Mis-Judge By His Secretary

Eleanor Tiptoeing out of my apartment felt like trying to sneak past a sleeping bear; only the bear in this case was Orson, my landlord and self-appointed hall monitor. He was always lurking in the hallway, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting tenants with overdue rent. And I was Public Enemy Number One. Not that I was trying to stiff him, I wasn’t. But when you’re down to your last twenty bucks, “pay the landlord” doesn’t exactly top the list of priorities. Food and electricity have their place too, you know. Peeking over my shoulder, I made sure the coast was clear. No Orson. Thank God. My heart did a little victory dance as I slid into the ancient elevator, a creaky box of doom that always made me wonder if today would be the day it finally gave up the ghost and plummeted me into oblivion. The thought wasn’t as terrifying as it probably should have been. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about rent anymore. As the doors rattled shut, I blew out a relieved breath and shifted my bag higher on my shoulder. Today was important. Huge. This was my shot; an interview at the courthouse for a job as a judge’s secretary. A real, grown-up job. Okay, so “secretary” wasn’t exactly the career I had envisioned while drowning in student loans and pulling all-nighters in college, but desperate times and all that. Besides, the paycheck was all that mattered right now. Mom and Dad couldn’t keep holding down the fort on their own. Mom was a retired preschool teacher who still tried to stretch a dollar like it was yoga, and Dad spent his days driving a taxi and his nights icing his bad back. Then there was my younger brother. Well, he wasn’t actually my brother, but he was definitely my responsibility, and junior high wasn’t cheap. The point was, I needed this job. My savings were down to crumbs, my pride wasn’t far behind, and moving back in with my parents wasn’t an option. Not because I didn’t love them, but because I couldn’t stand hearing Mom say, “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll figure it out,” while Dad tried to secretly slip me gas money. It hurt too much. I glanced at my watch. Still on time. Barely. Last night, I had tried to research the judge I would be working for. Maybe get a sense of what I was walking into. No dice. The man was a ghost online; no social media, no courthouse gossip, nothing. All I could hope was that he wasn’t some cranky, ancient fossil who smelled like mothballs and believed in nineteen fifties gender roles. But even if he was, I would take it. I didn’t have the luxury of being picky. Bitter old man or not, I would charm my way into this job… or die trying. Thankfully, when I got downstairs, a random taxi was idling at the curb like it had been summoned by the universe specifically for me. A miracle. I raised my hand, and the driver gave me a small nod as I slid into the backseat, adjusting the strap of my bag. “225 Cadman Plaza East, Brooklyn,” I said, trying to sound calm and composed; like a woman who totally had her life together. The driver gave another nod, and we pulled into the morning traffic. I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding and let my head fall back against the seat. My mind wandered, uninvited, to my last job. Specifically, my sleazeball of a boss who had the audacity to fire me because I wouldn’t agree to “let him take me out for dinner.” Dinner, my ass. The thought alone made me cringe. God, I hated that guy. Finding a job in New York was hard. Keeping one? Nearly impossible… especially if you had the audacity to be over twenty-five and refused to stroke egos or… other things. Twenty-seven wasn’t exactly ancient, but in this city, it felt like it. Twenty-seven, drowning in debt, and still clawing at the surface for a chance to breathe. That’s why I had to nail this interview. The ad said the pay was between eighty and ninety grand a year. Do you know what that kind of money could do for me? Rent, bills, groceries, and dare I dream, a small dent in my student loans. This was my shot, and I couldn’t afford to screw it up. About fifteen minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside the United States District Court for the Eastern District of New York. I handed over a crumpled twenty, muttering a “keep the change” like I was Rockefeller, and stepped out, immediately hit by the imposing sight of the courthouse steps. I glanced at my watch. Just a few minutes to spare. No time to waste. Gripping my bag tighter, I started up the stairs at a near-jog, my eyes glued to my feet to avoid tripping over them. One