Practice Makes Perfect by Julie James

thought of the money you’ll bring in with your connections. Or your father’s connections, I should say.”
    She was being mean, really mean, and she knew it. But Payton couldn’t seem to stop herself—the floodgates had opened and all the emotions of the last twenty minutes were pouring out.
    She saw J.D.’s eyes flash with anger. “Oh, but what about what you can give them, Payton?”
    “This should be good. Enlighten me.”
    “Diversity. If they chose you, the Partnership Committee can pat themselves on the back for hiring the right demographic.”
    With a loud slam, Payton threw the book she had been holding onto the shelf next to her. Dust flew everywhere, including onto the sleeve of J.D.’s jacket. “Diversity?” she repeated incredulously. “Why don’t you look around this firm sometime—everyone here is just like you, J.D. White with a penis.”
    Ignoring this, J.D. pointed to the dust on his sleeve. “Take it easy on the suit, cupcake. This was hand-tailored in London.”
    “Oh—I’m sorry. I guess you’ll just have to pick up another one the next time you visit Her Majesty for tea. Isn’t she another friend of the family?” Angrily, Payton shoved J.D. out of her way and stormed through the stacks.
    J.D. followed after her. “Are you saying I don’t deserve this?” he demanded. “I’ve billed over twenty-nine hundred hours for the past eight years!”
    Payton whipped around. “So have I! And the only difference between you and me is that statistics say you’re more likely to keep it up. The firm doesn’t worry that one day you’ll decide you want to leave at five to kiss your kids good night.”
    J.D. stepped closer to her. Then closer again, literally trapping her against the bookshelves.
    “Spare me the feminist rant, Payton. It’s getting a little tired. I’ve had to work my ass off to get where I am, while you had your ticket written from the minute you stepped into this firm.”
    Payton felt her face flush with anger. “Really? Well, you know what I think, J.D.?” She jabbed his chest with one of her fingers. “I think that you are an uptight, pony-owning, trickle-down-economics-loving, Scotch-on-the-rocks-drinking, my-wife-better-take-my-last-name sexist jerk !”
    J.D. grabbed her hand and pulled it away. “Well, at least I’m not a stubborn, button-pushing, Prius-driving, chip-on-your-shoulder-holding, ‘stay-at-home-mom’-is-the-eighth-dirty-word-thinking feminazi !”
    He had her pressed against the bookshelves, his body against hers, her hand pinned to her side as he glared down at her. She glared up at him right back.
    He was furious. So was she.
    Neither of them moved. And in that moment, the strangest thought popped into Payton’s head.
    She had the feeling that J.D. was going to kiss her.
    And—even stranger—she had a feeling that she just might let him.
    J.D. must have read the look on her face. Payton saw his eyes flash—but not with anger this time—and she felt his hand suddenly reach for the nape of her neck, the strength of his arms pulling her in, his head bending down to hers, and even as she cursed him for thinking she would ever, ever allow it, she closed her eyes and parted her lips and—
    “Excuse me.”
    The shock of the voice hit Payton like a cold bucket of ice.
    She blinked as if coming out of a fog, and both she and J.D. turned their heads to see Agnes standing at the end of the aisle, waving at them. Payton could only imagine how it looked, the two of them wild-eyed and pressed up against each other.
    But the amiable librarian was either extremely discreet or more likely—given the Coke-bottle-sized glasses perched high atop her nose—extremely blind. She smiled at them as they stood there, frozen.
    “I just wanted to remind you that we close in ten minutes,” she said pleasantly.
    “Thank you, Agnes,” Payton said, her breath ragged. Perhaps if they didn’t move, the octogenarian couldn’t see them. Like T. rex.
    “We’ll be