lover. She hates when I call him her lover, so I make sure to do it on the regular.

Do I want to go to dinner with Evan?

Maybe. If only out of curiosity. I literally have to know what is going on between these two.

Also, do I need to study?

Yes. I have to pass the bar in July or suffer eternal humiliation.

My father’s warning is also ringing in my ears.

You have to do well, Finley. I went to bat with Mary Grace over this.

Which means he truly loves me to come out of retirement to battle Nurse Ratchet on my behalf.

I don’t want to let Dad or myself down.

“Sure, Evan, that sounds great. I can call you Evan, right?” This Mr. Young and Mr. Davis bullshit gets on my nerves.

I picture Mary Grace losing her shit, and I thoroughly enjoy the visual.

“Of course. And excellent. We can get to know each other better.”

Christopher inhales sharply, and he gives a little shake of his head. Now Evan actually mouths, “What?” to him like I can’t see him or read lips.

Christopher turns resolutely toward me.

“Finley, didn’t you stage a protest at the shucking festival when you were a teenager?” he asks, like he’s finally put together I’m the angsty sister who once carried around a bullhorn to shout down environmental injustices.

“Yes. Didn’t recognize me without the nose ring and the black eyeliner, did you?”

“Oh, I remember you quite well. You accused me of being a part of the patriarchy.”

Huh. I honestly don’t remember that. But hell, that could have been every other Tuesday for me as a teenager.

“I don’t remember you at all. All male lawyers look the same to me. Have a good meeting.”

I shove my sleeves up my forearms to expose my tattoo, give them a smile, and head toward the exit.

Which would have been a great exit, except I slightly twist my ankle and mutter a low ‘fuck’ under my breath.

“Are you okay?” Evan asks.

I glance back and give him a tight smile. “I’m good. So good. The best I’ve ever been.” I reach down and adjust the back of my heel where my foot has slipped out. “And that’s sarcasm, in case that wasn’t obvious.”

“I’ve never known how women can stand to wear heels,” Evan says, looking sympathetically at my feet.

I open my mouth.

Christopher smiles. “I feel a speech about the patriarchy coming on.”

The smile catches me off guard because I’m suddenly aware of how attractive he is.

I feel a tingle in places that have no business tingling right now when my life is a hot mess.

And he was right—I was about to rant. The sudden smile is disarming, and the fact that it’s disarming makes it even more disarming.

“You don’t have to wear heels every day, Finley,” he adds.

“Mary Grace said…” Then I stop talking because why the hell am I protesting? This is amazing news because heels suck.

“Fuck Mary Grace. You only have to wear them if you have to go to the courthouse,” Christopher says.

I immediately kick the shoes off, and head to the door barefoot, scooping up the heels on my way out. I need to get the hell out of here before I say something that will get me fired.

Or bent over the conference table.

It really is fucking hot in here.

“Great. I’ll bring my slippers tomorrow.” I put my hand up to my ear, heels dangling. “Evan, call me.”

The door glides closed behind me.

I’m tempted to press my ear to it and hear what, if anything, they’re saying about me.

“Why aren’t you wearing your shoes?”

Girl Kyle’s horrified voice makes me jump a little. I turn to see Kyle sitting at her desk, mouth open.

“Blister,” I lie.

I head to my own desk, in a much better mood.

Banks, Anderson, Banks, and Davis is proving to be a much more interesting workplace than I expected.