“Excuse me?” I cock an eyebrow at her.

“I’ve dated guys like you before. And I classify all men who think with their dicks under S for Shitty .”

“I do think with my cock on a regular basis, so I can’t argue with you there. But he’s so much more fun than my brain.”

This gets a small smile from her, and my heart beats just a little faster.

“Seriously, why would I take a chance on you and have my heart broken again?”

“Because I have a nine-inch cock and I know where the G-spot is?”

Her cheeks turn pink, belying her cool, confident tone. “Tempting, but not good enough.”

I shrug. “Then I guess I’ll settle for just being friends.”

“Do you even have any women friends?”

I think it over. I have Dottie and Susan, but they’re more employees than friends, and of course Beth and Gracie, but they’re my sisters, and I doubt blood relatives count. “Of course I do,” I lie.

She narrows her eyes, obviously on to me. Nothing gets by Emery. She’s going to be a kick-ass attorney. Of course I don’t tell her that. Her self-esteem is robust enough. She doesn’t need me overinflating her ego.

“Just relax, princess. I won’t try to get in your panties unless you ask nicely, and I’m serious about the friends thing. I’ll show you around town. It’ll be fun.”

Her mouth presses into a line, but she doesn’t say anything else.

Our bantering has left me with a half hard-on I’m trying to conceal under the table. Emery doesn’t need to know that I’d like to fuck her six ways from Sunday until she’s clenching around my cock and screaming out my name.

Chapter Six

Emery

Monday morning at seven thirty sharp: the first day of the rest of my life.

I stride into the law office of Walker, Price, and Pratt, refreshed after my usual morning workout and a Greek yogurt smoothie for breakfast. I feel sleek and confident in my long black pencil skirt and matching blazer, powder-blue buttoned shirt, and sky-high nude pumps. I spent almost two hours yesterday obsessing over my wardrobe and makeup, wanting to make a professional first impression, and I think I’ve nailed it. Even if my walk from the parking lot was a race against time and tottering on my barely manageable heels.

I approach the sleek wraparound marble desk in the lobby’s corner, and take a deep breath. Here we go. The receptionist looks much younger than I would have predicted, maybe even around my age. Her thick black hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail to avoid tangling in her headset. She wears tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses¸ a loose rose-colored pullover blouse, and khaki slacks, which makes me wonder if I should have wasted so much time and energy on my own outfit. Her plum-painted fingernails fly over the keyboard, tackity-tacking like a train rattling over railroad tracks.

It takes her a moment to realize I’m standing there before she looks up from her work. “Can I help you?” she asks with a plastic smile.

“Hi, I’m Emery Winters. Is Mr. Pratt here yet?” He’s the partner I had corresponded with the most, but if he hasn’t arrived yet, I can still talk to the others and get started. The joys of a workplace where every other employee is your superior.

There is no spark of recognition whatsoever in the receptionist’s green eyes. “Do you have an appointment?”

I chuckle; someone has dropped the ball here, and it clearly wasn’t her. “In a way. I’m the new summer intern.”

Genuine pleasure enters her smile. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, her happy tone at odds with her words. Maybe she’s relieved that her duties will be shared with someone else now. “I’ll call to tell Mr. Pratt you’re here. I’m Trina, by the way. Would you like any coffee or water while you wait?”

“No, thank you. I can grab something after I get started.” After all, I work here now.

The thought fills my stomach with butterflies. Calm down, Emery, this isn’t summer camp. I’ll be fine.

I consider one of the caramel-colored leather chairs, then decide I’m too nervous to sit down. Instead I watch Trina buzz the senior partner’s office, then announce, “There’s a Miss Winters here to see you,” in a singsong voice before she resumes her furious typing.

After a minute or two, a man walks in from the hallway to the left of the reception desk. He looks like he’s in his early sixties and desperately trying to cover that fact up: iron-gray hair, a slight paunch, skin like tanned leather, and a neatly brushed mustache. Glossy brown wingtips and an olive shirt with black suspenders complete the picture of a man who was hot shit about thirty years ago. But there’s no ring on his left hand, making me wonder if he’s divorced, a “confirmed bachelor,” or just really unlucky.

As the man comes closer, he gives me a toothy grin that shows off thousands of dollars in dental veneers. “You must be Miss Emery Winters. Welcome to Walker, Price, and Pratt.”

I smile back at him, hoping there’s no lipstick on my teeth, and extend my hand. “Good morning, Mr. Pratt. It’s great to finally meet you in person.”

He gives my hand two firm pumps, a textbook handshake, the greeting of someone who knows how to charm and intimidate without saying a word. “Please, call me Larry. I don’t like to stand on ceremony in this office.”

Somehow I’m not sure whether to believe that. Powerful men, especially if they’re old and rich, like people to perceive them as laid-back—but when it comes to how they actually prefer to be treated, most of them want deference. At the same time, though, I can’t just blatantly ignore what he said. “Okay, then . . . Larry.”