Off Limits (3 page)

Fucking hell
, I think as I come, my mind still full of images of her—eyes narrowed behind those sexy glasses, full lips pursed in distrust. I haven’t been this turned on at the office since I can’t remember when.

It’s gonna be a long couple of months.

I
pace
across the kitchen floor in my stockings, the ridiculous ones with the garter belt, because everything else I own was out with the laundry people today. I’m still wearing my work shirt, though it’s unbuttoned over my bra, but I tossed my skirt into a heap on my couch the moment I walked through the front door.

Not like there’s anyone here to impress or offend anyway.

“And that’s not even the worst part,” I say into the phone, which I have awkwardly cradled between my ear and my shoulder as I yank open the freezer and dig through it for the pint of Ben and Jerry’s I know I still have somewhere in here. I’d prepped a whole series of meals for the week, which I cook on Sundays and freeze for defrosting other nights. But screw it.

Tonight, I’m having Americone Dream for dinner.

“Worse than being taken off the case you’ve spent like two months straight on?” asks the voice on the other end of the line. Heather Healey, my best friend in the world.

Well, okay. Possibly my only friend right now, since I all but fell out of touch with Sheri, Ang and their squad. But it’s not like I had time to go to all the brunches and soccer games and shopping spree trips they’re into anyway.

I’m not the biggest social person around. And I have to focus on my career right now. Especially with so much happening for me.

“So much worse.” I pull out the Ben and Jerry’s with a triumphant
hah
, and kick the fridge door shut with one stockinged foot. “You remember that one creep I told you about? The one who’s slept with like, half the office at this point?”

“Ben the slutty intern?”

I laugh. “No, he’s long gone. The other one. Max Davis. The one who’s Stuyvesant’s chosen favorite, gets first pick on all the best cases usually?”

“Not ringing a bell, sorry Chlo. I can’t always keep your work frenemies straight, you know, when they change every other week.”

I pull open a drawer and fish out a spoon. “No, you remember this one. He asked me out one time, for a beer after work?
Right
after I heard from Martha that he’s dating Melanie what’s her name from rights management?”

“Ohhhh, God, that guy? Ugh, yes, I remember. There’s dipping your pen in the company ink, and then there’s trying to double dip.”

“Talk about shitting where you eat,” I agree as I stab my spoon heartily into the ice cream container. Screw bowls. Again, it’s not like there’s anyone else here for me to impress or offend. “Anyway, they’re putting me on a new case. Big, high-profile one.”

“That sounds like good news?” Heather says, and I hear the tentative note in her voice as she waits for the
But
.

“I’m paired with him on it.” I scoop out a healthy serving, and stuff a mouthful onto my tongue as Heather makes all kinds of indignant groaning noises on the other end of the line. The vanilla and fudge flavors melt together on my tongue, somewhat ameliorating my terrible mood. However, I probably took too big a bite, because the cold starts to pool against the roof of my mouth and sends tendrils of pain shooting into my forehead.

Ugh. Brain freeze.

I keep eating the ice cream anyway, wincing as I do.

“How much say are you going to have? I mean . . . okay, so he’s a manwhore and a bit of a creep. But you said he’s Stuyvesant’s favorite, right? Kind of like how you’re Paul’s fave? So maybe he’s a good lawyer, even if he’s a shitty person. You can stick it out for one case, right?”

Trust Heather to always look on the bright side. She has a point, though. For as notoriously judgmental, aggressive and condescending as Anthony Stuyvesant is, any protégé of his must at least be competent in the courtroom. “True. It’s just . . . ugh, this is going to be a long one, I can already feel it. I spent all afternoon buried in the files. I’m just not loving the fact that not only will I have to work overtime and weekends for yet another month, I’ll have to do most of it with someone I don’t like.”

“For a month? Really?” There’s a new note in Heather’s voice now. Hurt.

I blink a few times. Shit. What have I forgotten now? “Yes, probably. I mean, I’m just guessing. I guess it depends on how the case goes. Why?”

Her voice goes small and quiet. “Did you forget about our plans on the twentieth?”

I chew on the corner of my lip, even as I whip my Blackberry from my purse. “Of course I didn’t forget,” I say, speaking slowly to stall for time as I scroll frantically through my calendar.

“I know that voice, Chloe MacIntyre,” Heather snaps. “That’s the
I’m double-checking right now
voice.”

“It is not!” I protest. Aha. Twentieth to the twenty-first. Shit. Weekend away at the spa Heather found a coupon for. It was supposed to be our impromptu girl retreat. Nails, hair, massages, facials, the works. Plus, they have a Jacuzzi thing with all these salt crystals or something that was supposed to feel like heaven floating around in. “I was really looking forward to the spa weekend. I mean, I
am
really looking forward to it, assuming I can finish enough of the case by then to—”

“Ugh. Forget it. Why do I even bother, Chlo? Honestly. It’s like being friends with a robot. No, not even a robot—I’m pretty sure even robots power down for a couple hours at a time. Do you even remember the last time we had a conversation in person, face-to-face?”

