Page 31 of Legally Mine

“You come to dinner with me tonight. And stay. And talk. The whole time. I deserve at least that from you. I deserve answers, Skylar.”

Honestly, I would have preferred the tap dancing. "I don't have time for that tonight. I start a bar prep class tomorrow, and I have to catch up on what I've missed being here today."

"Tonight," Brandon repeated. "Otherwise..."

"Stop bullying me!" I spat, slapping a hand onto the leather edge of the chair in front of me. "I don't know if you forgot what it's like to be a new associate, but I don't have time for this shit! I can't afford to fuck up this job, Brandon!"

For a third time, we were caught in a faceoff, fingertips white with the tension as we gripped at the chair and the desk. But I wasn't going to break first this time. No way.

“Fine," Brandon finally relented, with at least enough courtesy to look a little contrite.

Ha, I thought. Two out of three.

He stood up, adjusted his tie and straightened his collar once more. "What about this weekend?"

I didn't say anything, just shot him a dirty look. I wasn't ready to just roll over and play nice.

He sighed. "Goddamn it, Skylar, please?"

I exhaled slowly. "Fine. Friday, I guess. What time?"

“Seven-thirty. I’ll pick you up.”

“No, I’ll meet you there,” I said.

I didn’t want him to know my actual apartment number, even though it was probably only a matter of time until he charmed the information out of HR. That stupid smile got him just about anything he wanted.

Brandon rolled his eyes, but nodded in faux-acquiescence. “Whatever you say, Red."

I flinched at the casual nickname. As common as it was, he had always used it with fondness and so I had come to love it. A few unexpected tears welled up, and I looked down at my empty chair, blinking them away.

"I’ll have Margie text you the reservation."

"Fine."

Brandon picked up his briefcase and jacket off the other chair. He walked around me in a conspicuously wide circle to leave, then stopped in the doorway. Chewing on his lip, he looked dangerously like he wanted to tackle me all over again.

"Friday. Seven-thirty," he said, pointing a finger like Uncle Sam. “You promised.”

And then he turned abruptly and disappeared down the hall. Somehow, I made it back to my desk, where I collapsed in my chair and buried my face in my hands. So much for a clean start.

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