Page 34 of Objection Overruled
I blink. “You eat kale?”
He levels me with a dry look. “I eat things that keep me alive. Your turn.”
“I’ll have...” I glance at the menu and panic. Everything is either raw, fermented, or too difficult to pronounce. “Uh. The quiche.”
The waiter nods and vanishes.
“So,” I say again, and this time it’s a challenge. “Want to tell me why you summoned me to a restaurant I can’t afford, on a weekday I didn’t agree to?”
His eyes flick toward the window. Then back to me.
“The Hale & Brooks retreat is next weekend,” he says. “Hamptons. Three days.”
My jaw drops.
The retreat. I’ve heard whispers about it. It’s the final gauntlet for associates. Where careers are made or buried over champagne and small talk.
“You said lunch,” I snap. “Not career blackmail.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Thisislunch.”
“I thought you were going to talk about the IOU. Or maybe apologize for storming into my apartment with all the subtlety of a federal raid.”
He folds his hands on the table. Those hands that once traced gentle patterns on my skin now rest perfectly still.
“I’m calling it in.”
I blink. “The IOU?”
He nods once.
“You want me to go on a work trip with you?”
“It’s not a work trip,” he says calmly. “It’s an audition. And I need a partner.”
“You need a prop is what you need.”
“No, I need someone who can lie convincingly while wearing pearls,” he says. “And unfortunately, you’re excellent at that.”
I nearly launch my water glass across the table. “You are unbelievable.”
“You keep saying that,” he murmurs. “And yet, here you are.”
The food hasn’t even arrived, and I’m already nauseous. My chest feels tight. This isn’t just about the retreat. This is about him wanting to parade me around in front of people who matter, dress me up in clothes I can’t afford, and watch me pretend I belong in his world.
I sit back in my chair, arms crossed so tight I might fold in half.
And Rowan?
He just lifts his glass, takes a sip, and watches me over the rim. I’m the most fascinating disaster he’s ever orchestrated.
I don’t touch my water again.
Mostly because if I do, I’ll throw it.
“You want me to fake-date you at a law firm retreat,” I say slowly, “in front of senior partners who could literally decide your future. And mine.”
He doesn’t blink. “Correct.”
