The firm just brought in a new partner—
A notorious beast in the legal world.
Rumor was, the man was a die-hard anti-marriage freak.
We lost a bet and dared someone to propose to him.

He glanced up with that deadpan face and dropped the line like a damn verdict:
“Dating? No. Marriage? Hell no.”

But then something weird happened—
All ten of my blind dates mysteriously left their gas stoves on.
And that same cold-blooded bastard smirked from the backseat of his Bentley,
“Too easy.”

Chapter 1

The name Nathan Kane sends paralegals into panic attacks.
Cold. Sharp. Ruthless. Untouchable.
That’s what people call him.

And with a 100% win rate in court, he’s basically a legal god—and a goddamn nightmare.
So when I got told I had to propose to him as a punishment for losing a bet, I flat-out refused.

“Refusal not accepted.”
“You lost. Time to pay up,” my coworkers jeered.
They were way too into this.

So, I dragged my ass toward Nathan Kane’s office.
Knocked.

“Come in,” came a voice deep and smooth enough to melt glaciers.
I panicked, ran back to my desk, grabbed a stack of case files to fake a consultation.

I shoved open the door carefully, rehearsing my lines in my head—
And promptly tripped over my own damn feet.

Files flew everywhere.
He was lounging on the couch, legs crossed, flipping through documents with those long, pale fingers.
On his left pinky was a silver ring—
Yeah. That infamous “I don’t do marriage” bullshit symbol.

He didn’t even blink.
Just said lazily,
“You tripped over air? Are you trying to bump up our firm’s accident rate?”

I was face down on the floor like a fucking idiot.
Couldn’t even find a comeback.
In my head: yep, certified asshole confirmed.

Silence stretched. All I could hear was paper rustling.
Then I remembered why I was there.

I stood up, plastered on a fake-ass smile.
“Mr. Kane, I had a question about this case—may I?”

He finally looked at me, brows furrowed.
“You guys brought me here to play free tutor now?”

Wow. Okay.
No point dragging this out. I peeked at the door, where my coworkers were definitely eavesdropping.

I pulled out the crappy dollar-store ring from my pocket.

“Mr. Kane… I… like you.”

My heart was about to beat out of my chest.
He pinched his brow, slowly took off his gold-rimmed glasses.
Voice colder than a Chicago winter:

“Dating? No. Marriage? Hell no.”

BOOM—
The door banged open.
One of the idiots outside had been shoved straight into the office.

Nathan’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“David, you broke in faster than you filed that motion last week.”

David Wong laughed nervously, backing away.
Kane turned to the crowd outside the door, and I was ready to ghost the hell out of there.
Halfway out—

“You. Stop.”

My soul left my body.
He pointed at the employee manual on his desk.
“Read section eight. Out loud.”

I swallowed. Picked up the booklet.
“Uh… ‘No group betting or gambling on company premises.’”

His smirk made everyone in the room stop breathing.
“Perfect. You’ve all violated firm policy.”
“Next month’s salary? Consider it a fine.”

Jaws dropped. No one dared whimper.
Then Kane looked at his Rolex and said flatly,
“If you plan on wasting more of my time, that’s billed at $88,916 an hour.
Cash or wire transfer?”

They bolted like the place was on fire.
I led the stampede—left my files behind.

Chapter 2

So yeah… I had to redo the whole goddamn file from scratch.
After work, I met up with my bestie Kelly at a café to vent.

She laughed so hard she nearly choked on her latte.
“You really proposed to the anti-marriage king? Girl, y’all are insane.”

“Don’t remind me. I’m broke as hell now.”

As I bitched about life, Kelly suddenly gasped, “Oh my God—hot guy alert, three o’clock!”

I barely looked up, not in the mood.
“Yeah, real handsome.”
And then I saw his face.

I buried mine in my elbow instantly.
Holy. Shit. It was Nathan Kane.

I grabbed Kelly and bolted like we robbed the place.
In the chaos, I forgot the newly recompiled files.

“Third time’s a charm?” Kelly snorted.
I groaned loud enough to shake the windows and ran back to grab them.

But the files were gone.
Before I could ask the barista, a familiar deep voice behind me said,
“Shaw’s productivity sure picked up.”