“Of course I do. We went for drinks at that rooftop bar, and the cute waiter hit on you.”

“That was
four months ago,
Chloe. Did you know that? Four months. I live less than a twenty-minute drive from you. That’s weird, okay?”

“It’s been a really hectic few months,” I mumble halfheartedly. “As soon as things calm down a little—”

“Things are never going to calm down. Not until you make them. You need to start prioritizing your life, too. Not just your career path.”

I bite back an
easy for you to say
. Because that’s not fair. Heather doesn’t want the same kinds of things that I do. She’s happy to run her flower shop, spend her days arranging bouquets for weddings, and take as much time off as she wants to travel, explore, eat out, go on dates.

Sometimes I wish I could be more like her. But every night when I close my eyes, I can still picture Mom’s place. The crappy closet of an apartment she was stuck in. The ramen noodles she lived on, except when I forced better food on her during a visit. She spent her whole life indulging—buying whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and working a crappy retail job, maxing out credit cards to support herself.

She spent the last years of her life in a hovel.

I need to avoid that. I need to do better. And I need to support her, too. It might be her fault she’s broke, but I’m not letting her suffer just because she wasn’t a practical kid.

That’s my job. Being the practical one.

I thought Heather and I could bridge the gap between our lives, but maybe we’re just
too
different. Sometimes lately, I’ve started to wonder.

I guess she’s been wondering too.

“Heather, I’m sorry that it’s been so long since we hung out,” I say.

She cuts me off. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t say it’ll change. It never does. Call me when you’ve decided I’m worth something, okay?”

With that, the call disconnects, and I’m left standing barefoot and alone in the middle of my huge, expensive, gorgeous kitchen, holding a spoonful of slowly melting ice cream over a tub that’s freezing the fingers off my hand.

I click the phone off, toss it on the counter, and pace out into my living room.

Normally, this apartment makes me happy. It’s a constant reminder of how far I’ve come, and everything I’ve managed to make out of my life. The hardwood floors, high ceilings, and leather furniture strewn with cozy fur blankets and comforters is everything I used to dream about as a kid, watching home decorating shows on my parents’ crappy black-and-white TV, in our rundown living room that converted to my bedroom at night, since we could only afford a one-bedroom place.

Now, the TV takes up my entire wall above the fireplace, and I can totally immerse myself in any movies or shows I choose to watch.

When I have time to. Which, admittedly, is pretty much never.

I sigh and cross the room to slump onto my couch. Out the window to my left, the lights of San Francisco sparkle in the distance. But in here, I keep the lights off, and my head buried in the pint of ice cream. Ice cream that I need more than ever tonight, even though, after that phone call, it’s pretty much lost all its flavor for me.

What am I doing with myself?

But I already know the answer to that. I’m building a better life. A better future than my mom’s. No matter what it takes.

“
A
nd then
, I shit you not, she says ‘So are you coming to my place, or what?’ Can you
believe
that worked?”

“I really, really can’t. Sure you didn’t just dream that part?” I lift my beer for another swig as Marcus aims a slug at my arm. It doesn’t even interrupt my drink. “Weak, Marcus.”

“Whatever, man, you’re just jealous. How long has it been since you got any action?”

“None of your business, that’s how long.”

Across the table, Jim whistles in response.

“So that’s at least six months to a year, don’t you figure, Jim?” Marcus shoots back, though he’s grinning as he picks up his own pint glass.

“That, or someone’s hindered by the non-fraternization policy,” Jim points out, and hoists his eyebrows significantly at me.

“Tempting as it may be, I don’t mix business and pleasure,” I reply evenly.

“Tell that to the new girl at the front desk.” Marcus smirks. “What’s her name? D-something—no, wait, that’s her cup size.”

“It’s Hannah,” I interrupt. “And she’s not really my type.” Too much giggling and following me around the hallway all day for my taste. But I don’t need to add that. Clearly the guys already noticed. Great, I wonder how long
this
rumor train will last. Couldn’t be any worse than the time Marcus told half the office I was hooking up with that girl Melanie in accounting who wouldn’t stop interoffice mailing me Sweetheart candy, at least.

That was a new personal low.

“If
she’s
not your type, you’re either a zombie, or you’re more into Marcus here,” Jim replies, jerking a thumb at Marcus, who has chosen this moment to stuff a fistful of loaded fries into his face.

