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The confidence.
The height.
She doesn't care; she'll intimidate most men with her shoes or her brain. She stands tall anyway.
What is wrong with men? Why do so many want a woman who's smaller, shorter, less?
Daphne knows she's beautiful. She doesn't pretend her sunglasses hide it.
No. I'm the one in glasses, and I know they make me more hot, not less. Women love the intellectual professor vibe.
Just like Daphne knows her long, curvy legs are sexy as fuck. Why not highlight them with wedge shoes? So what if she's taller than the vast majority of men in them?
Maybe she needs a man who wants to look up at her from—
Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with me?
If I've got this many fucks in my head, I am fucked.
Everyone thinks I'm Mr. Professional Language, but my thoughts—
No. This is not the mission here. Distraction. That's the mission.
I lead her through the airy foyer into the clean, white kitchen.
She looks around the space with wide eyes, noting the framed art, the sliding glass door leading to the large backyard, the pool outside. "Wow." She brings her gaze to the counters, scanning for a coffee maker of some kind. "You're rich."
That is not what I expected her to say. A laugh spills from my lips. It eases the tension in my chest.
We're not here to fuck.
We're here as old friends.
A little teasing banter is as far as it goes.
"And you're not?" I ask.
"My parents are rich, yes." She motions to the general direction of her parents' house, the one a good twenty minutes away. "Grandma handed down her old BMW, yes. They buy me expensive presents and help with my rent. They pay my tuition.I'm extremely lucky. I'm very privileged. But I am not rich. You—" She takes a step toward me. Then another.
Until she's in my space.
Until her fingers brush my hand.
The hand I used to fuck myself ten minutes ago.
Keep it in your fucking pants.
Unaware of my dirty thoughts, she draws a line to my watch. The one my boss and mentor bought for me. The guy who holds my fate in his hands. Either I make partner this year, or I leave. That's how it works at these old law firms. Up or out.
There are only two spots for five associates.
The odds aren't on my side. Even with the timepiece.
"It was a gift," I say.
"A work bonus," she says. "I remember. You always insist the ten-thousand-dollar watch isn't a reflection of your values or class."
"It isn't." It's also not a ten-thousand-dollar watch. It's a sixty-five-hundred-dollar watch. But offering the exact value doesn't help my case.
