Somehow, I didn’t think so, but it was a comforting thought, especially when I was trying to focus on things at the law firm. We had another meeting about our high-profile divorce case today. Laney—the soon to be ex-wife—was standing firm in her request for fifty percent of the assets. In return, her ex-husband had leaked naked pictures to the press. The partners were discussing how to deal with it. I was taking notes.
“It’s her own fault, really,” Lucinda said after the meeting as we were all heading back to our desks.
I stared at her.
“How is her ex-husband leaking nude photos her fault?”
“Come on.” Bryce rolled his eyes. “If you don’t want pictures like that to get out, then don’t take them.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“You two do remember that we’re representing the wife, not the husband, right?” I asked. “Because you seem to sympathize with him way more than you do with her.”
“It’s not our job to sympathize with our clients,” Lucinda said with a sniff. “It’s our job to win for them. And I can do my job and think that our client should have done a better job protecting herself.”
“You’ll be a better lawyer if you can separate yourself from the client,” Bryce added.
“It’s no use trying to explain that to her,” Lucinda said as if I wasn’t even there. “I caught her comforting the client the last time she was here. Playing therapist.”
Bryce laughed.
“I won’t apologize for caring about my clients,” I argued, but Bryce and Lucinda just waved me off and walked away.
“And you shouldn’t apologize,” a voice said once they were gone.
I turned to find Arthur standing there. He gave me a slow, assessing look.
“It’s good to have empathy for the people you represent,” he told me. “But don’t let it muddle your head.”
I nodded, not exactly sure how much of my conversation with Bryce and Lucinda he had heard.
“You’re doing good work,” he continued. “And our client made a point to tell us how much she appreciated how caring our associates were.”
My eyes widened.
“Thank you,” I told Arthur, pleased that I was being noticed. And for the right reasons.
He nodded and headed off towards his office.
As I made my way towards my own desk, my phone rang. It was Kelsey.
“Are you ready for tomorrow night?” she asked.
I had told her about my date with Emerson—though I had not included the details of how we agreed upon that date. She didn’t need to know that he had gotten me off on his desk in his office. Or maybe I just didn’t want to share it. Yet.
“I think so,” I told her.
“You’re prepared?” she demanded.
“I don’t know what you mean by prepared.” I sat down at my desk.
“Yes you do,” she said with a laugh. “Are you prepared, down there?”
I wanted to laugh.
“If you’re asking if I’ve gotten a bikini wax, the answer is no.” At least, not since my last one a few weeks ago. Everything was still acceptable down there, and even though he hadn’t gotten up close and personal with it, Emerson hadn’t seemed to have any complaints.
She gasped. “Are you crazy? What if he wants to have sex?”
That wasn’t in question. He was going to want to have sex. I wanted to have sex. We both definitely wanted to have sex.
Doubt began to creep into my mind. Maybe I did need a bikini wax.
“I’ll book one for after work,” I told her.
My regular waxing place was booked solid for the next couple of days, so I found another place online. After all, according to Kelsey, this was an emergency.
“You need wax?” My esthetician was a sturdy looking Russian woman who looked like she took great pleasure in covering women’s delicate parts with hot wax and yanking their hair off.
“Yes.” I gestured towards my crotch area. “All gone.”
She frowned at me.
“No hair,” I tried again. “Straight down.”
“Straight down?” she repeated.
I nodded.
“OK,” she told me. “You take off clothes.”
I half expected her to wait in the corner while I changed, but she stepped out of the room to give me privacy. Ten minutes later I was on my back, knees open, with a surly Russian woman looking right at my privates.
“You ready?” she asked.
The things we do for hot sex.
“Yep,” I said, clutching the side of the table as she spread hot wax on me.
Whoever had invented bikini waxes was my least favorite person at the moment. But it was a necessary evil. I wanted to have sex, didn’t I? And I wanted Emerson’s jaw to drop when we finally got naked in front of each other. That kind of reaction would be worth the pain.
Because there was pain. So much pain.
“Done,” my Russian agent of torture finally said, after I was pretty sure she had removed all of my hair and several layers of skin. “Pay up front.”
