I don't miss Malone's dark eyes drifting down my gray pants suit before they eventually come up and meet mine.
"I've got all that shit you wanted," he says, holding out a stack of papers and a thumb drive that I accept.
"Um, that was quick. Thanks."
I slip the thumb drive into my pocket, so I can flip through the pages to see what all he's rounded up. There are plane tickets, fight promotional flyers, hotel receipts, his own social media posts, and phone records with yellow highlights on a certain number, which I assume belongs to the accuser.
"Just for future reference, don't mark on any original documents," I warn him.
"Excuse the fuck out of me. I spent two goddamn hours going through this stack of shit, picking out her number from hundreds of other calls, trying to save you some time."
I jerk back from his hostility and fire back with my own, even though we're standing in the front lobby with onlookers. "Don't worry. I'm not hourly since you paid a flat fee, so even if it takes me hours, it won't cost you another penny."
"I don't give a shit about the fucking money," he snarls, his black eyes fiery like liquid lava. "Despite what you instantly judged and assumed from looking at me, I actually have plenty."
Based on the way our conversation is growing rather inflamed, I decide we both need a cool down period, but I still can't help taking another shot at him.
"Why don't I give you a few minutes to extract those wadded up panties that seem to be causing you some discomfort, and when you're ready to talk to me without the attitude Jamie will show you to my office," I tell him, pointing to the cowering receptionist behind her window before turning on my heel and storming back to my office. I pretend to ignore the muttered "itch" with a capital "B" that follows me down the hall.
That man is so freaking infuriating! Instead of going back in my office I march right on past it and don't stop until I get to the break room. I toss the papers down on the lunch table and then grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, quickly twisting off the cap.
My brother, of course, chooses that moment to stroll in. "What's all the shouting about?" he asks before I can swallow my first sip. "You need some help?"
I roll my eyes and let out an annoyed huff, taking my time sipping my water, so he's forced to wait in silence for my response.
"I've got everything under control, Logie." I tack on the hated childhood nickname I gifted him, and smile to myself when he winces.
"Didn't sound like it," he says, leaning back against the countertop in front of me while crossing his arms over the front of his crisp white dress shirt. "Are you going to cry? Do you want me to take over the case for you?"
My jaw drops and my back straightens, bristling at his insinuation. "I am perfectly capable of handling that cocky jerk all on my own, thank you very much!" I can't help the screech caused when my teeth grind against each other. "Why do you even care? You don't practice criminal law, either. You're just a weeny patent lawyer."
He raises a light blonde eyebrow at my assertion before flashing both rows of his perfect white teeth. "I'm the best damn patent lawyer in the country, beanpole. And there's an office pool running on you."
"Are you kidding?" I ask, placing my hands on my hips. "For what exactly?"
"A variety of things." He laughs before he begins ticking them off on his fingers. "One, for how long it'll be before he makes you cry. Another is for how long before you fuck up. When you'll actually give up and quit. Oh, and one for how long before he fires the firm because you piss him off. So yeah, I think that's all of them."
I try really hard not to let the hurt show on my face, knowing he'll use it against me. The whole office doesn't think I can handle the angry criminal, or probably any other case, for that matter.
"So what are the bets?" I ask. I'm going to make sure I surpass them all.
"For crying, anywhere from today until Friday at the latest. Fucking up in the next forty-eight hours. On quitting, the bets range from today until next Monday. And on him firing us, well, we all give it less than a week."
Now I'm no longer hurt, I'm angry. I work with an office full of jerks. No wonder female attorneys haven't lasted longer than a year, two at the max, in this place. The men are dicks and the assistants are all gossiping hens…well, except for Jamie. I'm by God going to prove them all wrong, and I don't care what it takes. This jerk of a client is no different than the men I work with. I'll just have to finally show them that I'm actually tougher and smarter than I look.
My whole life it's always been, "Oh, Page made the honor roll? Well, Logan got a perfect score on his SAT." And "Page got into Georgetown? Well, Logan was offered a full scholarship when he got accepted." I'm so freaking tired of it!