Motherfucker.

My good mood sours. Keith’s been with the firm eight years and is gunning hard for partner. One of his strategies seems to be following Tanner around like a huge duckling trailing its mother. Tanner is easygoing—as far as lawyers go—and tolerates it, but I enjoy giving him a hard time about the fact that he can barely take a piss without Keith’s company. While I’ve never found Keith’s presence particularly enjoyable, since the Christmas party two years ago, I’ve found myself growing more and more annoyed by him.

We exchange the usual pleasantries. Keith and Tanner settle in at the island across from me, also waiting on the coffee maker. I make a mental note that we need to buy a faster one, because, by the sound of its gurgles, I’m going to be here another minute or two. As they continue their conversation, I size up Keith.

Is this Claire’s type?

He’s tall—whatever—with brown hair—fine—and green eyes—interesting. They’re unique. The kind of thing women might appreciate. I’m wondering if Claire likes green eyes better than brown when I realize Keith is speaking to me.

“Any plans for the weekend?” His tone is cordial.

Fucking your ex-wife better than you ever did.

The surge of aggression I feel surprises me as much as the intrusive thought.

“Hiking.” I can’t quite get my tone to friendly, but I don’t sound like I hate him. Good enough. “You?”

Keith leans back in his chair. “Think I’m going to check in on the ex, see how she’s doing.”

Irritation blossoms into anger at his words. Jaw tight, fists clenched, I feel precariously close to losing my temper, even though I logically know there’s no reason for it. What is wrong with me? I’ve never wanted to smash someone’s face into an island before, but the idea is wildly appealing right now.

Tanner gives me a curious look. Do I look like I’m about to lose it? The thought is unpleasant. Maintaining an unbothered expression regardless of my emotional state is a skill I worked hard to develop as a teen. Then, my ability to fake apathy meant the difference between my father’s rage burning out before it reached the fuse or triggering an Armageddon-level explosion. Now, that same emotional control, or at the very least, the appearance of it, serves me well. My default mode is a mask of neutrality, disdain if I feel like switching things up. That it might be slipping worries me.

Unaware that whether he gets a closer look at the granite countertop depends on my self-control—which feels concerningly shaky—Keith keeps going. “Last time I reached out, she was still worked up. She’s something else when she’s in a mood.” His chuckle is indulgent, as if he’s humoring her anger. “You know how women get.”

He looks at me as if I’m going to cosign this statement. “No. I don’t know how they get.”

Tanner laughs like I’m joking. Ignoring him, I lean forward, resting my elbows on the island. “Are you still seeing Naomi?” The paralegal recently left the firm, and I don’t know if it had something to do with the affair or not.

He looks surprised at the question. “Of course.”

“Then why check in on Claire?” The coffee maker completes its job with a cheerful beep, but I don’t move for it.

Keith cocks his head, gauging if I’m serious. Deciding I am, he explains in an almost patronizing tone, “She’s my ex-wife, and I care about her.” He smirks. “And she’s going to be lonely, needy, and still pissed. I wouldn’t turn down a round of hate sex for old times’ sake.”

It takes conscious thought to unclench my jaw. “She divorced you. Why would she sleep with you?”

The confidence on his face may snap the final tether on my temper. “Because we have history. She loved me once, probably still does. Ten minutes of remember the time we and she’ll be naked.”

For safety’s sake, I move to the coffeepot. My fingers are itching to wrap around his neck.

“Won’t work.” I try to sound nonchalant, turning my back to him and focusing on the coffee maker. “She’s not going to get over the affair.”

“She doesn’t have to get over it to sleep with me.” His arrogance could be comical if I weren’t so pissed. “And there’s a chance she might do it for revenge.”

“That’ll teach you a lesson.” Tanner laughs at his own joke. Keith follows suit because of course he does.

“She might do it to one-up Naomi,” Keith insists. “I’ve spent years with that woman; trust me when I say I know how she works. She’s absurdly competitive.” A grimace makes it clear he doesn’t appreciate Claire’s drive.

Claire throwing herself off of the roof pops into my head. The ferocity of her resistance when I caught her in the woods. How I had to adjust my grip on her hair because I thought she might rip it out trying to escape. Her crawling away from my tongue between her legs, even though she was dripping and ready. Incredible. The thought of a woman like Claire with a man like Keith is infuriating.

“I suppose anything could happen.” Tanner’s voice betrays how entertained he is by this exchange. Which one of us is amusing him, I’m not sure. I wonder if his idea of “anything could happen” includes me cracking Keith upside the head with this coffeepot. When he says, “So the sex must be great, then,” I suspect he’s picked up on the shift in my mood.

Gretchen, Margot, and Claire’s roommate-slash–emergency contact are the only people who know about the arrangement, but I think Tanner noticed I paid her a bit too much attention at the Christmas party. He’s also caught me looking at her Facebook profile on my phone a time or two.

Or ten.

Keith smirks, coffee sloshes over the edge of my travel mug, and I contemplate violence.

“Fantastic—only reason things lasted as long with her as they did. She’s a real giver.”

I whirl to face them. Murder. I’m going to commit murder. Here in the kitchen, with Tanner watching. It’s only a matter of choosing my method. Choking him out? Smashing his head into the island? Bludgeoning him with my mug?

“How so?” Tanner’s gaze flicks to me, one eyelid dropping in a wink. I bite back a groan.

“Phenomenal head, abso—”

“All right, this is getting inappropriate for the workplace,” I snap, interrupting Keith.

Fuck.

Keith’s head whips around so fast, I’m surprised—and disappointed—he doesn’t break his neck. He’s looking at me like he can’t figure out if I’m joking or not. Tanner is barely shy of gleeful—fucking bastard. If I don’t get out of here, I’ll give myself away. I can’t keep my face in check, and now I’m acting like an amateur, some hothead who can’t control his temper. The person who says the least has the most power, and I’m about to say way too much. Holding Tanner in a glare, I screw the lid onto my mug. “I need to talk to you about payroll.”

I’m not involved with payroll at all. Tanner takes the hint, though, and follows me from the kitchen. He nods goodbye to Keith. I don’t.

Closing the door of my office behind us, I try to figure out how I’m going to approach this conversation. Specifically, how much I’m willing to share with Tanner. He settles into one of the armchairs near my desk, surveying the office. I know what he’s going to say before he does.

“You really need some art in here.” He tilts his head toward the blank, pale gray wall to his right. “It’s drab.”

Black walnut bookcases line one wall, and my desk is the same dark wood. Between the black leather chairs for visitors, one of which Tanner is currently occupying, and my high-back desk chair—also black leather—he isn’t wrong.

“Nail one of your socks to the wall,” I mutter, dropping into my chair.

Tanner snorts, hiking up a leg high enough that I can see it over the desk. His pant leg rides up, revealing a green-and-blue dress sock covered in cartoon dogs.