Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1)

by Nicole French

  I blinked, trying to look as innocent as possible, but likely failing miserably. “Just tell her I’m a landlubber, since she apparently needs to know. How odd.”

  He chuckled and typed back a quick reply. “Odd. Okay, then.” His phone buzzed again instantly. “Oops,” he said with a grin. “I guess I wasn’t supposed to tell you she was asking. So why is Sterling digging for your preferences?”

  “Who says he’s the one digging?” I asked lamely.

  “Give me a fucking break, Crosby,” Eric said. “Do I look like an idiot to you? Be honest. You hitting that?”

  “Oh my god, no!” I protested hotly, feeling the flush rise up my cheeks. It was the truth, I told myself, but obviously Eric didn’t believe me. I scanned the car briefly to make sure no one was listening. It wouldn’t matter if my classmates had worked at Sterling Grove or not; everyone knew that firm, and an intern sleeping with the boss would be good gossip to anyone on campus. Luckily, we seemed to be the only HLS students in the car.

  “Sure, sure, Crosby,” Eric said. “Well, if you’re not, looks like he wants to. Is that why you really refused a position at the firm?”

  “No, no, it’s not,” I protested, gripping the bag on my lap until my knuckles turned white. I really was not enjoying this little interrogation. “I only just met the guy two weeks ago, you know that. We’ve talked maybe once since then.”

  Right. Once while he polished my shoes in his living room. And then that time in his office where we almost ripped each other’s clothes off before I came to my senses. And then that other time, where he walked me home all the way to New York City and met my father and gave me the best good night kiss I’d ever had. I shook my head vehemently, more to avoid getting sucked into that particular daydream again. Eric just laughed.

  “I told Ben and Laura I wasn’t planning to take a position about a week before I met him,” I insisted.

  Eric studied me closely, as if he were looking for some kind of flaw in my argument. I wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, but I didn’t want him thinking I had anything to do with Brandon Sterling in my professional life. After about a minute of watching me blush furiously under his gaze, Eric looked up when the T stopped and the conductor announced our destination.

  “Whatever you say, Crosby,” he said without much conviction as we filed off with the other passengers. His phone buzzed again, and he fell behind as he read his message. More than one of our classmates stepped off other cars; apparently we weren’t the only ones who wanted first dibs on the schedule. I breathed a sigh of relief that they weren’t there to overhear our conversation, and picked up my pace, hoping to catch one of them before I could be warned off Brandon by Eric.

  “Hey Crosby!” Eric called as he jogged behind me.

  I cringed, but finally turned my head, bracing myself for the inevitable “be careful about dating such a rich guy” speech. Surrogate brothers came with some embarrassing caveats.

  Instead, he just said, “Ana wanted to know if you eat red meat,” with a cheeky grin that showed off the dimples half the girls in our class (and a few guys too) talked about. It wasn’t any use, I realized. That was the thing about a surrogate brother. He’d call me on my shit just as much as I called him on his.

  Slowly, I returned the grin, and slowed to let Eric catch up. “I’m as carnivorous as they come,” I said. “What else does she want to know?”

  ~

  The clinic bore the unassuming name of Family Law Services, a small, single-floor office housed in a run-down brick building just off Washington Street. It was a collaboration between several HLS donors and the law school, centrally located in a part of the city where rent was reasonable and people needed the cheap legal advice. A far cry from the manicured lawns and white pillars of Harvard Square, Jamaica Plain was one of the parts of Boston that was gradually being gentrified, but was still home to a lot of pawns shops and bodegas. Evidence of this fact was the check cashing shop and expensive French bakery that sandwiched the offices of FLS. The mixed demographics of the neighborhood actually reminded me a lot of Flatbush, and I immediately felt home there.

  The five of us who showed up for the afternoon orientation were quickly ushered into a small conference room in the back of the offices, where we were told to wait until the director of the clinic could join us.

