SAINT CAMDEN
I don't know what's more dangerous: her curiosity… or how much I want to feed it.
It's been a week. Seven days of watching her carve through this firm like a quiet blade. Sharp, strategic, too confident for someone so new. She doesn't walk like prey. She walks like she's casing the place. Calculated. Controlled. Every glance, every word, every soft tap of her highlighter on the desk, it's all deliberate. Like she's playing chess in a room full of checkers.
Paralegals whisper her name. Junior partners linger longer than they should. Carlson asked about her twice, and that bastard never asks about anyone unless he smells blood or brilliance.
Two days ago, a smarmy Harvard alum with an uneven tie hovered near her desk. He leaned in, said something with a smile. She smiled back. Polite, cool, unreadable.
I looked at him once. That was all it took. He's been avoiding her like I carry a gun under my suit jacket.
But it's not the attention she draws that bothers me. It's what she's looking for.
She's been assigned to a white-collar case. Routine on the surface. Phony wellness clinics, washed money, shallow paper trails, plastic PR smiles. But two folders down, a breadcrumb. Her father's name. Buried deep like a splinter under skin.
A whisper. A test.
She hasn't found it yet. But she's close. Her eyes always pause on the right pages. Her fingers linger over dates and codes like she's trying to decode a pulse beneath the ink.
Too close.
Tonight, she stays late again. The bullpen is ghost-quiet. Overhead lights are turned off except for a few desk lamps burning low. She sits like a statue caught in a cone of warm light. Pen between her teeth, brows furrowed, her knee bouncing with quiet urgency.
Her blouse is undone at the collar, exposing a triangle of skin that catches the glow like candlelight. Her shoes are off, discarded under the desk. Legs crossed, skirt hiked a little too high for the angle she's seated. One foot swings lazily, a rhythm only she knows.
Intentional? Probably not.
Effective? Devastating.
I should go home. Hit the gym. Clear my head. Sleep.
Instead, I walk past her desk again. Third time tonight. I don't say a word.
Neither does she.
But her pen stops moving.
Today, she crossed a line. And I let her.
Boardroom. White-collar division all present. Even Carlson showed. That alone tells me blood is in the water.
She stood. Smooth, spine straight, confidence pouring off her like perfume. She clicked her pen once. Sharp. Deliberate. And said:
"I disagree with Saint's conclusion."
You could hear a spreadsheet load. Hell, even the projector seemed to freeze.
I looked up, slow. "Is that so?"
"Yes, sir."
My voice dropped a note. "Prove it."
And she did. Calm, steady, and surgical. Walked the room through my logic, dissected risk exposure, and pitched a stronger strategy in under three minutes. No stutters. No second-guessing. Just cool, clean fire.
When the room cleared, she didn't move.
She stayed.
Arms crossed. Chin up. That stare was bold, clear, maybe even challenging. No trace of apology. Just a silent dare: try again.
I didn't say a word.
She turned and walked out.
But not before glancing over her shoulder, slow and deliberate. Like she'd carved her initials into the moment.
Court, next day.
Client: Gerald Banks. Mid-tier exec. Allegedly laundered donations through fake charities. His hair is too perfect. His tie's a mess. His hands shake.
I walk in. The courtroom is chilly with over-air-conditioning and bad fluorescent light. Dust floats in slanted beams, catching motes like memory.
She's already seated.
Second row. Hair up in a high bun. Gold hoop earrings. Lips parted slightly as she scans her notes. A legal pad rests in her lap. Her pen moves like it's dancing.
The way her neck curves from collar to jaw should be illegal. I feel my restraint fray with each step toward the defense table.
I keep walking. Keep my eyes ahead.
But I know she's watching.
Judge Callahan rolls in five minutes late. His robe drags. There's a coffee stain on his sleeve and contempt in his eyes.
"Let's get this circus started," he mutters, gavel thudding like an afterthought.
Banks leans in, whispering rapid-fire.
"Saint, I swear I didn't know the accounts were offshore. My assistant, she's got this butterfly tattoo…she filed all the transfers—"
"Mr. Banks," Callahan interrupts, deadpan. "If you open your mouth again, I'll have the bailiff staple it shut."
The gallery chuckles.
From my right, I see her press her lips together, biting back a laugh.
Don't look. Don't…
Too late.
"Proceed, Mr. Camden," the judge says.
I rise. "We move to dismiss the prosecution's motion to exclude the financial exhibits."
Crash.
Edgar, the prosecution's lead, jerks and knocks over his water. It splashes across the table and into his assistant's lap. She yelps, stands too fast, and crashes into the passing bailiff. Exhibit box hits the floor. Papers fly.
Voices rise. The court buzzes like a kicked beehive.
Callahan stares at the mess.
"Anyone else want to break something before lunch?"
I raise a brow. "Should I spill my coffee to keep things fair?"
Callahan doesn't smile. But his eyes flick. "Don't tempt me, Camden. I already hate that suit."
Behind him, she laughs.
Out loud.
My head turns, slow. Her eyes meet mine. Wide. Caught. Alive. Then she drops her gaze to her notebook like a student caught texting in class.
Callahan sighs. "I miss when courtrooms had dignity. And bailiffs had knees."
At recess, I linger.
So does she.
She leans against a marble column outside the courtroom, pretending to scroll her phone. Her mouth quirks at something invisible.
I walk over.
"Thought you were just observing."
She looks up. "I was. Until the prosecution baptized their brief."
"You find that funny?"
She shrugs, innocent. "You looked like you were going to object on behalf of the carpet."
My mouth twitches. "Careful. I could assign you to mop-up duty."
"Tempting," she replies, rising to full height. "But then I'd miss watching a federal judge roast your fashion sense."
I take one step closer.
Too close for safety. Not close enough to stop.
"You enjoy watching me get teased?"
"I enjoy watching you pretend it doesn't bother you."
The hallway fills with sound. Shoes clicking. Files shuffling. Low murmurs from clerks and junior attorneys. A copier starts grinding somewhere down the hall.
But all I see is her.
All I feel is the pull between us tightening like thread.
And I've had enough.
"Come to my office after lunch."
Her lips part slightly. "For what?"
"The case."
She tilts her head, that wicked gleam in her eye. "You mean the one where a dog walker owns a private jet?"
My smile is slow. "Exactly that one."
She nods once. "I'll be there."
She walks away. Heels clicking softly. Skirt swaying. Spine straight.
Confident. Almost smug.
She'll come.
And when she does…
I won't be able to keep my hands to myself.