Then she was gone.
I sat up, my skin tender, and glanced down.
What. The. Fuck?
She had waxed an arrow down there. I stared at it for a moment, wondering if I should call her back in and have her get rid of it. Then, I thought about how much pain I was already in and decided not to bother. At least now when Emerson and I got naked, he’d know exactly where to go.
11
Alex
It was hard to say which Emerson I liked more. Fake date Emerson in a sexy suit, or real date Emerson in a pair of dark jeans and button-down shirt. There wasn’t any plaid in sight, but he looked incredibly cozy, like the kind of guy a girl just wanted to curl up with in front of a fire. Before stripping him down and having her naughty way with him on a bearskin rug.
“Where are we going?” I asked him as we got in his car.
“You’ll see,” he told me, a twinkle in his eye.
“Am I wearing the right shoes?” I asked, showing him my sexy date heels.
The twinkle in his eyes turned into a smolder.
“They’re the right shoes if you’re trying to tempt me back into my office to finish what we started,” he said huskily.
My skin grew warm underneath my favorite spring dress. One that was light and flowery and came off very, very easily. Good to know that both of our minds were in the same place.
The same naughty place.
Wherever we were going, it wasn’t far. We stayed in the Loop, heading down Michigan Ave. Emerson parked the car, and then before I could even unbuckle my seatbelt, he was crossing around the front of the car to open my door for me. No guy had ever done that for me before. Another first.
“The Chicago Athletic Organization?” I asked as we walked up to the classic old building. “Are you signing me up for professional sports? Because I definitely didn’t wear the right shoes for that,” I joked.
But I was a little confused. What kind of date night was this?
“I think you’ll like what they have inside,” Emerson reassured me as we headed into the building.
He was right. The place was gorgeous, with dramatic architectural elements, like its domed glass ceiling, everything decorated in dark leather and rich, gleaming wood. The building was also home to several restaurants, one of which was called The Game Room.
“Does it actually have games?” I wanted to know as Emerson steered me towards the restaurant, his hand on the small of my back.
“Would I take you some place with false advertising?” he asked, pretending to be offended. “Of course they have games. They have the best games.”
They did. All the classics—to go with the building’s charm—like billiards tables, checkers, chess, shuffleboard, and what looked like a full bocce court. I had never played any of them before, but I was always up for a challenge. And a good time.
“This place is amazing,” I told Emerson, who grinned at me.
“Glad you like it,” he said.
We were taken to a private table—one near the billiards tables—and given a menu.
“We’re going somewhere else for dinner,” he told me. “This is just for some snacks, drinks, and games.”
Everything on the menu looked amazing, so we ordered a few appetizers and some of their signature cocktails. Then we got down to business.
Emerson—unsurprisingly—was great at billiards. In fact, I had yet to find the thing that he wasn’t good at. And remembering what else he was good at—namely kissing and getting me off—I couldn’t help fantasizing about combining the two. I was in the middle of a very involved, very sexy fantasy about us having sex on the billiards table when Emerson interrupted.
“Your turn,” he said, holding out the cue.
“So, what’s the difference between billiards and pool?” I asked, bending over the table, trying to line up my shot.
When I didn’t get an answer, I glanced over my shoulder and found Emerson unabashedly staring at my ass. My face went red, but I was more than a little flattered. He cleared his throat when he saw that I had caught him.
“You were asking me something?” he wanted to know, apparently shameless that he had been spotted ogling me.
“The difference between billiards and pool?” I asked again, but this time giving my ass a little wiggle as I did.
He groaned, but managed to refocus his attention on the game.
“Pool is played with pockets on the table—it’s called pocket billiards—while billiards tables have no pockets.” Emerson leaned on his cue. “That’s the main difference.”
“Have a lot of experience playing billiards?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Enough. My dad likes to play.”
I made my shot. It was terrible. Apparently I was not going to discover a natural talent for billiards tonight.
“Do your parents live in Chicago?” I asked, even though I had done some of my own research on the Hayes family. It still felt weird not to ask. “You said you were from here, right?”