  “I heard the she’s a hard ass,” whispered one of the other guys in our class. “I hope she’s not a giant bitch.”

  Alex was a tall, brown-haired kid from Brookline who had attended Boston College before coming to Harvard. His father was one of the top-rated divorce attorneys in the city, and Alex was planning to join him at his firm. I wondered if he, like Eric, was only doing this because his dad was requiring him to gain a bit of litigation experience.

  “You sound like an asshole,” I whispered back at him. “And regardless, the people who come into this clinic deserve to have a hard-ass defending them. All the better for us if she teaches us how to do it.”

  Before Alex could twist his arrogant frown into some sort of retort, the door to the conference room flew open, and a tall, willowy woman with black hair, a razor sharp nose, and red lips pressed into an intolerant line purposefully strode in.

  “First of all,” she said as she came to stand at the front of the conference table. “Let me say that just because this is a pro-bono and sliding scale clinic, you shouldn’t expect your level of professionalism to be pro-bono too. Anything even slightly below what you would demonstrate at a for-profit firm will not be tolerated, and you can kiss your clinic grade goodbye. These people need our help, and they are literally putting their lives in our hands. That deserves patience, diligence, and above all, respect.” She stared around the table and lingered on Alex, making me wonder if she had somehow heard our exchange. “Is that clear?”

  We all nodded, and she glared at all of us before continuing.

  “I’m Kieran Beckford,” she said, “the director of FLS. I’m also an equity partner at another firm. In other words, I’m busy, so the second rule here is that you should not bother me unless you absolutely have to. Got it?”

  Again, we all nodded, and this time she looked down at the sign-in list on which we had all printed our names upon arrival.

  “Today I’ll assign each of you to a volunteer attorney. You’ll need to arrange your scheduled hours with them, since most of them also have their own practices to worry about. Since you guys are the early birds, you have the privilege of getting first dibs. So, Christian Vegas?”

  Christian, a small, unassuming kid with a weak chin, raised his hand. “Ah, here.”

  “I’m not taking attendance,” said Kieran without looking up. “I’m assigning your mentor. You’ll be with Rodrigo Almodovar. He sits at the front desk. Eric Stallsmith?”

  Eric waved his hand slightly and smiled. Kieran pursed her lips and did not smile back.

  “You’re with Almodovar too.” She quickly assigned Alex and the other girl, Tina, before she looked at me. “Skylar Crosby?”

  A flash of brief recognition passed over her sharp features, and suddenly I realized I knew her too. She was the woman with Brandon and the other two men who came into his house the night we met. She had not been happy to see me there. I hoped it was because she was simply a curt personality and not because she thought something else was going on.

  “That’s me,” I said maybe a little too loudly.

  She blinked. “Right. You’ll be with me.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach at the thought. This woman could make or break my job prospects at the end of this semester; if she thought I was the type of girl who screwed her boss, then I was the one about to be screwed.

  “The rest of you, go meet with your mentors. Skylar, stay here.”

  After my classmates filed out of the door, she paused a moment once it had closed behind them and turned to face me.

  “You were at Brandon Sterling’s house two weeks ago.” It was a statement, not a question. Yep, she definit
ely recognized me.

  I gulped and forced myself to meet her imperious gaze. “Yes.”

  “Do you know him?”

  I pressed my lips together. “No, not really. I was an intern at Sterling Grove last semester, but that night was the first time I’d seen him.” I couldn’t say it was the only time we’d met, but hopefully she didn’t catch that. “I was there with a friend of his housekeeper’s. She lives in the basement. I went upstairs to get cell service.”

  “It didn’t look like you were on your phone. It looked like you were making yourself comfortable in his living room.”

  I blanched, remembering how I had been perched cozily on the large pillow in his windowsill, my shoes resting on the carpet. Well, I had two options here. I could act appropriately contrite and admit guilt where there wasn’t any. Or I could do what my instincts were telling me. If she was anything like the squads of hard-faced girls I knew back in Brooklyn, she was like a wolf, and it was important not to show fear. I shrugged and met her gaze directly.

