A quarter of an hour into the Monday Morning Meeting—capitalized because it’s very much a specific phenomenon at Olney & Henderson—I sit in one of the chairs reserved for associates that frame the perimeter of the room and wait for the opportunity to snag the Bailey assignment.

“Final order of business,” Sam Henderson says from the head of the partners-only conference table. “Senior associates, we’re looking for one of you to work on an after-hours assignment. Non-billable. Any takers?”

Henderson is in typical form; everything’s a game to him. This must be the Kimberly Bailey assignment, but he’s testing us to see who’s willing to take on an extra project. No associate with a sense of self-preservation volunteers for anything that doesn’t count toward their minimum billable hours requirement, so most associates’ gazes fall to their laps. Not me, though. Thanks to Michael, I know this will be a relatively easy task with the potential for great rewards.

I shoot up my hand. “I’d be happy to.”

Peter Barnum, an Ed Sheeran lookalike who’s as close to a nemesis as I have at the firm, shoots up a hand as well. “Me too.”

Henderson looks between us. “Dean, I don’t think—”

Olney clears her throat, eliciting an eye roll from Henderson.

“Come see me after the meeting, then,” he says to us both.

Ten minutes later, Peter and I arrive at the threshold of Henderson’s office. Our boss’s assistant, who only works for Henderson, ignores us.

“Peter.”

“Dean.”

“Heard about the wedding,” he says matter-of-factly. “Can’t win ’em all, I guess.”

What an asshole. Everything’s a competition to Peter, and I suspect he thinks of me as his fiercest challenger. “That’s actually one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. You’re a stand-up guy.”

Peter lacks even a shred of self-awareness. First case in point: He’s wearing a baby-blue polo with an upturned collar. Reminds me of the arrogant pricks I used to ring out in the dorm commissary as part of my work-study job at Penn. Second case in point: He actually smiles at my comment—as though I’ve just given him a compliment.

Thankfully, Henderson’s assistant deigns to acknowledge us and waves us back. When we enter, our boss nods and gestures for us to sit in the guest chairs facing his desk. “Dean. Peter. I’ll make this quick.”

True to his word, he gives us a rapid-fire rundown of the assignment, then he turns his gaze to me. “Dean, I envision this as a welcoming committee of sorts. Ms. Bailey and her partner are interested in asking about work-life balance, housing in the area, firm dynamics, and the like. I figure this might be something right up Peter’s alley. He and . . .”

“Molly,” Peter offers, looking like an overeager puppy desperate to be petted.