Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Mr. Gibson,” I say, but it comes out more like “mistergibson” because my tongue has decided to stop collaborating with the rest of my body.
“Ms. Williams,” he drawls. Oh my god, this man smells amazing. I don’t know the brand, but the cologne is that top-shelf kind: expensive, understated, and dark as whiskey. There’s a whiff of something spicy underneath, black pepper or maybe cloves. My mouth waters for no reason, and I’m suddenly aware of just how clammy my thighs are.
Smirking again, the huge man takes the chair across from me, crosses his ankle over his knee, and steeples his hands. His eyes scan my face in a single, devastating glance, and then rove down my body, taking in my big breasts, as well as the darkened vee between my girls. Silently, I curse the blouse. What was I thinking when I chose this outfit this morning? Even worse, how can he look at me like this? Like I’m his property, to be savored and enjoyed?
But this man is the boss, and he can do anything he wants. As a result, when he quirks an eyebrow, I startle.
“Do you have a resume?”
“Yes, of course,” I babble, opening my notebook. There’s a fresh C.V. pressed in between the pages, and I hand it to him.
The alpha male surveys the page, and there’s a pause where only the city makes noise—sirens, a car horn, the distant hiss of wind past the windows.
“I see you graduated in the top ten percent of your class,” he drawls. “Impressive.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
He slides the resume back across the table, then folds his hands again. “What interests you about being a paralegal, Ms. Williams?”
It’s a basic question, but the way he says it makes it sound like a trick.
I try to keep my answer smooth. “My mother says I’ve always been detail-oriented. That I focused on the small things even when I was only five, and every case is filled with countless nuances that can make or break it. I want to get into the nitty-gritty.”
He gives the smallest nod, like he’s logging a data point. “Well, that will certainly happen when we’re in trial. And why our firm? Why did you choose Gibson Grant?”
This is the question I prepped for, and yet my mind blanks. The truth—the real, hot, desperate truth—is that I’m here because of him. Because of the men who defended my father. Because I want to understand the events that led to my father’s death, from the inside out. But I can’t say any of that, so I go with the half-truth.
“Your firm is legendary for its defense work,” I say. “You take on cases nobody else will touch, and I admire that. I want to work for the best so that when I become an attorney, I know what being the best entails.”
The huge man leans back, and for a second the sunlight glances off his dark hair, making it silvery in the light. I have no idea if he buys my answer, but he lets the moment hang there, thick with evaluation. He must be able to smell my nerves, but instead of exploiting them, he just lets them marinate.
“Ambition is good,” he says finally. “But here, loyalty is better. Everything we do is as a team. You think you’re ready for that?”
My mouth answers before my brain does. “Yes. Absolutely.”
He gives the smallest hint of a smile. “We’ll see.”
There’s another silence, but it’s not as heavy this time. If anything, it feels charged—like the static before a lightning strike. My pulse is in my ears. I look down at my lap, then back at him, determined not to flinch.
He checks his watch—a sleek, brutal thing with a face like an armored tank. “James will be here shortly,” he says. “I assume you know my co-head?”
“Yes, you lead the firm together,” I admit.
He smirks. “Good girl. You know your stuff.”
At that moment, the door swings open behind him. A shadow falls over the room, and a second huge, masculine form enters … doubling my excitement as my thighs clench with anticipation.
I turn toward the doorway, not sure what I’m going to find, but James Grant leaves nothing to be desired. I knew, from photos, that he was handsome in a more conventional way than Brent, but the pictures didn’t do him justice. In person, he radiates the kind of charisma that shifts the vibe in the room. What kind of energy is this? Huge size energy. Oh my god, oh my god, I just know his cock is massive, and immediately blush because how can I be having these thoughts? I should be embarrassed.
But the man smiles like he knows, flashing white teeth that gleam against his olive skin— Mediterranean maybe, or some cocktail of good genes—and his hair is the color of espresso, thick and swept back with a disarming disregard for corporate protocol. His eyes are piercing blue, the lashes so long and dark that they’re wasted on a man.