My face does not get hot. It does not. "I want you to stop talking."
"Noted." He scrawls something else in his notebook, and I guarantee he just wrotecall him sir more often. This is my life. This is my professional, meticulously curated, absolutely under-control life. I am one of the youngest senior associates in this firm's history, and I spend an embarrassing chunk of my mental bandwidth trying not to think about what it would feel like for this idiot to pin me against the wall.
Some days, I think the universe assigned Ray Garcia to me as a punishment for something I did in a past life. He's a test I keep failing. Every time I think I've got a handle on whatever this is—this buzzing, low-grade fever that ramps up whenever he's in my space—he does something that knocks the floor out from under me. He'll say something unexpectedly thoughtful, or I'll catch him frowning at a case file with this focused intensity that's the complete opposite of his usual laid-back warmth, and I'll want things I've trained myself not to want. Then he'll say something stupid and I can breathe again.
It's a cycle. It's exhausting. I'm handling it.
I'm about to redirect us back to the witness prep when a knock comes at my open door—two quick raps, more announcement than request. Richard Aldridge fills the doorway the way senior partners tend to, like the building was constructed around him. He's sixty-something, silver-haired, old money in every stitch of his suit, and he's been my mentor since my second year. I owe him my career. He also terrifies me in a way I will never admit out loud.
"Miles. Good, you're here." His eyes flick to Ray. "The Linden Conference. I've spoken with the board, and we want your presentation on the Morrison case to be the firm's centerpiece."
My pulse spikes, but I keep my face perfectly still. "I appreciate the confidence."
"It's not confidence, it's expectation." He steps into my office, and even Ray sits up a little straighter. "This is your partnership audition, Miles. The board will be watching. Caldwell from the New York office will be there. So will half of the judicial circuit's most influential names." He gives me a look that's almost warm, the way a surgeon might look at a promising incision. "You're ready. Just don't give them any reason to second-guess it."
"I won't." My voice comes out steady, which is a miracle, because inside I'm doing math I don't want to do. Three days ata mountain resort. The stress of a career-defining presentation. My suppressant refill is due at the end of the month and I'll need to make sure the timing works and I'm already calculating the overlap and I don't want to think about this right now.
"The logistics are a nightmare," Richard continues, pulling out his phone and scrolling. "Twelve partners from six firms, three days of panels, plus the gala. I'll need you to coordinate with the conference organizers on our presentation slot and make sure the AV setup for the Morrison materials is flawless. It's a lot of moving pieces."
"I'll handle it."
"The Morrison file alone has two hundred exhibits," Ray says from his chair, and both Richard and I look at him. He's got that relaxed, half-slouched posture, but his eyes are sharp. "If you're doing the multimedia presentation you prepped last month, the AV setup for that is pretty specific. You'll need someone on-site running the tech so you can focus on the room instead of worrying about whether slide forty-seven loaded correctly."
There's a pause. Richard's gaze shifts to Ray, and it's different this time. He actuallylooksat him.
"Garcia, isn't it?" Richard says.
"Yes, sir."
Richard looks at me. "Is he any good with the technical side?"
Ray set up the multimedia exhibits for the Morrison mock presentation and did it faster and more cleanly than the IT department would have. He's annoyingly competent when he decides something is worth his attention. But admitting that out loud, in front of him, feels like giving him something I can't take back.
"He's adequate," I say.
"Bring him." Richard pockets his phone. "You'll need support on-site, and if he already knows the Morrison file, it saves usthe trouble of briefing someone new." He gives Ray a nod that's almost approving. "Don't make me regret it, Garcia."
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." Ray's voice is professional and pleasant, and I want to scream.
Richard turns back to me. "I'll have my assistant send over the conference details. Book travel for both of you." He pauses at the door, and there's something in his expression that's less mentor and more warning. "This matters, Miles. Don't let anything distract you."
He leaves with two sentences of pleasantries about the weather and then he's gone, his expensive shoes clicking down the hallway. The silence he leaves behind feels heavier than his presence did.
I can feel Ray looking at me. I can always feel Ray looking at me, which is its own special kind of hell.
"So," Ray says, and I can hear the grin without looking. "Mountain resort, huh?"
"Don't."
"Three days? That sounds—"
"Garcia."
"I'm just saying, it could be fun."
I finally look at him. He's smiling at me with that open, unguarded expression that makes my stomach flip, and his scent is still everywhere, persistent, like it's soaked into the walls of my office and is never leaving.
"It will not be fun," I tell him. "It will be three days of work in a different location. You will be professional. You will be on time. You will iron your shirt. You will not speak to any senior partner unless spoken to first. Are we clear?"