He sipped his espresso while flipping through my paperwork.
“That’s a lot to put together in one afternoon.”

I turned, trying to act cool.
“Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Kane.”

He tilted his chin and gave a thin smile.
Somehow, that made the room ten degrees colder.

“But really,” he said smoothly, “this could’ve been settled in my office in ten minutes.
You chose the long, inefficient route. Should I be worried about your time management?”

I gave a dry laugh, kept my face blank.
Internally screaming: I didn’t wanna get charged your freakin’ hourly rate, sir.

He looked at me like he could hear my thoughts.
Sighed.
“Everyone’s time matters,” he said, staring dead into me.
“Even for those too scared to knock on a damn door.”
“Redoing work is a waste of productivity.”

“Noted,” I mumbled.
Grabbed the files and turned to leave—

“Wait.”

I nearly dropped everything.
He held out something from the table.
The stupid proposal ring.
The cheap metal had turned his finger green.

I turned red all the way to my ears.
Snatched it, mumbled a thanks, and booked it out of there.

Chapter 3

Okay, so yeah—Nathan Kane might be a smug, condescending prick with a god complex…
But the man knew his shit.

He’d barely been at the firm for a month when he landed us a case so massive, we could probably retire early if we won it.
We’re talking multi-million-dollar class action—insurance fraud, corporate malpractice, the real HBO docuseries kind of deal.

Everyone went into full beast mode—late nights, no weekends, takeout that tasted like cardboard and regret.
Pretty soon, nobody gave a damn about the whole “office proposal fiasco.”

After we scored a major win on the first round of hearings, the partners took us out for dinner—steakhouse, of course. Then karaoke.
By the time we stumbled out of that God-awful bar, it was pouring like the damn sky was having a breakdown.

Uber? Surge pricing was criminal.
Traffic? Worse than LA during Coachella weekend.
By the time I dragged my soaked heels into my apartment, it was already past eleven.

I opened the door… and froze.

My entire place looked like Poseidon’s wet dream.
Water. Everywhere. Ceiling dripping. Kitchen flooded. Pipes must’ve exploded while I was belting “Since U Been Gone.”

I didn’t even think—just dove into my room and grabbed my damn case files.
Then called a plumber while cursing my life in three different legal languages.

Turns out, I’d need to vacate for a few days.
Great. Just fucking great.

So I tossed whatever clothes weren’t wet into a duffel bag, wheeled my suitcase down the hallway, and headed out into the storm, hoping to find a hotel.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t.
No cabs, no Ubers, no mercy.

And just when I was about to collapse on the damn curb…

A sleek black Bentley rolled up like a goddamn movie moment.
The window slid down, and there he was—Nathan freaking Kane.

Leaning back like the king of the universe, his fingers tapping the wheel.
His jawline looked like it was sculpted by vengeance and frozen whiskey.

He gave me a once-over and said with zero warmth:
“Need a ride, or planning to build a fort with those soggy-ass folders?”

I blinked. Then nodded, too exhausted to even pretend I had dignity left.
“Thanks,” I muttered, climbing in.

The car smelled like cedar and secrets.

I told him the name of a hotel nearby.
He ignored me and punched in the address for some high-rise I couldn’t afford in three lifetimes.

Before I could argue, he shut me down.
“That place is shady after dark.”
“Okay, so—”
“My guest suite’s empty.”

Short. Cold. Final.
“Thanks,” I said again.

He just hummed, like he couldn’t be bothered with syllables.

The rest of the ride? Dead silent.

Chapter 4

When we got to his place, I almost passed out.

The moment he opened the door, this insane three-tiered crystal chandelier lit up like it had a personal grudge against darkness.
The whole place looked like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest:
Open floor plan, black marble countertops, glass walls overlooking downtown, mood lighting that screamed “I make partner by breakfast and ruin people by lunch.”

I stood there like an idiot, trying not to drip all over his floors.
Before the door slammed shut on my wet ass, I threw my hand out to stop it.

He glanced back.
“It’s automatic. I had your face scanned.”

The fuck?
I blinked.
“Oh. Cool.”

The door opened again.
Inside was… obscene.
A penthouse with the personality of a Bond villain.

