Cassie Mint

  Sweet Tooth

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2022

  Copyright © 2022 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-74-8

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

  1. Julian

  2. Lola

  3. Julian

  4. Lola

  5. Julian

  6. Lola

  7. Julian

  8. Lola

  9. Julian

  10. Lola

  Teaser: Thief

  About the Author

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

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  One

  Julian

  You know what it takes to be a lawyer? A great one? People think you need to argue well and bullshit even better–and sure, those are important skills, but they’re not the magic ingredient. They won’t get you a corner office on the top floor.

  People think of sharp suits and buffed leather shoes and expensive haircuts, like you can win over a judge or jury simply by looking the part. And okay, there’s some truth to that too.

  People think lawyers need to be assholes. That you can’t give a shit about the world. I say that’s optional, but fine.

  And people say you need to hold your liquor and schmooze your way around the city, taking cards and remembering names. Again, a kernel of truth, but that’s not all.

  The one skill you really need, that you won’t last a day of law school without, let alone the job? You’ve got to thrive under pressure. You’ve got to see the work piling up and the deadlines coming in fast and the competition probing at your soft spots, and instead of panicking or daydreaming about buying a farm in the country or some shit, you’ve got to smile. Like you’re on top of the fucking world.

  It’s a challenge, that’s all. A chance to sharpen those teeth. A chance to show these other assholes that you’re not to be trifled with.

  And hardest of all, you’ve got to mean it. Can’t fake low blood pressure–not for long. Either you’re up to this, or you’re not.

  Anyway. I’m the biggest shark on the thirty-third floor, and the only way up from here is to make partner. I’ve got the big corner office and my own assistant. He screens my calls and waters my plants and makes me coffee from the machine the bosses gave me last year.

  Vance and Irving both came down from the top floor and watched me drink the first cup, beaming with pride like they were watching their kid take his first driving lesson. It was weird, but I played along, toasting them both with a dark roast. Anything for the job. Thanks, dads!

  I’ve come this far. Partner is so close I can taste it. I’m not going to fuck everything up now.

  * * *

  “Rodriguez.”

  Vance corners me in the elevator first thing on Monday morning, mopping the top of his bald head with a silk handkerchief as the doors slide shut behind him. It’s just the two of us and a delivery guy—some acne-spotted kid drowning in his uniform and clutching a stack of parcels to his skinny chest.

  I check my watch discreetly. I’m early. This is fine.

  “Morning, sir.” I shift over, conceding a few inches of space. I give him the perfect amount–enough to show deference, but not enough to imply fear. I’ve been playing this game for almost a decade now, and I’m good at it. The best. “You play golf on the weekend?”

  Vance always plays golf on the weekend. Those clubs are an extension of his gnarled hands.

  “A few rounds, a few rounds…” The boss is distracted. He scrubs the handkerchief over his face, then clears his throat, shooting me a glance. “Are you busy, Rodriguez? Can you spare a few minutes on the top floor?”

  This is a trick question. If I say I’m busy, I’m blowing off the boss. Obvious error. If I say I’m free, he’ll think I’m not pulling my weight.

  “I can move some things around,” I tell him smoothly. “I’ll make it up over lunch. What do you need?”

  Bingo. Vance shoots me a grateful smile, tucking his handkerchief away.

  Don’t let his sweet-old-man act fool you. Irving and Vance both shuffle around this building like friendly grandpas, practically digging in their pockets for boiled sweets for the interns, but they built this firm from nothing, and they have the hunting trophies to prove it.

  Figuratively speaking. Hunting is too boisterous for these two, especially at their age. All I’m saying is they’ve buried a lot of competitors in their day. Their desk chairs could be piles of bones.

  “We’ll speak upstairs.”

  Okay. That’s fine. Most information that passes through this building is sensitive in some way, and we don’t want the delivery guy getting an earful. He’s already tense enough, the tips of his big ears turning pink.

  It’s like he can sense he’s stepped into the tiger cage. Smart kid.

  The elevator climbs quickly, cold seeping through the external glass wall. The city skyline is dark against the sunrise, and thousands of lights are still on, winking gold from the high rises.

  We let the delivery kid out on floor twenty seven.

  “It’s nothing,” Vance says a moment later, even though I didn’t ask. The elevator floor purrs beneath our feet. “Nothing to worry about, Julian.”

  Nothing to worry about?

  And he’s calling me by my first name?

  Well, shit.

  * * *

  I get a two minute elevator ride and a brisk walk down a carpeted corridor before we push into one of the top floor meeting rooms. That’s my shot to prepare. In that time, I’ve run through every case I’ve had for the last six months. Every interaction with a major player in the city.

  There’s nothing. I’m sure of it. I win my cases, and I bring this firm big money. I don’t screw around with interns, and I pass on tips to the higher-ups. So why the hell have they pulled me up here on a Monday morning?

