Page 27 of Sugar
And I thought Huey, Dewey, and Louie had it good.
“Guppy.”
At the rough voice right behind me, I jolted and spun around. Easton stood close, his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t wearing a suit coat, and the sleeves of his dark green shirt were rolled to expose his toned forearms. I craned my neck to meet his gaze. For a brief second, I thought he was calling me a name, but he jerked his chin toward the basin.
“They’re guppies. They were my receptionist’s idea. She named them all June Junior. I think she just wanted a pet without having to do any of the upkeep since I foot the bill for a service to come in and handle it.”
“I have no room to judge,” I shared. “I won goldfish at a carnival when I was a junior in high school, and now my mom is stuckraising them. They’re a million in fish years, but they’re still swimming.”
His usual blank expression didn’t change, but something in his body language sure did. He pulled his hands from his pockets and stepped back like a cold front had forced its way between us. He gestured down the wide hallway. “If you’re ready.”
I took one last glance at the guppies and their mesmerizingly elaborate fins before walking with Easton.
Most of the doors we passed were closed, but there was the occasional open one with someone working behind a desk or at a large table. Reaching the end of the hall, I was surprised to see that the sprawling building kept going in either direction. Easton turned us left, and we continued down to the lone door. It became obvious why there was only one when we entered the massive office.
Like the waiting area, it was brick and exposed wood, but with small touches that made the space inviting. Dark wood bookshelves lined the walls near his commanding desk, and I wanted to slowly stroll along to read the titles and check out the framed pictures and gleaming awards that were dotted throughout the room.
Easton gestured toward the plush couch and two chairs that were situated around a glass coffee table. “Sit.”
I did as he ordered without thought, sinking into the soft material of the chair.
Everything about the room—no, the building—screamed expensive taste. It wasn’t ostentatious or fake. It was just cool and sophisticated and impressive.
Much like the man.
“Do you have partners?” At the subtle raise of his brow, I realized how my question could be interpreted. My cheeks flushed as I quickly amended, “In the firm.”
He gave a pointed look to the Wells Law letterhead on the notepad on the table in front of me. One that didn’t include any other last name or mention of partners.
“Maybe it’s a family member who shares your name,” I offered as justification before lowering my face to pull my supplies from my bag.
Real strong start, Baker.
“Are you implying my firm is the byproduct of unearned entitlement?”
I froze as my gaze shot to his. An automatic apology tingled on the tip of my tongue for the inadvertent insult, but there was no venom in his expression or his question. If anything, his dark eyes were lit with amusement.
Or I was really bad at reading expressions.
Risking it, I swallowed down my apology and shrugged. “It’s LA. Everyone is a nepo baby.”
It was the correct choice, and his lips curved up on one side. “There are no partners, family or otherwise. There are, however, three associates, five paralegals, three clerks, IT, HR, and June heads our invaluable staff of seven admins.”
As he spoke, I yanked out my own notebook and quickly wrote his rundown. When he was finished, I blinked up at him. “You’re forgetting the most important component.”
“And myself,” he added.
I furrowed my brows and shook my head. “No. June Juniors.”
That time, his mouth didn’t twitch. It curved into a handsome smirk that could sell a million bottles of cologne and drop a billion panties. Unfortunately, it was gone just as quickly when he took the seat opposite me. “And ten June Juniors.”
“Are you okay with me recording the audio of this interview?” When he raised his chin, I opened the app and pressed the button before setting my phone down on the table between us. “What made you decide to go into practice on your own instead of with partners?”
His already dark eyes seemed nearly black as they met mine. He swiped his tongue across his full bottom lip. “I have control issues.”
Something about the way he said it—and the look on his face—sent a tremor down my spine. My words stuck in my throat, but I pushed them out. “How so?”
“I don’t want my name or firm tied with cases a partner took because they wanted clout, a third vacation home, and a round of guest spots on the cable news programs.”
