I try to turn the conversation to his company’s legal needs, and he waves me off. “We’ll get to all that. Are you hungry? Let’s order some food.”
“I’ve eaten, thank you,” I say crisply. It’s a lie, but I’m not willing to be stuck with this man for ninety minutes over a steak dinner, especially not when he’s clearly a let’s mix business with pleasure kind of guy.
The waiter pours him a taste of the wine, and he swirls it in his glass, sniffs it, then swishes it in his mouth. He nods his approval without making eye contact, as if he’s royalty.
It’s obnoxious. I bet Ben Tate does the same fucking thing.
“So, tell me what you do when you’re not at work,” he says once the waiter is gone.
“I work seven days a week,” I reply. “I rep—”
“We need to change that,” he cuts in. “You’re way too pretty to spend all your free time working.”
Ugh.
I begin again. “As I was saying, I represented—”
“Have you ever been on a yacht?” he asks, and I give up. This guy does not give two shits what kind of work I’ve done. He probably doesn’t even care that I went to law school. I’m simply here to be his pretty audience for the night, and nothing more.
I patiently listen as he tells me about his yacht, namedrops every celebrity he’s ever met and every model he’s ever dated, and then shares a somewhat pointless story about partying with “Demi” at Art Basel. What he does not do, no matter how many times I broach the topic, is discuss West Forest’s legal needs.
Gemma Charles, FMG’s first female partner, I repeat in my head.
I heave a sigh of relief when he pours the last of the wine in our glasses and throws his credit card on the table.
“Have you ever gone sailing around Coronado?” he asks. “We should go sometime.”
“Like I said, I work seven days a week, so that would be a stretch. And speaking of work—”
He winks at me. “You come with me to Coronado, I’m happy to tell your boss we were working.”
My jaw has begun to ache with the effort of faking my polite smiles. “I prefer work to yachting, I’m afraid.”
“I can see you’re going to be a challenge. That’s okay. I like a challenge.”
I’m not interested in being a challenge; I’m interested in drumming up business, and we haven’t spoken about work at all. How much longer do I have to pretend to care about this man’s dumb hobbies and social life?
“Let’s discuss what your firm can do for us,” he says when we get downstairs. He walks outside and I follow, wondering why the hell he’s only bringing this up now. “My place is right around the corner, and I have a very nice Veuve Clicquot in the fridge.”
Oh, my fucking God. I don’t need anyone’s business so much that I’ll spend an hour in his apartment fending him off to get it.
“I’ve got to be in early tomorrow.” I extend my hand. “But it was nice to meet you.”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. “I liked meeting you,” he says, standing way too close. “A lot.”
And then he presses my hand to his crotch.
I gasp, and he grins, as if this is all playfully charming. I try to pull my hand back but he holds my wrist tight, and places my closed fist against his erection.
“Let go of my hand,” I snap.
His grip tightens. “Come on, Gemma. I think this could work for us both.”
It’s not the first time I’ve been hit on by a client, but it’s by far the most egregious. “Let go of my wrist right now.”
He moves my fist over his length instead. “You’ve had me hard all through dinner. You seem like fun.”
I open my palm, then grab him and squeeze as hard as I possibly can. “How fun do I seem now, asshole?” I demand.
He releases my wrist at last, gasping in pain.
“You fucking bitch,” he hisses as I walk to my car.
I flip him off, but my hands are shaking as I fumble with my keys.
In a different sort of world, I’d be going straight to the police to file charges, or straight to the media to tell them what an utter douche the CEO of West Forest is. In the real world, I’m on the cusp of getting the promotion I’ve always wanted, and the last thing I need right now is to get pegged as a hysterical female and have the partners suggesting I invited what Webber just did.
I want the world to be a different place for the women who come after me. And the only way to make that happen is to ignore the fact that it isn’t different yet.
But I’m so goddamned tired of staying silent just to get the things I deserve.
6
The following afternoon, Ben asks me to meet him to discuss Lawson. Fiducia wants to settle, apparently, now that Margaret has switched to our firm.
I feel a weird sort of disappointment. I guess I was just looking forward to the fight.
We’re both working out of the municipal courthouse all afternoon, so he suggests lunch at a restaurant nearby. It would be strange, having lunch with Ben alone, but I’m so distracted by what happened last night I barely notice.
I pick at my salad while he tells me things I already know. He wants to keep opposing counsel from getting too comfortable by behaving as if we’re still going to trial. As I’d fully planned to do.
“We’ll ask for copies of the managers’ files,” Ben says, “as well as Margaret’s.”
“I’ve already written the request,” I tell him dully. “It’s in your inbox.” My fingers encircle my wrist, just beneath the sleeve of my jacket—it’s bruised. And the reminder feels like a sort of condemnation, as if I’ve done the wrong thing, letting Webber get away with it. But am I really supposed to risk my career to right the scales of justice? Can’t I just leave that to someone else?
Ben’s eyes meet mine for a long moment. “You’re quiet today.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“What did you do to your wrist?” he asks, brow furrowed.
“Nothing.” I jerk my hand away while all the blood drains from my face, hating there’s even a hint of emotion in my voice. Why the fuck am I sitting here feeling guilty about last night? Why does this stupid bruise bother me so much? If I’d complained, I’d be made to feel like shit by Webber and every man I work with. So I said nothing, yet I feel like shit about that too.
I guarantee Tim Webber hasn’t given it a second thought.
We walk outside. “I’ve called an Uber,” I tell Ben, looking past the sedan pulling up in front of us. “I can’t walk back in these heels.”
His gaze drifts to my shoes, a light flush grazing his cheekbones. “Maybe you should wear normal shoes like everyone else.”
“Maybe you should attempt to be good at your job instead of—” My words fall away entirely as a familiar face emerges from the sedan.
I’ve only seen Meg Lawrence once in six years, and the last time she pretended not to know who I was. That’s the outcome I’m hoping for, at present. She had her chance to try to make things right, and it’s long since passed.