I wandered through the space like a tourist in Versailles.
He watched me silently, then muttered, “Keep that up and you’ll end up with pneumonia. Or dead.”

Right on cue, a gust of cold air hit me through my soaked blouse.
I shivered.

He nodded toward the hallway.
“Bathroom’s down there.”

I grabbed dry clothes from my bag and shuffled off, leaving wet footprints like a sad little duck.

When I got to the bathroom, I stripped, turned the tap—and nothing.
No water.
Tried the tub touchscreen. Nada.
Clearly, this place had more tech than NASA and I had the brain of a potato.

Defeated, I threw on the robe hanging on the back of the door and padded out like a lost puppy.

I found him standing by the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
Downtown L.A. glowed behind him like a freaking postcard.
One hand held a whiskey glass. The other, a thick legal brief.

I cleared my throat.
“Um… Mr. Kane?”

He turned.
His eyes froze on me.
Then his jaw flexed.

“What now?” he asked, voice gravelly.

“The faucet won’t work… and the tub’s got some kind of alien tech I don’t speak.”

He started to answer, but I moved—
And the damn bathrobe caught on the edge of the side table, slipping off my shoulder.
The hem swung open just enough to flash a good six inches of thigh.

I yanked it closed like it owed me rent.
My ears were burning.

His eyes darkened.
His Adam’s apple bobbed once—hard.
It was like the air between us got charged.

Finally, he spoke. Voice low, rough.
“Motion-sensor faucet. You gotta wave under it.”

“And the tub?”

“Touch panel. There’s icons. Not rocket science.”
He looked away fast. Took another gulp of whiskey.

“If you get stuck, the manual’s under the sink.”

“Thanks…” I mumbled, cheeks still on fire.

I finally got clean.
Threw my clothes in his space-age washer and flopped onto the couch.

He was gone.
But the light in the master bedroom was on, and through the frosted glass bathroom door, I could see steam swirling.
So, yeah—he was in there. Naked. Probably.

I sat on the couch, playing it cool.
Okay, not cool. Awkward as hell.

Then I heard footsteps.
I turned.

He walked out, damp hair dripping, shirt sticking to his back, outlining every muscle like it was trying to prove a point.

He nodded toward the hall.
“Your room’s across from mine.”

“Got it.”

And then he did that stupid sexy thing—ran his hand through his wet hair.
His shoulder blades flexed under that crisp white shirt, showing off that ridiculous V-taper every woman on Earth has dreamed about.

I grabbed my suitcase and practically ran.
Behind me, I heard a soft, amused sound—
“Pfft…”

I turned. “What?”

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Okay then. I’m turning in.”

He nodded.
And just like that, I was alone. In a stranger’s apartment.
Correction: in Nathan Kane’s penthouse.

Shit was getting dangerously weird.

Chapter 5

Waking up in an unfamiliar bed always feels weird.
But waking up in this bed?
In a penthouse this shiny, this expensive, this… sterile and cold?

Yeah, it took a few seconds to realize I wasn’t dreaming.

The blackout curtains slid open on their own—some bougie smart-home feature I didn’t even know existed.
Light bounced off a chandelier that looked like it cost more than my student loans, casting glittering shadows on the hand-woven rug.

I lay there, blinking up at the ceiling, one thought circling my brain:

If this wasn’t Nathan Kane’s place, I’d never even breathe this kind of air.

I sat up, looked around, and did the one dumb thing my half-awake brain thought was a good idea—
Make him breakfast.

It was supposed to be a thank-you.
A “hey, sorry I leaked rainwater all over your Italian hardwood” kind of gesture.

I tiptoed into the kitchen, pulled open his fridge—yeah, the kind with touchscreen panels and built-in cameras—and grabbed whatever looked like food.

Thing is… I can boil pasta. Barely.
But cook? Like, real cook?

Yeah, no.

I followed some YouTube tutorial, got halfway through, and ended up with something that smelled like a war crime.
So I ditched the mess and made what I could: a simple bowl of scallion noodles.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was hot. And edible. I think.

I carried it to the dining table just as Nathan walked out of his room, fixing his tie with military precision.

