I take a sip of my beer. “I was setting a tone.”
He almost chokes on a drink of his beer as I say the words. “Yes, you certainly were.”
I can’t even respond, all I do is smile, because ugh, he’s charming.
“What made you want to do corporate law?” He leans in a little like he’s genuinely interested.
“What are we doing here?” I lean back a little to create the space that just disappeared between us.
“Drinking beer. Getting to know each other.” He shrugs. “Socializing.”
“I don’t need to socialize. My social life is just fine as it is.”
He takes a sip. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes you do.”
Ugh! He’s so smug and confident. It’s nauseating, and hot. He’s hot. God, look at him.
“Why do you want to be a corporate lawyer, Karli?” He enunciates each syllable in a staccato rhythm. Then, he grins again. “Socializing is part of being an attorney.”
“The money.”
He laughs. “I don’t believe you, but it’s a good answer.”
Flustered, I finally just blurt out, “I don’t know, okay? Because I’m good at it. Because I watched my dad fail as an entrepreneur because of unfair competition and barriers to entry. Maybe I can help someone else like that.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not buying it.”
My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
His shoulders bounce a little, like he enjoys getting a rise out of me. “I have no doubt that’s what you tell yourself. Everyone wants to assign altruism to their motives. The truth hurts to hear it though sometimes, remember? You picked the wrong firm to help the little guy, and your eyes light up the same way everyone else’s do when they step into that building.”
I make a show of setting my beer down and staring right at him. “By all means, then. Why don’t you tell me why I’m doing what I’m doing, and why don’t you answer the question you asked.”
His grin widens. “I think you want to work with rich and powerful, dare I even say, famous people. You want that status, recognition—to feel important. It’s a form of self-validation for you.”
I sit there, shaking my head at the audacity of him. How can someone be such an arrogant prick and enjoy such an amazing place like this? He might be the most condescending man I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something.
He won’t stop smiling. “I don’t mean it as an insult. Everyone has that feeling. That longing for attention, to be looked up to. The status and prestige.”
It’s almost like he really is a stand-up comedian. One of those who have mastered their craft, to the point they have to piss off the audience, work the crowd to the point of no return, just to see if they can win them back over.
Fortunately, I don’t have to listen to this. I stand up.
“Folding under pressure already, seriously?”
“It’s not folding. It’s called I have no obligation to remain in the company of someone who insults me, and not for the first time today.”
“I didn’t insult you. I told the truth. You were perfectly fine when you were the one dishing it out.”
This is so ridiculous it’s funny to me for some reason. I just stand there, shaking my head at him.
He shrugs. “Do you not want to work on high-profile clients?”
“Of course I do. Asshole.”
He holds his hands up like it’s the first honest thing I’ve said all night.
“For experience. Society values those things. It lends toward expertise in a field, because we have a meritocratic system. I need to put in my time to gain the resources to be able to do whatever I want. And you know that but want to frame it like I want to hobnob with celebrities all night long and that’s my life’s mission.”
He takes another sip of his beer, clearly amused with himself. “Thought you were leaving.” He says it almost under his breath, in a way that means, okay, you just kicked my ass, sit down already.
I want to strangle this man, but I can’t. Because I just burst into laughter. He’s so damn abrupt, says things out of nowhere.
And what the hell are my legs doing right now? Because I sit back down on the barstool, against my better judgment. Against everything in my brain screaming at me to get the hell out of here.
I also notice that boyish grin returns to his face the second I do it.
“You grow up around here?”
I nod, still trying not to laugh, because his damn ‘thought you were leaving’ response is still rattling around in my head. Everything about it, the look on his face, the dry way he delivered it…
“Family?”
“Yeah, my parents are still together. We’re pretty close. Only child.”
“I always thought it’d be rough to be an only child.”
This man is a master at steering a conversation. No wonder he’s such a good lawyer and a manipulative human.
“How so? I managed fine.”
He sighs. “Well, the obvious. No siblings to bond with, shit like that. But just—there’s no spreading around of the expectations. It all lands on your shoulders.”
My eyes narrow. I see exactly what he’s doing. Implying that’s why I have such a strong drive to succeed. I’m the only one who can make my parents proud, and that’s why he thinks I want to gain notoriety or fame or whatever.
Is he wrong?
Not totally, but I’m not telling him that shit. He’s arrogant enough as it is.
Of course, I want my parents to be able to brag about me. I’m not going to let him make that out to be some character flaw or bad thing. Everyone wants that.
“I suppose if you’re lazy and don’t want to put in work, skirt by, it would be easier in a large family where you could let a sibling shine in the spotlight.”
“Well played, there’s hope for you yet.”
I look away, like I don’t give a shit what he thinks, but really, it’s just to avoid that damn face for a second. Why are men like him so attractive? Why am I drawn to him at all?
“Okay, time for the questions to get real.”
“They’ve been fake until now?”
He barrels right through my question. “Favorite movie?”
“Die Hard.” I scoff, not even bothering to think it through.
He pauses for a moment, like I just caught him off guard. “Really?”
I nod and take another sip of my beer.
“Mine too.”
I shake my head at him. “Just stop…”
He cuts me off. “I’m dead serious. Love all of them, actually. Except for A Good Day to Die Hard. Man, that was a piece of shit, but I still went to the theater and saw it three times.”
Without thinking, I nod along with him. “Right? What the hell was up with a Russian CIA plot? What a fucking mess that was.”
“Agree completely. Didn’t even feel like a Die Hard movie.” He takes a sip like he takes it personally that the movie sucked. “Don’t get me wrong, Willis was great, but it bombed. Just like that joke in your head earlier.”
“You’re such a—”