He shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’ll look bad if you don’t come. You’re a member of our team, after all. And I’ve already RSVP’d for eight people.”

Somehow I think he’s more concerned about his boner’s feelings than the client’s. The client probably doesn’t even know I exist. But I can’t argue with my boss about how they would hypothetically react. He would just insist that he knows them better than I do, which is true. Whatever excuse I come up with, he’ll just shoot it down—or skip straight to pulling rank on me. He’s clearly hell-bent on trapping me in an Omaha hotel with him.

I don’t think he’d go so far as to try anything, but you never know with a dirty old man like that. And even in the best-case scenario, I’d have to put up with his disgusting come-ons and wandering hands for three nights straight. I might jump off the damn hotel roof.

Think, Emery, think. My eyes dart wildly around the room. The other lawyers are muttering about the arrangements for this impromptu “vacation,” and I hear a couple of them mention bringing their wives. That’s it—I just need a buffer. Someone to keep Mr. Pratt from thinking that we’ll spend even a single minute alone together.

“In that case, I guess I can spare the time.” I look up to give Mr. Pratt a plastic smile. “My boyfriend will be so excited. He’s a big Mavericks fan.” I give Mom a silent thank-you for her obsession with college football; all the sports trivia I absorbed in childhood has helped me bullshit annoying men before, and this won’t be the last time.

“Your boyfriend?” It’s unbelievably satisfying to watch Mr. Pratt’s face fall and crash into a million pieces. “Ah . . . yes, of course he’s welcome.”

I mentally pump my fist. After telling us that we can bring guests, even the master lawyer can’t talk his way back out of this one.

But I can’t savor my victory for long. Now I have to figure out how to talk Hayden into flying halfway across America to sit around with stuffy corporate types in an endless cornfield. We’ve started to become pretty good friends by now, but abandoning his responsibilities for half a week to play bodyguard is a huge favor.

And will this make things weird between us? Will Hayden think I’m asking for more than just a travel buddy? Even if we aren’t expected to share a room, God forbid, we’ll still be isolated in kind of an intimate way. The mere situation may put ideas into his head.

Hell, the party atmosphere and unlimited free drinks may go to my head. I’ve accepted that our sexual tension is both here to stay and best left unresolved. I don’t want to do anything stupid to upset the status quo. Yet there’s no denying that the lack of orgasms is really starting to piss me off. I need things stuck in places, things licked and sucked that aren’t polite to mention in mixed company.

The staff meeting breaks up as everyone heads back to their desks or downstairs for lunch. I grab my brown paper sack—falafel pita with hummus and Bermuda onion today, yum, yum—and make a beeline for the reception desk. Eating with Trina will help preserve my sanity.

The first thing she says to me once we sit down for lunch is, “You look like someone just kidnapped your dog.”

“I don’t have time for this elbow-rubbing crap,” I moan between bites. “The bar exam is in less than three weeks. I need to focus on studying. But does anybody give a damn?”

“I feel your pain, babe.” Trina sips her lemonade. Her fingernails are painted forest green this week. “My certification is also coming up fast. Like the label on car mirrors . . . Panic May Be Closer Than It Appears.”

“What’s your anti-Larry strategy for this trip?” I ask. My joking tone rings a little hollow, even to my own ears. “Bestow your hallowed secrets upon me, mighty Pervert Whisperer.”

She shrugs with a smile that’s half amused and half pitying. “I wasn’t invited, so I don’t have to deal with him at all. The perks of being a lowly paper monkey.”

I chew and swallow an extra-smelly bite of my pita. My breath is going to be horrendous after this. Perfect. “You know, I still don’t get it. You should be a rising star at some firm by now. I don’t understand why you’re a legal secretary in the first place, and paralegal seems like kind of a low bar to aim for. You’re smarter and more diligent than half the associates here.”

Trina snorts, not unkindly. “What, you think people only take assistant-type jobs because they’re too stupid for law school? I’ve spent two years watching everyone at this firm run around like chickens with their heads cut off. No thanks, I’ll pass.”

“So you don’t like law? Then why work in the field at all?”

“I didn’t say that. I think law is interesting. But it’s just my living, not my life, you know? Maybe I could hack it as a lawyer. If I did, I’d sure make more money. But the ulcers and marathon hours aren’t worth it to me. Walker and Price probably see me more often than they see their own wives, and I think that’s fucking sad.”

I ponder as I slowly chew my latest mouthful. So . . . which is it? Does she like law or not? I can’t quite wrap my head around what she’s saying. If law interests her, then why not go whole hog? And if she doesn’t want to go whole hog, then why bother at all? Why work in a career that doesn’t fully capture your heart? Either you love something or you can live without it.

Mistaking my furrowed brow for hurt feelings, Trina hurries to add, “I mean . . . if you want the prestige, or the money, or you just love sweating over contracts from dawn ’til dusk, more power to you. But I guess I’m just not an ambitious type. I’m not interested in climbing any corporate ladders. All I care about is having enough money to do what I want in the other fifteen hours of the day.” She pauses to glance around in case Mr. Pratt is lurking nearby. “And finding another job with a normal boss. So I’m making myself more marketable.”

I make a thoughtful noise; even if my mouth weren’t full of falafel, I wouldn’t be sure how to respond. I guess I can see where she’s coming from. She’s satisfied with her life as it stands now, so she goes with its flow. It’s still hard to imagine life from her perspective, though. I have so much to do before I reach that point of contented stability: pass the bar exam, officially join a firm, get promoted until I earn enough for both Mom and myself.

And even then, I don’t think anything could ever come before my career. I’m the opposite of Trina—law is my life, not just my living. It’s part of who I am. You could bury me in work and I’d beg for more. Sick, I know.

Neither of us is right or wrong; we’re just different people with different priorities. Still, that tiny insight into Trina’s mind makes me think. She was talking about work, not relationships, but maybe I can apply a little of her attitude toward my situation with Hayden. Heh . . . talk about people who take life one step at a time.

Maybe I don’t need a master plan for every single thing. Maybe it’s okay to play our friendship by ear and stop sweating the small stuff. I want Hayden’s help, so I’ll ask him for it. Boom. Simple as that. The worst that can happen is he says no and I have to figure out another solution to deal with Mr. Grabby Hands on my own.

But it will probably still help if I butter him up first. I should at least pay a visit to his place—asking favors usually goes over better in person. Especially if I bring some good beer. And there’s no possibility of him ignoring me and pretending he just didn’t see my text.

• • •

That night after work, I knock on Hayden’s door with a six-pack of chilled microbrew. He lets me in, making a comment about how I’m turning out to be the perfect friend, bringing cold beer to his place and all.

I wander inside, glancing around with curiosity while he puts the beer in the fridge. Hayden’s condo looks like a typical rich-boy bachelor pad with lots of sleek gadgets, black leather furniture, and pop-art prints on the walls. But it’s cleaner and neater than I expected.