“Mr. Kane,” I said, setting the bowl down, “I made you breakfast.”

The smell of scallions filled the air.
He froze. His hands stopped mid-twist.
And then his entire body went rigid—like I’d just offered him rat poison instead of breakfast.

“Who told you,” he said, each word cold enough to crack glass,
“you could touch my kitchen?”

I blinked, still holding the bowl like a peace offering.

“Who gave you permission?” he snapped again, louder this time.

I opened my mouth to explain, but then the heat from the damn bowl burned my fingers, and I instinctively let go.

CRASH.
Porcelain hit tile. Noodles and broth exploded everywhere—my socks got drenched.

I dropped to the floor, scrambling to grab the shards.

“Leave it,” he said darkly. “Go to your room.”

My whole body froze.
I stood, cheeks burning, and walked away without another word.

But as I passed him, I saw it—
His hand.
Trembling.

He was clenching his fist so hard, the veins stood out.
Was he… shaking?

I turned, hesitant.
“Mr. Kane, are you—?”

“Mind your business.”

That shut me up real quick.

Later, when I came out again, the kitchen looked spotless.
You’d never know I’d spilled boiling noodles and shattered a bowl on that perfect floor.

Nathan was back at the dining table, typing away on his laptop like nothing happened.
I hesitated, then shuffled over and mumbled, “I’m sorry about earlier.”

He barely looked up. “Mm.”

Not sure he heard me, I repeated it a little louder.
Still typing, he said flatly, “I’m not deaf.”

His eyes flicked down to my feet—the socks I’d changed into were still damp at the toes.
Then he went back to typing.

Okay, cool. So the asshole version of Mr. Kane was back. At least he was familiar.

Then the doorbell rang.

He didn’t even look up.
“Grab that for me.”

I opened the door, took the package, and brought it back.

Inside was… a tube of burn ointment.

I stared at it. Then looked down at my feet.
The scald mark on my ankle had already started to blister.

And I just… smiled.

The coldest, bitchiest man in the building had sent burn cream.
Without a word. Without a glance.

Nathan Kane. Walking contradiction. Massive control freak. Closet softie. Certified fucking tsundere.

Chapter 6

I plopped onto the couch and pulled up my pant leg, ready to apply the ointment.
The second I leaned forward, my calf seized up like a bitch—full-on muscle cramp.

“Fuck!” I hissed, trying to stretch it out.
My hand flailed, knocking the ointment tube across the room like a damn hockey puck.

It rolled to the middle of the floor—way out of reach.
And my leg was still cramped as hell.

That’s when the door to the master bedroom opened.

And Nathan Kane stepped out like he owned the whole fucking city.

Tailored black suit. Crisp white shirt. Tie loose around his neck like a noose he hadn’t bothered tightening yet.
Morning sunlight wrapped around him like a spotlight.
Tall. Impossibly sharp. Entirely untouchable.

He took one look at the situation—me, twisted on the floor, foot still cramping, burn cream out of reach—
And closed his eyes like he was in pain just witnessing this level of stupidity.

“Jesus. You’d lose a fight to a paper bag.”

He didn’t even sigh—just walked over, bent down, and picked up the cream.
Held it out to me.

Our fingers brushed.

And something in that contact—something small, electric—made both of us freeze for half a second too long.

Then he pulled back like I’d bitten him.
“I’ve got a meeting,” he muttered, and bolted.

“Right,” I called after him. “Thanks, I guess.”

When he left, I pulled out my case study files and started cramming on the coffee table.
Bar prep was a whole different level of pain.

Two hours in, my phone started buzzing like it was having a seizure.
Caller ID: Mom.

I groaned. Didn’t answer.
She called again. Then again.
Then texted:
PICK UP OR I’M COMING TO YOUR OFFICE.

Fine.

I swiped to answer.

The second I said “Hello,” she went off like a goddamn siren.

“Nina Shaw! You think you’re too good to answer your mother now?!”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, so you do remember you have a mother!”

“Can we not do this right now?”

“Don’t you talk back to me! I introduced you to that nice young man last week. Why didn’t you meet him?!”

