When You Give a Lawyer a Kiss (Aspen Grove)

Chapter 8

M y stomach growls loudly as I glance at the clock, noting it’s past nine thirty. The only thing I’ve had to eat today was a stale egg salad sandwich from the lobby vending machine that I scarfed down between projects.

Rob showed up right before lunch with fourteen boxes of documents, demanding they be filed by the end of the day. After I finished, Dawson asked me to join a conference call to take notes and help draft a contract.

I hoped to make it home at a decent time so I could squeeze in a study session for the LSAT, but I couldn’t turn down substantive work. Dawson may be insufferable, but at least he assigns tasks related to my role, unlike Rob, who only has me running errands and filing paperwork.

Aside from Dawson and me, everyone on our floor else has gone home for the night. I’m tempted to order takeout even though it’s not in my budget when the elevator doors open, and a young man heads in my direction with several large brown paper bags in tow.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“I have a delivery for Dawson Tate.” He holds up the bags in his hand. “Looks like someone’s working late tonight.”

“Yeah, it’s been a busy day,” I say.

His gaze shifts between Dawson’s office and me, his expression playful. “If you ever want a change of scenery, I know a great place down the street—the best noodles in the city.” He flashes me a grin. “It would be more fun than being stuck here all night, and it comes with good company.”

“That does sound fun,” I say with a polite smile. “But I’m usually working late, and I’m sure my boss would notice if I took an extended dinner break when we’re in the middle of an important case.”

“You’re right, I would,” Dawson interrupts as he exits his office. “If you want noodles, Reese, I’ll have them delivered.” The courier fidgets under Dawson’s intense scrutiny, his eyes darting between me and Dawson, trying to gauge the situation.

“Sorry I’m late, sir,” he manages to say. “They were short-staffed in the kitchen tonight, and I got here as fast as I could.”

Dawson’s expression remains impassive. “If you’d kept your attention on delivering my order instead of flirting with my paralegal, you might not have run behind schedule.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies, giving Dawson a wary look as he hands him the bags.

Could Dawson be jealous?

I cover my mouth with my hand to hide a smile at the silly notion. He’s likely just irritated that he didn’t get his food sooner.

The courier doesn’t wait around, hurrying toward the exit. His steps are brisk, and he consciously avoids looking back. I don’t blame him.

As the courier walks away, I notice Dawson’s clenched jaw as he stares in his direction. I place my hand on his arm to get his attention, and when he turns to look at me, his expression softens.

“Are you all right? You seem a little tense,” I say with a hint of amusement.

Dawson’s brows knit together, still scowling at the courier who’s just stepping into the elevator. “He was a little too friendly with you, don’t you think?”

I pull my hand away and prop my elbows on my desk, resting my chin against my hands. I’m rather enjoying watching Dawson get worked up over something so small.

One corner of my mouth lifts up into a subtle smile. “He was just being nice.”

Dawson snorts. “Yeah, if nice is code for trying to score a date with a beautiful woman.”

I stare at him wide-eyed, unsure if I heard him right. Did Dawson Tate just call me beautiful? Whether or not he meant it, I’m still as giddy as a schoolgirl. Despite my best efforts, butterflies beat wildly in my stomach. And I rather like the idea that he could be jealous, even if it’s only a figment of my imagination.

“Well, regardless of his intentions, I would have declined his offer.”

“Is that so?”

I sit up in my chair, tilting my chin to maintain eye contact. “Definitely. There’s no chance I’m adding a boyfriend to the mix when I have you to deal with,” I tease.

“Lucky for me, being the one who gets your undivided attention.”

I chew on the inside of my lips, enjoying our playful banter far more than I should. My brain scrambles for a way to change the subject, and that’s when I notice the bags in Dawson’s hands.

“That looks like a lot of food. Are you having a late-night meeting with another department that I haven’t heard about?”

Dawson shakes his head. “No. I figured you must be hungry but wasn’t sure what you liked, so I ordered one of everything from my favorite restaurant.”

“You bought me food?”

“Of course. I asked you to stay late and I can’t very well have you fainting on me now, can I?” He chuckles, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

I like seeing this relaxed side of him.

“No, we couldn’t have that,” I concede.

“Come on. Let’s dig in before the food gets cold.” He goes into his office, and I trail behind. “What’s going to happen to the leftovers?” There are at least ten takeout boxes, and there’s no way we’ll eat a fraction of the food he ordered.

“Don’t worry. The first-year associates on the third floor are pulling an all-nighter, so whatever we don’t eat, you can take to them.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

He takes out the boxes, and sets them on his desk for me to see.

“Have your pick.” He waves to the food. “I’m not picky.”

Each container is labeled, including options like wagyu beef sliders, grilled lamb chops, and lobster ravioli. It seems Dawson doesn’t do anything halfway, even when it comes to take out.

I settle on the sliders served with fries and a side salad.

Dawson takes the lobster ravioli and once we’re seated on the couch, I open my takeout container.

My stomach growls from the smell of grilled beef and toasted brioche. The sliders are perfectly browned, topped with caramelized onions and cheese, while the fries are crispy, and the side salad is drizzled with a vinaigrette.

“God, this all looks so good,” I say, picking up my burger. “I haven’t had a homemade meal in forever.”

Dawson chuckles. “You’re in the right profession if you consider this homemade.” He holds up a forkful of ravioli. “I practically live on takeout since I spend so much time at the office.”

“What’s your favorite food?” I ask. “Mine is shepherd’s pie. But it has to have carrots and peas with homemade mashed potatoes on top. Add a sprinkle of cheese on top and it’s the ultimate comfort food.” Grams used to make it for me every week. “Although pumpkin spice lattes are a close favorite… ” I trail off when I notice Dawson watching me.

I glance at him with uncertainty, worried my chatter is bothering him.

He scrunches his nose. “A latte is a drink, not a food,” he points out.

“For some of us, it’s practically a food group, Mr. Tate.” I say teasingly.

He laughs softly, a warm glint dancing in his eyes.

It feels like a rare glimpse of his unfiltered side, making me wonder what else is hidden behind his normal guise.

I’m painfully aware of how close we’re sitting, my nerves buzzing under my skin. Our intense chemistry crackles with an almost palpable energy. Even though it’s just dinner, I sense a shift between us. Every time he does something thoughtful, another one of my defenses crumbles, leaving me to wonder how long I can hold out until my guard is down completely.