  “I live in student housing. And it’s a comfortable living room.” I prayed my gamble of being honest would pay off.

  She narrowed her eyes briefly, evaluating my response. For a minute I thought she was going to tell me to get out, but then her pursed lips spread into an unlikely smile, and she nodded and barked out a short laugh.

  “That it is,” she chuckled. “Good for you. Well, come on, let’s get to work. I’ve only got an hour today to get things squared away. And then you’re on your own.”

  I followed her back into the main office, which was split into about ten cubicles shared by the volunteer lawyers. In the front was a small receptionist desk, behind which a few staff typed away at their desks. She led me on a quick tour of the cubicles, and then walked us into small office that was just off the receptionist area; a worn oak door with her name on the front marked its entrance.

  “You can put your things there,” she said, nodding to a small desk to the right of her larger one. It was a tiny office compared to the ones associates had at Sterling, but it was covered with marks of her pedigree—framed degrees from Duke and Harvard, a shelf full of plainly used local treatises on family law, protective orders, and custody, another full of case files. A desk neatly organized with papers and notes.

  “All right,” Kieran said, sitting down at her desk. “I’m here Wednesday afternoon and all day on Fridays. You should pick two four-hour slots to be here during regular working hours. What will it be? You have to be here with me at least one slot, but you’ll get more out of it if I’m here both.”

  I chose to work on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and she marked me neatly on her desk calendar.

  “Right, then,” she said. “You’ll basically be doing a lot of my research and paperwork for several of the different cases we take on, and you’ll also meet with clients of your own. For instance, we’ve got an appointment today with a woman who is trying to claim domestic abuse against an emotionally abusive spouse while also filing for divorce. It’s nasty. The guy is obviously a sociopath, which makes this case that much more difficult. I’ve just taken her case pro bono—” She gestured to a thick envelope in front of me, “which means the first thing you’ll need to do is read through her file, then interview her, and then begin drafting a motion for protective order and for sanctions. Any questions?”

  I accepted the file that she handed over her desk, and thumbed briefly through the documents. There were several court transcripts from previous hearings in the case, as well as a number of signed statements by multiple witnesses affirming the abuse in different forms, including a letter from a psychiatrist proclaiming the guy a sociopath. I looked up.

  “One, if you have the time to answer it. What exactly do you mean by a sociopath?”

  Kieran grimaced.

  “A first-rate son of a bitch,” she said emphatically. “But obviously I can’t say that in court. No, it’s someone who doesn’t act with the logical notions of morality or social awareness. A Class-A narcissist, who is only concerned with his own wellbeing. Someone who takes great pleasure at playing games with other to bolster and protect his own ego, who gives gifts just to procure debts and to gain recognition. Someone who greatly enjoys lifting others up just to tear them down. These kinds of assholes usually start out sailing into a relationship like a white knight, making all sorts of grand gestures to vulnerable women. They proclaim their love, then start to take control because of it. In the end, they take everything she’s got and do whatever is necessary to break her down. And they hate to lose, which is why legal battles with them tend to be very expensive. This guy in particular—” she nodded at the file— “embezzled half of the woman’s 401K, and now they’re bankrupt because they’ve been in litigation for over a year. All they have left to haggle over are some properties that are damn close to being in default. It’s why she’s here instead of some place like Sterling Grove.”

  I looked down at the file again, opening it on the table and starting to peruse its contents. It wasn’t the kind of case I’d expect to see here—this woman was well educated, a respected business woman before she’d gotten mixed up with this guy.

  “You’ll learn a lot working here,” Kieran remarked as she pulled out another file for herself. “About your own life as well as theirs. Sometimes a man who comes off as a prince is really just the devil in disguise.”

  She looked at me in a knowing way that I found disconcerting. Before I could reply, her phone rang. I ducked back into my file, suddenly engrossed by the story I held in my hands.