step, two steps, three… SMACK. I slammed face-first into what felt like a brick wall. Except… walls didn’t smell like expensive cologne and masculinity. Before I could fully process what had just happened, I stumbled backward, gravity pulling me down toward humiliation. But then… strong hands, warm and steady, caught me by the waist and yanked me upright. “What the f**k,” a deep voice said. My hands instinctively flew to the solid chest in front of me. And oh, it was solid. Broad, warm, and… no, Eleanor, focus. I looked up… and promptly forgot how to speak. I wasn’t kidding, I forgot how to speak, and breathe, and do anything right, because I just froze. The man staring down at me had sharp, chiseled features and eyes that could make a nun think unholy thoughts. His suit fit him like it had been hand-stitched by angels, and the way his mouth quirked into a smirk made me feel entirely too warm for someone standing outside in the middle of October. He looked down at me with a blank, cool expression, his features sharp and unreadable. He was tall… too tall, really… and his tailored suit screamed power and authority. Dark eyes, devoid of warmth, flicked over me like he was assessing damage. “You should watch where you’re going,” he said, his tone measured and detached, like he couldn’t be bothered to care whether I lived or died. “You’re an adult, so you shouldn’t be clumsy.” He added. My cheeks flamed. “I… I’m so sorry,” I stammered, pulling myself upright as his hand released me. “I wasn’t paying attention.” I said. He didn’t respond. He didn’t even offer a smile or a nod or anything that suggested he had even heard me. Instead, he straightened his cuffs, glanced at the courthouse entrance, and walked away without a second look. I stood there, blinking after him, torn between feeling grateful he had caught me and furious at how utterly dismissive he had been. Who did he think he was? Grunting, I forced my mind back to the present. The past didn’t matter… the ass didn’t matter. What mattered was the interview I was about to nail. I continued up the stairs, pushed through the courthouse doors, and navigated my way to the private section where the judges had their offices. Nathan West. That was the name of the judge I was here to impress. Judge Nathan West. It sounded serious. Intimidating. When I finally found his office, I stepped into the small reception area. Three other women were already there, perched on the edge of their seats. And they looked perfect. Polished skirts, tailored blouses, sensible heels. Even their hair was flawless; sleek buns and twists that screamed “I’m ready to work for a judge, and I’ll do it in style.” I glanced down at my plain black pants and my white blouse with its faint green trim. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great, but it was the best I had. My lucky outfit. And boy, did I need that luck to kick in right now. One by one, the other women were called in. I waited. And waited. Until finally, it was my turn. I stood, smoothing my pants and tucking my shirt in tighter, as though that would magically make me look more professional. Then I squared my shoulders and walked into the office The room was neat… minimalist. A wall of shelves stacked with books. A single plant by the window. And behind a large desk, the chair was turned away, its occupant hidden from view. I hesitated, my fingers tightening on the strap of my bag. “Um, hello?” I said, my voice wavering just a bit. Nothing. No response. I cleared my throat and shifted on my feet. Was this some kind of test? Like one of those psychological games where they evaluate how you handle awkward silences? But before I could overthink it further, the chair swiveled around. And holy. Freaking. Hell. It was him. The man I had bumped into on the courthouse steps… the living, breathing brick wall with the impossibly sharp jawline and the kind of eyes that could cut you in half. Only now, he wasn’t just him. He was Judge Nathan West. This had to be a mistake. Or a prank. Or some kind of cruel cosmic joke. Because judges were supposed to be old and balding. Maybe a little paunchy. Not… this. Not young. Not gorgeous. I blinked, struggling to find words, but nothing came out. He didn’t even flinch at the recognition on my face. He just sat there, cool and composed, staring at me like I was a paperclip that had somehow found its way onto his pristine desk. “You must be Eleanor,” he said, his deep voice calm, measured… like the ticking of a clock that was running out of patience. I nodded dumbly, my mouth dry. Because not only was I in over my head… I was drowning.