There’s a contrast between us in the reflection of the shiny metal doors—my inky black hair to his golden brown, my pale skin to his bronzed, his brawn to my lithe figure—looking at us side by side, one would never think to put us together.
Which we aren’t, I mentally correct. Together. Because we aren’t.
Except . . .
“Really?” He inches a little closer. “I’m told I’m pretty charming.”
“Are those people on your payroll?”
“I can think of a few times when you’ve found me charming, Dani.”
I roll my eyes. I’m used to people calling me Dani; when you have a name like Danica, I guess it’s easy to jump to the nickname—but something about the way Ezra says it always makes my stomach do something funny. I’m sure I’m not the only one Ezra amuses himself with. There’s no doubt in my mind that his easy playboy act comes from vast amounts of real-life experience—yet I can’t help but wonder if anyone else in what is surely a very wide net of his sexual conquests succumbs to his annoyingly effective charms quite as often （albeit begrudgingly） as I do.
“I can assure you I have never found you charming,” I toss back dryly. “Maybe mildly amusing. Your dick, at least.”
He clutches his hand to his chest, and I try not to notice how large it looks against his tie. “Only mildly? That isn’t what you said when you were screaming my—”
The elevator doors slide open as we come to a halt, and I immediately bolt out of it, trying to put distance between Ezra and me before he notices how flushed my neck most likely is. Not that he lets me escape that easily, since I hear his footsteps, heavy and quick as he catches up to me.
“I’m free tonight, you know,” he says casually.
I keep my expression blank, hoping the people milling around in the lobby don’t notice how close he’s walking beside me. “Good for you. Sounds like an excellent time to take up a hobby.”
“Oh, but I would much rather enjoy the one I’ve already got.”
I glance at him from the side, frowning. “What’s that?”
“See, there’s this certain opposing counsel who makes the most delicious noises when my fingers are—”
I spin on my heel, hissing under my breath as we come to a stop in front of the large glass doors that lead outside of the courthouse. “I told you,” I grit out. “Last time was the last time.”
“Right.” He flashes me his white, perfect teeth—stark against the deep pink of his lips, and I have to force myself to keep my eyes on his. “But you said that the time before that.” He leans in a little closer, practically looming over me as he lowers his voice. “And the time before that . . . and the time before that . . .”
“I mean it this time,” I argue, trying to convince him or me, I’m not sure. “It was stupid to begin with. You’re an asshole, and I was . . .” Hard up? Horny? Out of my mind? “It was a lapse of judgment on my part.”
“Eight lapses of judgment,” Ezra says with a low whistle. “I think they call that a bad habit, Dani. Maybe you need a hobby. You know, besides me.”
I clench my fists at my sides; I know he’s teasing me, but it hits a little too close to home. Especially because I know that constantly sleeping with Ezra—someone I barely tolerate outside of what we do behind closed doors—is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. After everything with Grant . . . you’d think I would make smarter decisions when it comes to the opposite sex.
It’s just sex, I soothe myself. Just scratching an itch.
Even if I’ve scratched this particular itch more times than I’d like.
I make a frustrated sound, shoving him away and pushing through the doors as I stalk off quickly. He doesn’t follow me this time, but I can hear his stupid laugh even from halfway down the steps.
Fucking. Ezra. Hart.
* * *
?I feel a little less out of sorts when I’m back at the firm; I’m not thrilled to tell my boss how miserably today went with the Johansons, but at least here I can put the headache of Ezra and my antagonistic . . . whatever we have . . . at the back of my mind for a little bit. I drop my case files in my office, noticing on my way out that Nate’s and Vera’s are empty; I guess they’ve already headed home for the day.
The door to Manuel’s office is cracked at the other end of the hall, however, and I step toward it to update him on everything before I finish up for the day myself. I find him sitting behind his desk poring over a stack of papers, his neat, salt-and-pepper hair swept into his usual perfect style. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Manuel Moreno with a single hair out of place, and since Chicago is known as the Windy City, that is a feat.