“Mom, I’m studying. I’ve got the bar coming up—”

“The bar? Again with the bar?! You’ve been ‘studying for the bar’ for two damn years, Nina!
You’re a woman. What’s the point of law school if you can’t land a husband with it?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“And now that boy’s dating someone else. You keep waiting around and all you’ll get is other people’s leftovers!”

“Okay, okay—I got it.”

“You better! Or I swear—!”

I hung up before she could finish the threat.

Sweet, blissful silence.

I made a cup of coffee. Went back to my notes.

By the time night fell, I was so deep in constitutional case law, I didn’t hear the door until it closed.

I looked up and practically jumped.
Nathan was on the couch, sleeves rolled up, jacket gone.

“When did you get back?” I asked, startled.

He smirked. “Right before you decided chewing your nail off would help you memorize due process.”

My face flushed.

I scrambled to collect my notes, about to run away and die in my room, when he said—
“Free lesson?”

I stopped.

“What?”

“I can teach you how to get through in five minutes what’s taking you three hours.”

I stared at him.

And then, like an idiot, I smiled so big it probably cracked something.
“Mr. Kane… please be my tutor.”

Chapter 7

I brought him a cup of coffee like some kind of offering to the gods.
Nathan Kane took it without a glance, flipped through my notes—and immediately made that face. The one that said, “You just offended my entire legal pedigree.”

“Pink for exclusionary rule. Green for presumption of innocence,” he muttered.
Then he looked up, brows raised.
“You assigning crimes based on color now, Shaw?”

I opened my mouth to defend myself—then remembered what I’d scribbled in the corner of that page.
Too late.

He caught it. Read it.
Then did the unthinkable—he laughed.
“‘Probably a decent guy’? You judging suspects or swiping on Bumble?”

I gave a weak laugh, tried to slide that page out of view.
No use. His eyes were already on the chaos surrounding me.
Flashcards. Casebooks. Crumpled drafts. Empty coffee cups.

He shook his head in that I’m-disappointed-but-not-surprised way.
“Pathetically inefficient and caffeinated beyond function. Classic rookie move.”

Then he leaned down.
His frame blocked the light, cedar scent hitting me like a soft ambush.
He tapped one case I’d highlighted like a damn rainbow.

“Let’s begin.”

His voice dropped half an octave. The tailored collar of his suit grazed my cheek as he leaned over.
I froze, momentarily distracted by the proximity—until he jabbed at my notebook.

“How long have you been stuck on this one?”

“Almost an hour…” I mumbled.

He exhaled like I just told him I thought the Earth was flat.
Grabbed a pen. Drew one line through the case brief, circled two key phrases.

“Five minutes, Shaw. That’s all it takes. You’re drowning in fluff and missing the damn anchors.”

He started annotating, fast and precise. His notes cut straight through my confusion like a scalpel.
No wasted words. No condescension.
Just… clarity.

“Your logic chain’s a mess. No foundation. No structure. You’re reading like a headless chicken chasing a bar license.”

Brutal. But accurate.
My cheeks burned, but I couldn’t look away.
It was like watching gears lock into place in real time.

Five minutes later, I got it.

And then I remembered.
Last month, at our firm’s annual mock trial, Nathan Kane had dismantled our team’s argument in three questions flat.
We’d prepped for days. He shredded us in minutes.
That was the moment I first—reluctantly—admired him.

But now?
Watching him tear through my chaos like a machine?

It wasn’t just admiration anymore.
It was full-blown awe.

I scrambled to grab another stack of material.
“Next case?”

He quirked a brow.
“You’ve been cramming all day. My surveillance cams don’t lie.”

I blinked. “Wait—surveillance?”

He ignored that.

“Your brain’s fried. That’s not how you retain shit.”

I glanced at the time. 1:00 a.m.
Outside, the city was a sea of velvet and neon.

I rubbed my eyes, hesitating.
“I just… I wanna keep going.”

He saw right through it.
“The next lesson’s at nine a.m. sharp.”

A stupid grin crept up my face.
“Thanks, Mr. Kane.”

He raised an eyebrow.
“Now get your ass to bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

I practically skipped back to my room like a caffeinated law school intern.
Behind me, I heard him chuckle—just once—before sipping his coffee.
But the curve of his lips lingered.