I approach the sleek wraparound marble desk in the lobby’s corner, and take a deep breath. Here we go. The receptionist looks much younger than I would have predicted, maybe even around my age. Her thick black hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail to avoid tangling in her headset. She wears tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses¸ a loose rose-colored pullover blouse, and khaki slacks, which makes me wonder if I should have wasted so much time and energy on my own outfit. Her plum-painted fingernails fly over the keyboard, tackity-tacking like a train rattling over railroad tracks.
It takes her a moment to realize I’m standing there before she looks up from her work. “Can I help you?” she asks with a plastic smile.
“Hi, I’m Emery Winters. Is Mr. Pratt here yet?” He’s the partner I had corresponded with the most, but if he hasn’t arrived yet, I can still talk to the others and get started. The joys of a workplace where every other employee is your superior.
There is no spark of recognition whatsoever in the receptionist’s green eyes. “Do you have an appointment?”
I chuckle; someone has dropped the ball here, and it clearly wasn’t her. “In a way. I’m the new summer intern.”
Genuine pleasure enters her smile. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, her happy tone at odds with her words. Maybe she’s relieved that her duties will be shared with someone else now. “I’ll call to tell Mr. Pratt you’re here. I’m Trina, by the way. Would you like any coffee or water while you wait?”
“No, thank you. I can grab something after I get started.” After all, I work here now.
The thought fills my stomach with butterflies. Calm down, Emery, this isn’t summer camp. I’ll be fine.
I consider one of the caramel-colored leather chairs, then decide I’m too nervous to sit down. Instead I watch Trina buzz the senior partner’s office, then announce, “There’s a Miss Winters here to see you,” in a singsong voice before she resumes her furious typing.
After a minute or two, a man walks in from the hallway to the left of the reception desk. He looks like he’s in his early sixties and desperately trying to cover that fact up: iron-gray hair, a slight paunch, skin like tanned leather, and a neatly brushed mustache. Glossy brown wingtips and an olive shirt with black suspenders complete the picture of a man who was hot shit about thirty years ago. But there’s no ring on his left hand, making me wonder if he’s divorced, a “confirmed bachelor,” or just really unlucky.
As the man comes closer, he gives me a toothy grin that shows off thousands of dollars in dental veneers. “You must be Miss Emery Winters. Welcome to Walker, Price, and Pratt.”
I smile back at him, hoping there’s no lipstick on my teeth, and extend my hand. “Good morning, Mr. Pratt. It’s great to finally meet you in person.”
He gives my hand two firm pumps, a textbook handshake, the greeting of someone who knows how to charm and intimidate without saying a word. “Please, call me Larry. I don’t like to stand on ceremony in this office.”
Somehow I’m not sure whether to believe that. Powerful men, especially if they’re old and rich, like people to perceive them as laid-back—but when it comes to how they actually prefer to be treated, most of them want deference. At the same time, though, I can’t just blatantly ignore what he said. “Okay, then . . . Larry.”
He looks me up and down, still holding my hand. “My, my. I knew from your phone interview that you had a lovely voice, but the rest of you is even more so.”
Say what? I blink at him, trying to figure out how to respond, and quickly decide to pretend he said something else entirely. “Um, I’m glad my attire is appropriate for the office.”
“A little too appropriate, if you ask me.”
I can feel his eyes surveying me up and down, and when they settle on my chest, I have to look to make sure I didn’t miss a button on my blouse.
Larry continues with an amused tone. “You’ll find that California is much more casual than the Midwest, even in our line of work. Let loose, have a little fun . . . I certainly won’t mind.” He winks and I try not to let my lip curl in disgust.
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say in a carefully neutral tone. In deference to the mindboggling heat, I may take this excuse to ditch my blazer tomorrow, but I’ll be damned if I give this guy any more of a show than he’s already getting.
Just when I’m starting to wonder if I’ll have to rip my hand away, he finally releases it. “Before you get started, honey, I’d like to show you around the office. Meet our other lawyers, get acquainted.” He turns toward the hall entrance and I start to scurry after him . . .
Only for his hand to fall securely on my lower back, just a couple of inches above my ass.
Oh, hell no. I suppress a full-body shudder.
Mr. Pratt steers me like a show dog through the hallways, stopping to knock at each door. The two “junior” partners are both in their fifties; Mr. Walker is round and balding, while Mr. Price has salt-and-pepper hair and impressive jowls. They both glance away from their laptop screens, cough out a distracted “pleasure to meet you” without getting up, and go right back to work. The four associate lawyers—Misters Ingersoll, Morton, Kemp, and Mendoza—are only slightly younger and more gracious. It’s exactly the sausage-fest that I expected.
Lucky for me, it’s also clear that my new coworkers are way too busy to care whether I’m a young woman, yet another old fart, or a flying purple people-eater. All they see is an extra set of helping hands. That attitude may become a pain in the ass if I ever need something from them. But for now, them aggressively minding their own business is downright refreshing, compared to Mr. “please call me Larry” Pratt and his creepy wandering hand. He obviously wants to bury his face in something other than his work.
Finally our tour is over and we end up back in the lobby. “Last but not least, my dear,” Mr. Pratt announces, “this will be your office.” He points to a narrow whitewashed door, across the hallway entrance from the reception desk, that I had assumed led to a broom closet.
My eyes widen. Holy shit, I get my own office? With a door and a desk and everything?
“Normally we have two or three interns who share that room, but for now, you’ll have the place to yourself. Don’t hesitate to knock on my door if you get lonesome.” His leering grin kills any excitement I may have felt at my new private domain.
“I’ll be sure to come by if I have any questions,” I say, forcing my face to stay blank. Translation: I’ll only talk to you if everyone else in the office has suffered a gruesome death. Maybe I’m the only intern because the other ones gnawed off their legs to get away.
His hand finally leaves my back, only to land on my shoulder like a giant leech. “I promise I’ll let you get to work now. But I want to take you out to lunch today. Just the two of us, so we can get to know each other. I like to know all my employees . . . especially the ones who are as pretty as you.”
Over his shoulder, I see Trina stand up and start frantically cutting her hand at her neck, giving me the universal gesture for Abort! Her eyes are wide and her mouth is pulled down in an exaggerated grimace of horror.
I quickly look back at Larry before he follows my gaze. “Uh . . . you know, I’d love to, but I brought my lunch today. I mean, I always bring my lunch. Saves money.”
“You can put your lunch in the fridge and save it for tomorrow. Don’t worry about the money—this is my treat, sweetheart.”
One more minute with him and my skin is going to crawl right off. Would that get him to leave me alone, or would he just compliment my bone structure?