I twiddled my fingers, growing increasingly impatient. The receptionist must have noticed because she came over and offered me coffee.
A steaming mug appeared on the small table next to my couch seconds later. I heaped my sugar into it and breathed the heavenly smell deep into my lungs, already feeling calmer.
Coffee did that to me. I loved the stuff. I consumed an unnatural amount of it. Although, given the hours I’d been keeping as a student, it probably wasn’t that unnatural. I let the warm liquid roll down my throat and immediately felt invigorated by it. Even if I was still feeling impatient.
“Is he going to be long?” I asked the receptionist, who had taken to filing her long red nails into points. It was downright scary. I had noticed the trend, but I couldn’t say that I understood why anyone would follow it. Why would you want your fingers to look like claws?
“Your appointment is at 8 a.m.,” she informed me briskly and sighed, as if it was obvious how long he would be. Then she snapped up a ringing phone.
I glanced at my rose gold watch, a graduation present from myself to myself. 7:55 a.m.
Seriously? He was going to make me wait until 8 on the dot? I rolled my eyes. I should’ve expected it. Anger and irritation rolled around in my stomach.
The intercom on the reception desk buzzed precisely as the clock struck 8 a.m. “You can send her in, Olivia.”
As if I hadn’t been able to hear him, Olivia dutifully fixed me with a smile and simpered, “You may see him now.”
Oh gee, thanks. May I really see my own father now? I stomped past Olivia without a backward glance and threw open the door to my father’s office, trying my very best to push down the anger that bubbled inside me.
“Gabrielle,” my father said as he rose from his desk. He pulled me in for a quick, cool hug. “How are you?”
Richard Ralls was an imposing man. In his heyday, he had played for the NFL himself. He retired at the top of his game to take over the family business from my ailing grandfather. As I was sure he would remind me somewhere in the conversation we were about to have.
His blond hair grayed at the temples, and the crow’s feet around his bright blue eyes had gotten deeper since I’d last seen him. He wasn’t a man who laughed often, but his wide grin had to come out and play whenever he was schmoozing. And that was something that he did very often.
“I’m okay.” I pulled my lower lip between my teeth. A nervous habit that I’d been trying to kick since I’d seen Fifty Shades of Grey. I released it as soon as I realized I was doing it. “You seem busy, as always.”
He motioned to one of the client’s chairs in front of his desk and lowered himself into his handmade leather monstrosity.
Of course, that was what I always felt like when I went to his office. Just another client.
“I am,” he said. “I just got in this morning, actually. I have a lot of work to catch up on.” There it was, the familiar implication that I was wasting his time. His eyes bored into mine as if challenging me to something.
I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath to calm myself. I was this close to snapping at him, but that wouldn’t do either of us any good. “Yeah, I can imagine.”
He looked slightly surprised by my response; then his surprise turned to amusement. Amusement that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can you now, honey?”
I gripped the armrest so hard my knuckles turned white. My fingertips numbed. The anger I’d felt minutes before turned quickly to rage. It threatened to rise as I absorbed his tone.
“Yes, I can,” I managed to grit out.
I must not cause a scene. I must not snap. I repeated the mantra to myself over and over again.
If I wanted even a minuscule chance of him actually taking me seriously about not taking the bar, I had to keep a level head. Anything that could be construed as even slightly immature had to stay on lockdown.
“I’m actually really busy myself, but I have something that I need to discuss with you. I thought it would be best to have this discussion in person.” There, I congratulated myself. That sounded perfect. Very levelheaded.
My father didn’t seem to give a shit about my perfect delivery. “I hope that it’s studying for the bar exam that’s keeping you so busy and not the partying or the boys.”
I groaned. He was never going to let that go. I got busted once while I was in high school. Once. Yet that was the yardstick by which I was always measured.
It didn’t escape me that he hadn’t mentioned my graduating from law school once. Or that he was proud of me for graduating, with honors.
“Well, actually, Dad, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
He cut me off. “Honestly, Gabrielle, it’s time for you to grow up and take some responsibility for your life.”
I nearly gagged out loud. Responsibility? I was 24, I had graduated with honors from one of the top law schools in the country, and as far as he knew, I was about to take the damn bar exam. Something most people don’t do until 27. Yet, here he was, lecturing me about taking responsibility?