The Intern: Enemies To Lovers

“Yes.”

“Let’s say you have a client you know is guilty, but you’re skilled enough to get them off.” I cleared my throat, cursing myself for phrasing every conversation I had with him in such a sexual nature. “Are you able to close your eyes at night? You know, sleep eight hours and wake up the next morning like nothing happened?”

He crossed his hands over the table. “Are accountants able to sleep at night, knowing their clients are embezzling money that’s not reported to the IRS? Or how about a cardiothoracic surgeon who performs open heart surgery on a patient who will return home post-surgery and eat a stick of butter with dinner, washing it all down with a pint of ice cream?”

His fingers formed a triangular peak, drawing my attention to them. Their length, thinness. How masculine they looked with a slight dusting of hair on the backs of his hands.

Hands that I could picture running across every inch of my body.

Oh man.

“We can’t control what our clients do or what they admit to or withhold from us,” he said. “Our job is to get them a fair trial and win their case.” His thumb grazed the length of several of his fingers. Back and forth. Baaack and fooorth. “We can’t let their crimes-or lack of-affect us personally, nor should it change who we are as humans.” He glanced around the table, addressing all of us. “This isn’t a job for the weak. For the person who’s going to rush into the restroom and throw up when the court breaks for lunch. You’re either made for this job or it’s going to break you.” His eyes returned to me, causing my breath to hitch in my throat. “Remember, your reputation is everything. You’ll be hired because of your ability to win. If you can’t win, you’re going to be paid what you’re worth. And that’s absolutely nothing.”

The pressure.

I had been feeling it long before this meetup.

Now, it was intensifying.

Could I shut off my personal feelings when it came to these cases?

Did I have the skills to give my clients a fair shot?

Because I wasn’t far from being in that position. I was graduating at the end of the semester, followed by a couple of months of studying, and then I would be practicing law, assuming I passed the bar.

It was so much to process.

I downed the rest of my drink, chewing the olives at the bottom.

I needed more food.

And more vodka.

With Declan speaking to one of the other students, I returned to the bar and waited until I could order, “An extra dirty martini, please,” from the bartender. “With double blue cheese olives.”

“Exactly the way I would order it.”

Declan’s voice made my back straighten until I was no longer slouched over the bar top.

I hadn’t realized he’d left the table.

Or that he was behind me.

But I should have. The second he was in close vicinity, the air seemed to change.

It thickened.

It turned hotter.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Would you like one?”

“Yes.”Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

“Make that two, please,” I said to the bartender.

Before I could reach into my pocket to grab my credit card, he was already handing his to the bartender.

I put my hand up. “No, no. Please let me pay. It’s the least I can do for everything you’ve done for us today.”

“You’re not paying for my drink, Hannah.” His stare deepened. “You’re not paying for yours either.”

He leaned his stomach against the edge of the bar, the closeness sending me his cologne. I hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe I had just been too absorbed by his handsomeness, obsessed with this perfect man the previous two times he was near me, that I missed that detail. But a richness was now filling my nose, one that was heavy, but not overpowering, with a hint of spice.

A scent that had a bite … just like him.

With my breathing untamed, almost panting, I replied, “Declan, I don’t mind paying.”

His arms rested on top of the bar, his back hunched so we were eye-level. “Listen, I was in your shoes once. When you’re in mine, you can buy me a drink.” His stare dipped to my mouth. “So, remember this moment.”

“It’ll be impossible to forget.”

That was the truth even though I wished I hadn’t said it.

“I like that.” He finally glanced up again, our eyes locking. “Tell me something, Hannah. Why do you want to be a litigator?”

I checked on the bartender, hoping she was almost finished with our drinks.

She wasn’t.

“I-”

“Because no reasonable, calm, collected person wants to fight for a living,” he said, interrupting me. “There are many other types of law that don’t require you to be so argumentative, but to be a litigator”-he exhaled, a rush of excitement filling his eyes-“now, that takes a set of balls. I want to know where your balls came from.”

I laughed.

This was an easy answer.

“I grew up in a family of boys. A twin brother. Cousins who were all older than me. I hung out with them every day of my childhood. Since I was the only girl, they never wanted to listen to me. They treated me like the runt of the litter. To make them hear me, I had to be better than them. I had to fight and claw and outsmart them.” I pulled my hair to one side as a layer of sweat moved across my skin. “I couldn’t run faster, I couldn’t throw farther, but I could take any of them down with my words.”

“You learned how to win.”

“Exactly.” My laughter faded to a smile as I recalled some of the specific times I’d left those boys in a cloud of verbal dust. “My youth prepared me for this job in every possible way, so there’s never been a question about what kind of law I want to practice.”

“Sounds like you not only enjoy winning, but you also crave it.” His voice turned gritty when he emphasized the second-to-last word.

Was that true?

Did I have that competitiveness inside me?

When I had been younger, I’d felt such satisfaction because that was one less thing they could tease me about.

But now?

I tried to envision representing one of my cousins’ clients in court-something none of them could do, as they weren’t litigators-and this vicious pulse began to pump through me.

“Yes,” I responded. “I suppose I do crave it.”

“I can see it.” He reached for our second round of drinks, handing me one and taking the other. “You’re in the right field, Hannah.”

As my fingers surrounded the glass, they briefly grazed his.

That was all it took to set my skin on fire. Just that small, subtle embrace, and every nerve ending was lit, throbbing, crying out in shock waves.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He signed the credit card receipt and tucked his card away. “Tell me something else, Hannah …”

As he paused, I tried to remind myself that this was the time to ask him questions, to pick his brain, to find out the secrets of our trade-an opportunity that probably wouldn’t present itself again.