  ~

  Chapter 13

  The apartment buzzer tore through the air at five minutes past eight. He was slightly late, but I only noticed because I had been ready to go for at least an hour. Before leaving for her own Friday night date with a Physics Ph.D. candidate she’d met at Great Scott, Jane had helped me come up with a plan of action for the first date in a long time that had made me legitimately nervous.

  All he had told me was that we were going to dinner and to wear a dress. Beyond that, I had nothing to go on. Did I even have anything remotely appropriate in my wardrobe, which was primarily acquired from outlet malls and consignment shops? Could I wear boots and tights befitting the frigid weather, or was I expected to go for more of a sexy cocktail dress? His casual mention of frequenting events made me wonder if I was going to be escorted to some fancy function with the rest of Boston society (I really hoped not). Sometime in the last week he had stopped being Brandon again in my head, and had turned back into Brandon Sterling, CEO. Where did billionaires go on dates anyway?

  In the end Jane and I had decided on a short-sleeved, knit black dress that hugged all the curves I had, from the flared knee-length hem all the way up to the wide scoop neck. I paired the dress with sheer black stockings and my favorite Manolo pumps, fresh back from the cobbler. Jane had tucked my unruly locks into hot rollers for fifteen minutes, and then teased them into sexy, voluminous waves that tumbled down my back. Once I had my contacts in and had touched up my face with a bit of mascara and touch of lip gloss, I felt like I had completely eschewed my bookish law-student exterior in favor of a sex kitten I didn’t know I had in me. Or at least that I hadn’t seen in a very long time.

  It still didn’t stop my nerves from dancing around like maniacs in my belly for another hour after she left.

  I hadn’t heard from Brandon all week, so until that buzzer rang, I wasn’t actually sure the date was for real. He knew my address from my resume, but I didn’t release my private cell on job applications, using an internet-based number instead. In my nervous frustration, it hadn’t occurred to me to check it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know that he had realized how nuts he was chasing someone like me—I hadn’t quite come to terms with the fantasy.

  So instead, I had spent the rest of the week burying myself in books, trying desperately to rid myself of the memory of him so I could focus on my last semester of school. It didn’t work. His unique scent suddenly seem
ed present everywhere; the scent of a classmate snacking on almonds during my Postmodern Legal Theory seminar had me squeezing my legs together for the most of the three-hour meeting. Bumping into the firm back of a tall blond passenger on a crowded T car practically made my panties disintegrate. The more I tried not to think about Brandon Sterling, the more I did. And by this point, the only thing that was on my mind was the desire—no, the absolute craving—to feel his hands on me and his tongue on mine again.

  And now, thank fucking God, he was here.

  I pressed the speaker button next to the buzzer. “Yes?”

  “Skylar, it’s Brandon. Will you let me up?”

  I leaned my forehead against the wall momentarily in relief before answering. “Sure,” I said, and buzzed him in.

  I opened the door and stood waiting as his steps lumbered up the stairwell at the end of the hall. The footsteps, heavy and urgent, grew closer, and my stomach clenched in anticipation. I was setting myself up for disappointment, I knew, but at this point all I couldn’t care less. He was finally here.

  “Do you realize that we forgot to trade cell phone numbers?” he demanded as he strode into my apartment.

  I closed the door and watched him peruse his iPhone contacts without even looking at me.

  “All your intern file contains is a Google voice number which apparently you don’t check. I wanted to call this week to confirm our date, but I couldn’t. Shit, I wanted to let you know I was stuck in traffic just now, but I couldn’t!”

  Immediately, I was glad I had gone with a more casual dress instead of something more formal. He looked good—amazing, actually—in tailored jeans, a light gray button-up shirt, a black skinny tie, and a leather bomber jacket. He clutched a wide black scarf and a pair of leather gloves in his hand, and his tousled blond hair was unruly and free from its normal confines, curling about his collar. My palms tensed with the desire to grab at it.