  Nothing to worry about, Vance said. People don’t say shit like that when they’ve got good news. That’s what you say when you’re trying to soften a blow. He leads me into the meeting room now, and Irving stands to greet us at the conference table. The sky is getting lighter behind him.

  Two old lawyers. Vance is stocky; Irving is gaunt. Vance is bald; Irving has a bristly mustache. Vance favors pinstripes, and Irving likes pale pink pocket squares.

  That’s it. Those are all the differences. But one big thing they have in common is the insistence on using a meeting room when they’re both required to be present. God forbid one of them attend the other’s office. It’d mean conceding ground.

  So here we are, on neutral territory. I resist the urge to fiddle with my cuffs.

  “What can I do for you, sirs?”

  They like that. Vance and Irving share a conspiratorial smile, playing the misty-eyed fathers routine again. Give me a break.

  None of us would be here if we weren’t made of pure ambition.

  They sit, so I sit. There’s a jug of water, so I pour three glasses. Irving is slightly closer so I pass him a glass first, and Vance’s eye twitches in response.

  Clink. I set his down. He’ll get over it.

  Glasses delivered, I settle in my chair. From the outside, I know exactly how I look: relaxed. Confident. Pristinely dressed, with a charcoal waistcoat and burgundy tie. Bearded, yes, but it’s a trimmed beard. No scruff in sight.

  Inside, though, there’s acid eating through my guts. I like pressure, yes, but not walking into a trap. I worked too hard in this firm. I don’t want any damn curve balls, that’s for sure.

  “Julian.” Vance says my name fondly. Irving bristles, annoyed that the other man’s taken the lead. “You’ve worked here for how long now—six years?”

  “Eight,” I say. He knows that, the asshole, he’s just trying to worry me. Trying to make me feel unnoticed and disposable to them. But two can play at that game, and I lean back with a broad smile. “Yes, it’s rather a long time, isn’t it?”

  Read: I can walk any time I like, you wrinkly fuckers, and I’ll take your bottom line with me. Don’t try this shit on me.

  Irving clears his throat. “Quite.”

  Vance’s voice is cooler when he speaks again, but that’s fine. Better that he’s wary of me than taking me for granted. “You’re due to make partner, of course. There’s no one better for the honor. No lawyer more deserving in the building.”

  …Here we go.

  “But?” I drum my fingers against the table, impatient for the punchline. This is not a celebratory conversation. This is a shakedown. “What’s the catch, sir?”

  Out comes the handkerchief again. He swabs at his forehead, then gestures for Irving to take over, face flushed.

  The other man looks sour, but he picks up the thread. I’ll remember that in the future� ��that Irving had the backbone, not Vance. “But we have a problem we’d like you to solve for us first. Or rather… there is a task. Of an unusual nature.”

  I roll my stiff neck, breathing in through my nose. An unusual task? That could be anything, and I won’t react until I hear what it is.

  Finally realizing that I don’t plan on speaking just yet, Irving pushes on. He flattens his palms on the conference table, and his next words are stilted. Rehearsed. “Do you know the Briggs family, Julian?”

  Obviously. “They’re our biggest clients.” They’re old money–the kind of family that comes with an investment empire attached. Trust funds and charities. Prenups and divorce settlements. So many properties, they’ve probably forgotten about a few. The Briggs family could keep dozens of lawyers busy year-round.

  Irving nods and pushes on, still talking like he’s reading off a note card. “Well, the Briggs family has asked us for a small favor. Their business is very important to us, of course.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And this favor requires someone we trust.”

  So whatever it is, the bosses can’t—or won’t—do it. But they won’t ship it out to just anyone, either, not when the stakes are so high.

  I’m so fucking close to making partner. Once I land that promotion, I’ll be on the fast track. More money, bigger clients, freedom from this type of bullshit. Then one day, once I’ve milked Irving & Vance for all the company’s worth, I’ll start my own firm—and I’ll do it with a nice, long contact list and accolades to my name.

  I tug my cuff straight. “What do you need, sirs?” I’ll repeat the question until I’m blue in the face. They’ll get tired of wasting time eventually.

  And sure enough: “One of the Briggs girls—she’s a fresh little thing, just turned twenty two. She’s starting some kind of cake business, and she needs an office as a base.”

  “An office,” I say flatly. “For cakes.”

  “To sell them, not bake them. Apparently she’s pitching to the grab-and-go crowd. Hungry workers chained to their desks.”

  “Oh, you’re using chains now?” I shift in my seat, gusting out a sigh. “What does this have to do with me?”

  For two busy men, they’re dragging their feet on this explanation. Not a good omen.

  “Her family is… protective of this one. They want someone looking after her at all times.”

  “They want a babysitter,” I translate, my mouth suddenly bitter. Eight years of working here, for this? To become a glorified nanny to a spoiled rich girl?

  “It’s not for long,” Vance breaks in, finding his tongue again at last. “Two weeks at most. This is a trial period—she’ll use our firm as a base to test her products and prepare her business. Then she’ll launch across the city and get out of our hair.”

  As one, Irving and I glance at the other man’s bald head.