“Pass.” I push back my chair. “I’m going for another round, anyone else?” They both nod, so I head up to the bar to order three more. The pub is quiet tonight. It’s a tiny little hole-in-the-wall a block from our office—a shit hole, really, with sticky floors, a weird smell that I’m pretty sure is still lingering from back when you used to be able to smoke inside dives like this, and only one bartender slash server, the gruff old Irish guy Seamus who runs the joint.

In other words, exactly the dive we always need after a long day of bullshit.

As I collect our beers, Seamus slides me a shot glass filled to the brim with what smells like Jameson.

“Look like you could use it,” he says.

I toss back the shot. Great. Even the bartender can tell I’ve had one of those days.

And all thanks to Chloe goddamn MacIntyre.

The more I review the files, the more annoyed I get. This case is going to need a lot of attention, and she only wants to slot me in for 15 minutes? I’m going to spend half the day tomorrow working on this, and she’s acting like it’s just another normal case. Not one with a celebrity that could land us more attention than anything I’ve worked on in my career here so far.

Not to mention her attitude in the meeting today. I mean, yes, okay, it was kind of sexy the first couple times she death-glared at me. But after a while that disdain gets old. I know exactly what she thinks about me, like it or not.

Suck it up, Davis
. Ignore her attitude. Ignore her shapely ass. Ignore your constant mental images of tearing that silky blouse off of her body and pushing that tight skirt up her legs, leaving the garter belt and her glasses on.

Ignore the constant throb of your cock every time you fucking think about her.

After this case, if I can prove myself, Anthony has already hinted at giving me a lot more freedom. I’ll be able to pick and choose my own cases, select the ones that I think will take me the farthest career-wise. Hell, he’s even hinted, in his roundabout, somehow-still-insulting way, that I could be on a partner track, if I step up my game now.

This is no time to let a little thing like one colleague throw me off. If anything, I just need to look at her as a new challenge.

A challenge I need to avoid conquering. Much as I might want to get my hands all over her sexy curves, Chloe is now a no-fly zone.

Forbidden fruit.

I slide back into my usual seat at our usual table and hand out the usual orders: Guinness for me and Jim, and Corona for Marcus, because he’s a chick.

Small favors—it seems like the topic has shifted while I’ve been away. Thank fuck.

“Keep hearing rumors about it,” Jim is saying, “But nothing confirmed as of yet. At least, nothing that fucking Rubin is going to tell me, since he’s had it out for me since the day I started reporting to him.”

“I heard it’s starting next month.” Marcus shrugs.

“What’s starting?” I wrap my fist around my second beer. The glass is cool, sweating against my palm.

“The restructure,” Jim says, with one of those
Did you seriously not know about this
looks that he gets.

I blink at the two of them for a minute before the term settles into my skull. “Hang on. What restructure?”

Did I seriously miss an office rumor of this magnitude? Christ, I really am losing my edge.

“Not sure exactly. Only hearing it through the trickle-down at the moment.” Marcus shrugs again, before taking a long, healthy chug of his beer. “Rumor-mill says cutting mostly in accounting and office assistants. But probably about 20 of the litigators too.”

Shit. That’s a significant chunk of our work force.

Paranoia sets in. Why didn’t Anthony warn me about this? He must have known, as a partner. Unless he didn’t tell me because I could potentially be on the chopping block? Normally you’d give anyone you cared to keep a heads-up before news about this kind of thing starts to circulate.
Hey, FYI, this is coming our way, but don’t freak, you’ll be fine.

Fucking hell. “At what level, do you think?” I take a healthier gulp of my drink than I probably ought to, considering I’m driving later. But screw it, if I have to cab it home, so be it.

“Don’t know. Probably we’ll hear more next week or the week after. You know how these things go. You hear the rumors first, then the rumor cover-ups, then the truth comes out after the higher-ups have spent a couple of weeks panicking among themselves about who let this shit leak.”

Jim laughs, though it seems forced. All of us are pretending to be unfazed by this news. Drinking more quietly now, but other than that, no one outside of our table would probably be able to tell a thing was wrong.

Which is fine by me. I’d rather not anyone know how much I’m worrying right now. If I lose this job, it all comes crashing down. The apartment loan I could live with; pay it off as I go. But everything else? The location, the ease it gives me for everything else I need to be doing during the day. . .

No use panicking prematurely, though. All I can do at this point is keep my head down, do my work, and get on with my day. The chips will fall where they will, and at the end of this, we’ll see how I stand.

One thing is for sure. I
definitely
need to knock this case with Chloe out of the park.

Tomorrow, I decide, I’m going to corner her and make her see sense. If she doesn’t want to work on this with me, then she can ask Paul to reassign her. Otherwise, I’m gonna need her to be all in on this one.

For both our sakes.