“Point taken,” he concedes, laughing. “You’re more subdued and benevolent after you get laid, not a raging asshole who looks like he’s about to chuck a stapler at my head.”

“I am about to chuck a stapler at your head.”

“Do you want to talk about this now or at the restaurant?”

“Restaurant, please.” A change of scenery might help defog my brain and give me a clear idea of what to do. Or, at the very least, point me in the general direction of how to not fuck this up.

Spoiler alert: I’m going to fuck this up.

Majorly and epically.

There’s no way this ends in anything other than an utter catastrophe. I just hope there aren’t too many casualties.

Begrudgingly, I lean over the overpriced chair—that doesn’t really help to relieve back pain despite boasting that it does—grab my charcoal gray suit jacket, and slip it over my tense shoulders.

“The nice receptionist brought me to your office, so you’re going to have to get us out of here,” Noah says breezily, stepping aside so I can lead the way down the hall.

“You’ve been here hundreds of times and you still don’t know where my office is? Her name is Lisa, by the way. If you tried to call her that instead of her demeaning title, you might have more success. It’s 2022. Why can’t we use terms like office administrator instead?”

“Wow. You’re trying to give me advice on how to interact with women? Bold move.”

I ignore his jab, fastening the top two buttons of my blazer. “What should we get today? Pizza? Sandwiches? Ramen?”

“Ramen sounds amazing,” Noah agrees, and we walk out to the main area of the office.

My company is the largest law firm in the city, so it’s always bustling with people. You could come in on a Sunday afternoon and there will be someone working, clicking away methodically on their keyboard, trying to meet a deadline. The phone is constantly ringing, and the printer shoots off pages of documents one right after the other, paper littering the floor like confetti in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

If you’re here at the right time, you might run into an up-and-coming athlete. Those are my clients. My specialty is Sports Law, focusing on contracts and helping to make sure rookies don’t sign away their entire career because someone with no financial experience is giving them stupid advice. I also assure them they don’t need four Lamborghinis on a starting salary, no matter what their friends they haven’t spoken to in eight years might think.

“Hi, Noah.” A feminine voice causes my head to jerk to the left, mimicking a neck spasm.