Page 31 of When You Give a Lawyer a Kiss

Dawson tightens his grip on my leg. “This is my private conference room. No one is going to interrupt us. Now eat,” he repeats.

I swallow hard, weighing my options. The right thing to do would be to move. However, not only was his gesture of getting me lunch incredibly thoughtful, but a part of me is also tempted to stay where I am just for a little while longer.

He makes my decision easy when he pushes the sandwich toward me. It’s a delightful blend of roasted vegetables and tangy goat cheese, each bite bursting with flavor, making me groan in satisfaction.

Dawson gazes at me with a tight expression, as if watching me eat is causing him physical pain. “Good?” he asks, his voice coming out husky.

“Delicious, thank you.” I glance around, not seeing another sandwich. “Where’s your lunch?”

“I’m meeting with a potential client at an Italian restaurant down the street later.”

“Oh.”

Most nights we work late, and he arranges for enough food to be delivered to feed a small army. At this rate, I’ll have tried every fine dining restaurant in the city in the year, all from the comfort of the office. It’s a stark contrast from Rob, who sends me on a wild goose chase every morning to get his breakfast, never permitting me to get anything for myself.

“At least let me pay you back,” I say, and plop a grape into my mouth.

“Absolutely not,” Dawson says, effectively shutting down my idea.

“But did you use a company card? Rob said that only partners are authorized to use it for meal expenses according to the employee handbook.”

Dawson pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you telling me when he makes you get him coffee and breakfast you don’t get anything for yourself?” I shake my head, shifting my gaze to the ground. “I’ve had enough of that piece of shit,” Dawson growls.

I place my hand on his arm. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It’s a big fucking deal. He’s lost his privilege to a company credit card.” He takes a deep breath as he places his hand over mine. “I want to make one thing clear. You and the staff areallentitled to meals covered by the company. In fact, effective immediately, I’m giving everyone in the company a monthly stipend. I’ll have HR issue a memo about it.”

I give him a genuine smile. “That’s very generous of you.”

As I study his face, I notice something in his expression that I haven’t seen before—a gentleness in his eyes, conveying a silent promise that I can always count on him.

Dawson Tate may come across as callous and unsympathetic, but I’m starting to see that beneath his tough exterior lies a heart of gold. He might not want anyone to know he cares, but his actions reveal the truth, showing a sense of compassion and respect.

My attention is drawn to the rose tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. He doesn’t protest when I take his arm, rolling up the sleeve to his elbow, revealing the intricate sleeve of blackwork tattoos. “These really are beautiful. Did you design them?”

“I did,” he says, a hint of pride in his eyes as he watches me admire his work.

I run my finger along the lines of the compass, thinking back to the night at Steel & Ink and his words about meaningful tattoos, and ask, “What does this one represent?”

“It’s a constant reminder that I’m in charge of my own path and have the power to create any future I choose.” He takes my finger in his and runs along the cardinal points of the tattoo. “Every direction symbolizes new opportunities. No matter which path I take, I’ll achieve success because I determine the outcome.”

“And to think I almost got a butterfly for my first tattoo because it was the first thing I thought of.” I cover my mouth with my hand, laughing at how silly it would have been. “Thank god you talked me out of it.”

He laughs softly. “Occasionally, I’m inclined to step in and save the day.”

I give him a soft smile. “Why did you block out my calendar during lunch every day?” The question has been on my mind since he told me.

He places his hand on my knee, his grip still firm around my waist. “So you can study.”

I glance at him. “Say that again.”

“If you’re going to score high on the LSAT, you need more time dedicated to studying. With the number of hours you’re putting in at the firm, there’s no way you’re getting enough preparation.”

He’s not wrong. It doesn’t help that I also have my job at the lounge club and an ever-expanding list of house projects.

I eye him warily. “What’s the catch?”

He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Can’t a guy do something nice without being accused of ulterior motives?”

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