“Do you think I don’t?” He quirked an eyebrow and held her gaze. Her face flushed. His gaze lingered on her face. He broke the tension first by serving himself more chicken. “So, did you always want to be a lawyer? Are your parents lawyers?”

“No, my mom is a professor, as was my dad, but he died when I was in high school.” She continued quickly to move the conversation past that revelation. “But, no, I didn’t always want to be a lawyer. I took several women’s rights college courses studying the victories won via court cases, so that first piqued my interest. And then I did some volunteer work with families, which showed me how lawyers were crucial to getting needed services. But after law school, I started working as a corporate lawyer, and here I am.” She took a sip of her wine. “Did you consider being a lawyer since your dad is one?”

“No, it had completely the opposite effect,” he said in a flat tone. “He works all the time and is always at the beck and call of clients.”

“Aren’t you at the beck and call of your music clients?”

“It’s not the same thing. I have to work hard, yes, and there are a lot of late nights for video shoots, TV appearances, tour dates—but I still have more control over my schedule. For one thing, most events are arranged well in advance because they have to be booked on the artist’s schedule, so I can easily plan my life around them.”

“Video shoots, TV appearances … that sounds cool.”

“It is. But it’s helping someone achieve their dream, that’s the really cool part.” He radiated joy as if reliving those moments. He finished his last bite. “What do you like about being a lawyer?”

She leaned forward. “I like researching and writing, building a case, and defending clients. I feel like a detective as I try to find evidence and cases that will support my client. And there’s a huge thrill when you get an admission from a hostile witness.” She wanted to persuade him that being a lawyer was not all bad. “Not that that happens often. But I didn’t expect to have to work as much as I do. I’m hoping it will improve once I become partner.” She glanced at the pile of stuffed brown manila folders on her desk in the corner.

“My dad works constantly. Still.”

Her stomach sank. She sighed at the prospect. “Did he work a lot when you were young?”

“Yes. He couldn’t make it to games, school performances, and sometimes he even missed vacations.” His chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back.

“Really? He had to miss vacations?”

“Several times—once during Christmas. A deal would suddenly flare up, and that’d be that.” He looked away.