Step one of her defense strategy started on the first day of trial, with jury selection. In light of the infamous Exhibit A (which the plaintiff’s attorneys had blown up to ridiculously gargantuan proportions and undoubtedly planned to display throughout the entire course of the trial), Payton had avoided selecting any juror she felt had what one might call “delicate sensibilities.” Someone who perhaps tended toward what one might describe as a “conservatively moralistic” viewpoint; one who could possibly be outraged by the conduct of the defendant’s ex-employee and want to ease that outrage in the form of dollars thrown in the direction of the plaintiff.

In other words, no Laneys.

Nobody who would take one look at a six-foot color photo of a half-mast penis popping out of a Dockers button-fly (hello!) and promptly ask how many zeros are in a gazillion.

From there, step two of Payton’s defense strategy was to set the right tone for the trial in her opening statement: sympathetic, but firm. Understanding and in complete agreement that managerial love sticks should be kept firmly tucked behind closed zippers, but rational and logical in guiding the jury to understand that her client, the employer, was not financially liable to the tune of two million dollars for the actions of one rogue ex-employee.

Payton hoped she had accomplished that task this morning. J.D. had been right when he’d told Jasper that she had quite a bit of trial experience under her belt, and with that she liked to think she was fairly skilled at reading jurors’ body language. She had started her opening statement by gesturing to Exhibit A, the six-foot half-mast penis photo, that plaintiff’s counsel had displayed front and center during his opening statement.

“Wow,” Payton had said, eyeing the photo as she turned to the jury to begin. “If the courthouse coffee wasn’t enough to wake you up, seeing that at nine a.m. sure will.”

The jury had laughed.

Now, any day that a person delivers an opening statement while standing in front of a six-foot billboard of semierect male genitalia is clearly a bit of an unusual day. But that was just the tip of the iceberg of events that spiraled out of control over the next forty-eight hours.

Payton returned to the office during her lunch break; she and Brandon planned to use the time to review the cross-examinations of the plaintiff’s witnesses that would begin that afternoon. When she got to the office, however, she found Irma in a frantic state, digging through the files on Payton’s desk.

“Thank god you’re here,” Irma said as soon as she saw Payton walk through the door. “Marie called—she’s been looking everywhere for the receipt for your dinner at Japonais with the Gibson’s reps. She needs to submit it before the close of the billing cycle—Accounts Payable won’t process any of the expenditures for your pitch until they have all the receipts in hand.”

Payton frowned. “J.D. paid for the dinner, not me. He should have the receipt.”

Irma looked at her helplessly. “I know, and I told that to his secretary, but she couldn’t find it in his office.”

“So tell her to simply ask J.D. where it is.”

“He’s in a conference room upstairs, preparing for a court hearing he has this afternoon. He told Kathy he’d look for the receipt later.” Irma sighed apologetically. “I’m sorry, Payton, I know you’re busy, too—I don’t mean to bother you with this. It’s just that Ben is on Marie’s back about this, which means that she’s on mine.”

Payton checked her watch. She wanted Irma to type up the trial notes Brandon had taken that morning before she headed back to court at one thirty. The faster she could resolve this business over the receipt, the better.

She handed Irma the notes. “Here—take these and start typing them up. I’ll look in J.D.’s office and see if I can find the receipt.”

Irma nodded and hurried off. Payton headed across the hall and let herself into J.D.’s office.

How very unlike J.D., she thought, to overlook something as basic as submitting a receipt. If anything, it was an indication of the pressure he’d been under since Ben had dropped his bombshell that only one of them would make partner.

Good. She was glad to see she wasn’t the only one who was on edge these days.

Payton looked first on top of the credenza that ran along the wall of J.D.’s office, searching for the receipt or any sort of file related to the Gibson’s matter. Finding nothing there, she moved on to his desk.

At first she saw nothing. Then—almost having overlooked it—she saw the edge of a smallish piece of paper peeking out from under the desk calendar that sat on top of J.D.’s desk. Wondering if that could be it, Payton hastily reached over to lift up the calendar and—

Shit!—somehow managed to knock over a Starbucks cup perched near the edge of J.D.’s desk. Coffee poured out the lid. Payton immediately reacted, she grabbed the cup, but not fast enough as coffee spilled over the edge of J.D.’s desk and onto his chair—

And right onto his suit jacket, which he presumably had nicely set out over the arm of the chair to prevent wrinkles.

