Page 15 of Legally Yours

“I come bearing gifts of farewell!” he called out. “Depositions to summarize! The Walker trial continuance was denied.”

Everyone groaned, though it was all in good fun. Our trial might be over, but we were being paid through the week, and there was always more work to be done. We were all used to going through depositions with a fine-toothed comb. Ben explained the case theory and indicated the dates and terms he wanted highlighted, along with a few other things to mark. Then he wheeled the dolly around to deliver each of us files.

“Hey, Skylar,” he said as he handed me a folder and a rectangular box wrapped in brown paper. Only my name was marked across the top in curt black print. “Looks like you got an admirer from upstairs. Before you start on these, you’re wanted up on the sixth floor.”

I furrowed my brow, ignoring the immediate clench in my gut. The sixth floor was the partners’ floor. “Did they say with whom?”

Ben shook his head. “No, just got the call a minute ago. Get going.”

He continued around the room, leaving me to face Eric, who was grinning like a clown at my mystery box. “Well, let’s see what Santa brought, Cros.”

I snatched a letter opener off my desk and tore open the package. Under the anonymous wrapping was a white box with “Manolo Blahnik” printed quietly on one side. I lifted the top and pulled out a note that read simply:

Thought you should have a backup.

I folded the note closed and set it on the desk, turning back to the box. Beneath a layer of tissue paper, I found a pair of deep-red, size-seven pumps with pointed toes and delicate stiletto heels. They were gorgeous. And perfect. And completely inappropriate.

A low whistle cut through the busy hum of the office. Next to me, Eric held up his paper cup in a mock-toast.

“What do you know, Cinderella?” he said with a smirk. “Looks like Prince Charming came with both shoes this time.”

* * *

The elevators openedon the sixth floor towards a central reception area that matched the lobby on the first floor. The heather-gray tufted couches and chairs that decorated the lobby coordinated with dark-wood floors, both complementing the nineteenth-century building’s original interior while maintaining a stylish air. The receptionist, a girl with blonde hair and oddly tanned skin for this time of year, looked up from her desk.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a less than friendly tone. So much for a welcome reception.

I pushed my shoulders back and approached the desk, my impromptu gift cradled under one arm. “Hi, I’m Skylar Crosby, an intern downstairs. Ben said one of the partners requested me, but he didn’t say who it was.” I knew exactly who it was, of course, but she didn’t need to know that.

The receptionist raised an eyebrow as if she didn’t quite believe me. “Hold on a moment.” She picked up her phone. “Hey, Reese. Did anyone back there send for an intern? Skylar Cosby?”

“Crosby,” I corrected her.

She rolled her eyes and said my name again, this time correctly. “I know, right?” she said into the phone with a smirk at me. “Just check anyway. Thanks, Reese.” She replaced the phone. “Someone will be right with you.”

I gave her a tight smile and took a seat in an arm chair to wait. Within a few minutes, the phone rang again.

“Hey, Reese,” said the receptionist. “Really? Okay, I’ll send her back.” After hanging up, she turned to me. “Mr. Sterling’s office is to the right, all the way at the end of the hall.”

She buzzed open the door behind her, and I walked through with a tight nod. I followed a long hallway to the back of the building, my footsteps muted by the plush gray carpet. Most of the doors were open, revealing paralegals and assistants working at small desks that guarded offices of actual partners. Eventually, I found the open door marked Sterling, through which an older woman typed furiously as she listened to a digital recording through one earbud. She looked up as I entered.

“Ms. Crosby?” she asked, stopping her recording.

“Yes. Are you Reese?”

The woman snorted. “Absolutely not. Reese is one of the junior partners’ assistants—she’s just friends with Alexis, the receptionist. My name is Margie. You can go right in. He’s expecting you.”

Margie replaced her earbud, pressed her foot down to continue the recording, and paid me no more attention. I approached the office door behind her and opened it.

Six

It was easily the biggest office I had ever seen. Like the kitchen at his house, it was bigger than my entire apartment. The first part of the wide, rectangular room had the makings of a typical if luxurious office space. A massive antique desk with dark, curling woodwork stood to my immediate right, faced by two overstuffed armchairs. Behind those were a four-person antique dining set and several dark-wood bookshelves carrying files, binders, and, of course, books.

Then the room opened to what looked like a common living space. There was a kitchenette in the far corner, an open door revealing a bed, and a plush navy couch facing a brick fireplace. Small flames blazed merrily. Through several large windows bright light streamed into the otherwise dark room, which was painted a deep, ocean blue. Most of downtown Boston was visible through the windows, including a view of Copley Square. Snow was starting to fall again outside, making the fire all the more welcoming.

His back to the wall, Sterling sat at the carved behemoth desk like a king, resembling a young JFK. The wall behind him was hung with various accolades: several Trial Lawyer of the Year awards, a letter from the mayor or governor, and three framed magazine covers featuring his handsome face. It was a setup that was both comfortable and intimidating—likely by design.

I stepped inside, and Sterling looked up when the heavy door shut. His smile was so instantaneous and bright that I had to grab the doorknob behind me when my legs stopped working.

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