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I needed to get a grip.

It didn’t seem like this case was going to be as open and shut as a lot of ours were. And I couldn’t be fucking a client while I was still working for her.

It really shouldn’t have been so hard to resist the pull.

I’d had clients practically throw themselves at me on more than one occasion. It had always been a hard line that I never struggled not to cross that I couldn’t get involved with them until after the cases were closed.

As much as Sawyer and Tig, and damn near everyone else in my life, liked to dig at me about my women troubles, I did have some self-control. And I didn’t struggle with holding onto it when I needed to.

But with her standing there in my doorway, looking like she looked, smelling like she smelled, giving me the soft eyes?

It was taking every bit of control I had in me not to put the coffee on my dresser, grab her, and toss her on the bed, then cover her body with my own.

My cock was stiffening just thinking about the possibility.

“Where did you get this coffee?” she asked as I took the mug from her hands, careful to avoid her fingers because I swear to fuck, I was pretty sure just a brush would be my undoing right then.

“She’s Bean Around,” I told her as I took a sip.

“Yeah, it says that on the bag, but I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a local coffee shop. They have their own special blend. It’s what keeps people lining up halfway down the block on busy days. And why some of us pay a small fortune to buy the beans, so we can make it at home when we don’t feel like waiting on line. We can hit it up on our way out of town if you want.”

“Absolutely,” she said, no hesitation. “I think I need to buy about ten bags to keep at my place. How is packing?” she asked, moving into my room, going over toward my bags. “You are prepared for everything,” she declared after looking at my clothes, then zipping the bag herself and setting it on the floor so she could sit off the edge of the bed. “You know that thing I keep insisting about my shoes being fine?”

“Lies?” I asked, smiling at her as she flexed her feet inside the shoes, but was too stubborn to slip them off.

“Totally. I mean, don’t get me wrong, shoes that cost eight-hundred dollars are definitely more comfortable than the ones I used to get on a BOGO deal on the shelf atPayless, but they still hurt after a while.”

“Why do you insist on wearing them even outside of work then?” I asked, even though some part of me was cataloging what she’d just said. What she’d just admitted to, even though I don’t think she’d meant to.

It was exactly what I’d been suspecting.

That she’d come from much more humble beginnings.

Buy One, Get One deals atPaylesswas not something anyone who’d grown up rich would ever cop to even knowing about. In fact, many of the wealthy women I’d known in my life would be deliberately dense about “commoner” stores. Even if they technically did know about them, they would never cop to that because they would think that even having that knowledge made them seem poorer themselves.

“I think it started off as a status symbol, honestly,” she told me, shrugging. “Then it was really clear that some men in business have a real issue with women in business still. Especially those of us who are more successful than they are. And they look down on you. Quite literally, in some circumstances. So I always want to be as tall, or taller, than them.”

“It’s why you go for the handshake first too,” I said, thinking back to her meeting Sawyer.

“Exactly. But it’s also just a preference now. With the shoes. They make me feel put together. I’d feel naked without them on if I were in a work situation. Or,” she went on, sensing my objection about to come, “when I am in a situation where I might be meeting people for the first time. Like Sawyer and Tig.”

“No one would say shit about a businessman wearing a suit and cufflinks and a Rolex, right?” I said, understanding the argument.

“Except that no one who is actually wealthy would wear a Rolex,” she said, shaking her head. “That is what moderately wealthy people wear to appear richer. When the truly rich people are wearing—“

“Patek Phillipe,” I supplied for her.

“Yes,” she said, a smile spreading across her lips. “You know your watches.”

“I’ve seen a few.”

I’d packed one for the off chance that I needed to dress up to go out with her somewhere. She would want to be seen with someone who exuded the kind of quiet, confident luxury that she herself did.

“I am not a watch person,” she admitted. “Aside from my smart one.”

“Which is more about being accessible every single moment of the day than actually telling you the time,” I qualified.


Tags: Jessica Gadziala Romance