  He scowls back at us, but for once, I don’t care about soothing his ego.

  I am a lawyer. A damn good one, too—the best in this building by far. I earned that partnership, and yet they’re dangling it like a carrot, making me jump through this ridiculous hoop. Dios mío.

  Enough messing around. “I want to make partner within three months.”

  “Done,” Irving says quickly.

  “Put that in writing and send me the full contract. The expected pay rise and bonus—everything. And I’ll keep an eye on her, but that’s it. I won’t answer for whether her business flops or not, and I won’t keep her entertained. I’m not taking her to the damn zoo.”

  Vance raises his palms. “It’s barely anything, Julian. Escort her to and from the office each day. Keep an eye on her while she’s here, and if she needs help or resources, lend her your assistant. Keep the Briggs girl happy.”

  Oliver is my assistant, damn it. He’s an employee, not a stapler.

  “Fine,” I grit out. “Send the details over and have Oliver put her in my calendar.”

  “No need,” Irving says. “You start tomorrow.” I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache.

  Surely even actual babysitters get more warning than that.

  Two

  Lola

  When the intercom buzzes, I’m shoving one arm into a brightly patterned shirt and clutching a poppy seed bagel in the other. My pink hair is damp from the shower, and I changed my outfit four times already this morning before settling on high-waisted black leggings and a baggy shirt knotted at the waist. Is that too casual for an office? Should I add a necktie?

  They’re lawyers, Lola. Not the fashion police.

  Too late now, anyway. My stomach’s still twisted up like a pretzel, and I’m breathless when I abandon my bagel and stumble to the intercom. “Hello?”

  “Lola Briggs?” The tinny voice is deep. Crackling with static.

  “That’s me.”

  A heavy sigh gusts through the speakers. “Alright, then. Let’s go.”

  That’s it. No ‘good morning’. No ‘your ride is here’. Just: let’s go. And let me tell you, no one talks to the Briggs family like that. My all-powerful uncle would chew them into pieces and spit them out if they did, and woe betide anyone who insults his precious Lola. I’m delicate, see?

  Ugh. It’s the worst.

  But hearing someone address me like a normal girl, like a regular pain in the ass–it’s a weird little thrill. I kinda like this intercom grump.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  My outfit may be a lost cause, but I am prepared. I stayed up past midnight last night, checking and rechecking my supplies, then stacking them carefully by the door. I’ve spent the last few days making lists and schedules and plans. I. Am. Ready.

  My first day! So exciting.

  Since spending the last decade shut away in sterile rooms and private hospitals, I never did that first-day-of-college thing. I didn’t go to parties or dates or cookouts, and I was never a regular teenager. I barely saw further than my yellow bedroom walls. And I’m twenty-two now, but I’m still greener than grass. I only moved out on my own two weeks ago, striking out into the big, wide world.

  So maybe the nerves fizzing in my belly are totally normal; maybe it’s common for my hands to shake and for me to barely fumble my apartment door open. Maybe a normal girl would clatter down the staircase like a moving disaster zone too, dropping a trail of colored markers and tubs of glitter behind her.

  A man stands in the center of my building’s lobby, watching me come downstairs, his face carefully blank.

  My sandal slips on the final step. I stumble forward, dropping a sheet of poster board with a smack. The man sighs.

  “Miss Briggs.” It’s not a question. It’s the sound of a man resigned to his fate, and gosh, if someone handed me a pen and notepad and told me to draw a sexy lawyer, I’d definitely draw this guy. He’s well muscled under his tailored clothes; he’s tall and broad-shouldered. He looks expensive, like the human embodiment of fine brandy, with dark hair and smooth, light brown skin.

  His scowl is harsh and his beard is sleek. Should I tell him I want to pet it?

  Probably not.

  A second man scurries across the lobby, and shoot, I didn’t even see him standing back there. How could I when the scowling man takes up so much presence, like a black hole sucking all my attention? But this second guy darts me a smile, and he’s way less intimidating. His suit is baggier, his chestnut curls flopping over his forehead, and freckles dust his pale cheeks.

  “This is my assistant, Oliver. He’ll help you in the office.”

  “Hi, Oliver. Thank you so much,” I add, because the cutie’s picking up my trail of debris from the stairs. I beam at him, and he blushes, fumbling my poster board.

  Another deep sigh from the grump.

  “Please be ready in the lobby at 7:30 sharp every morning.”

  I hitch several tote bags higher on my shoulder, the straps cutting into my collarbone. “Sure, okay. I’ll be on time, I promise.” He turns on his heel to leave, and I hurry after him. The street outside is cool, sunshine bathing the sidewalk, and pale white blossoms cling to a nearby tree.

  “Um, sir?” He doesn’t turn back, though I know he hears me. My sandals slap against the sidewalk as I chase him. “Sir? What should I call you?”

  A small shrug. The grump leads us to a sleek black car, pulling the rear door wide, and gestures inside at plush leather seats.

 

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