Payton swore under her breath as she scrambled; she looked around for a napkin, Kleenex, anything to wipe up the coffee, which was quickly setting into J.D.’s suit. Not seeing anything, she grabbed the jacket—maybe she could run it under cold water or something—in doing so she happened to notice the label, it had been tailor-made in London. She smirked; of course it had been. She remembered back to their fight in the library and the smug way J.D. had said—

“What the hell are you doing?”

Payton froze at the sound of his voice.

She immediately knew how it must’ve looked, her holding a coffee cup in one hand, his stained suit in the other. And a smirk on her face.

Payton looked and saw J.D. standing in the doorway with a very pissed-off expression. He held his briefcase, as if he was prepared to leave for court, and of course he was impeccably dressed in a tailored shirt and pants that fit him perfectly.

She had no idea why she just noticed that.

Moving on.

She turned to J.D. to explain. “I was looking for the receipt for the Gibson’s dinner.”

J.D. ignored her. He pointed. “Is that coffee on my jacket?”

“Yeeee . . . s.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, I see. Maybe you thought I stashed the Gibson’s receipt in a Starbucks cup?”

Payton went for a joke. “It’s not my way of filing things, but . . .” she trailed off.

He was not amused.

J.D. took her in with a mocking tilt of his head. “That’s awfully passive-aggressive for you, isn’t it?”

Payton stared at him. Of course he thought she did this on purpose.

Now she folded her arms across her chest. “You’ve got to be kidding.” She had been about to apologize, but now, well . . . screw him. She didn’t feel like it anymore.

“So, what is this, your feeble attempt at sabotage?” J.D. asked scornfully. “Let me guess—you heard I’m in court for a hearing this afternoon, so you thought you’d make me look like a jackass.”

“You don’t need any help from me there.”

J.D.’s eyes narrowed angrily.

“And I hardly need to resort to sabotage to be the one that the firm makes partner,” Payton added.

“Actually, I think you must be really worried, if you’re willing to stoop to this level.” J.D. held up a finger, victorious. “But luckily, I keep a spare suit in my office.”

J.D. shut his door, gesturing to a garment bag that hung on the back of it. He unzipped the bag and proudly pulled out a second suit, one that was just as expensive-looking. He draped the suit over one of the chairs in front of his desk and stared at Payton smugly. Ta-da.

She rolled her eyes at him. “You know, I was going to explain, but now it’s not even worth it.” She brushed by J.D. to leave his office, momentarily forgetting she still held both his jacket and the coffee cup.

“An easy cop-out.”

Payton stopped at his words.

Cop-out?

Cop-out?

Payton Kendall did not cop out.

She turned around to face him.

With a cocky grin, J.D. took a seat at his desk. He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “Something you’d like to say before leaving, Payton?”

He was baiting her, she knew it. She considered letting it go. She could turn around and walk out of his office without another word. In two weeks, one way or the other, she would never have to deal with him again.

J.D. mistook Payton’s pause for hesitation.

“In that case,” he said, nodding at the suit jacket she still held, “I’ll expect you to get that dry-cleaned at a decent place. Just make sure you have it back to me before they boot your ass out of here.” Dismissing her, he turned back to his work.

Payton sighed. Oh, well. She had tried.

“No problem, J.D.,” she said good-humoredly. “And while I’m at it, how about your second spare suit? Does that need to be dry-cleaned, too?”

J.D. looked up from his computer, confused. “I don’t have a second spare suit.”

“Oh. That’s a shame.” And with that, Payton tore the lid off the Starbucks cup and promptly dumped the remaining coffee all over the suit he had so neatly laid out over the chair.

J.D.’s mouth dropped open. He slowly peered up at her. “Oh. No. You. Didn’t.”

Payton looked down at the suit. Holy shit, she had, she really had.

She covered her mouth to mask her own look of shock. Whoops. But it was too late to turn back now.