Chapter 7
“Political bloody correctness,” Pringle agreed.
For a moment, Max was locked in place, common sense warring with rage. Fury boiled and bubbled inside him, desperate to burst out. It was met by common sense, trying to hold the line, trying to tell fury Max needed this job and he needed to keep it buttoned and pretend he heard nothing.
He unfroze and shoved the door open, rudely, no knock. The two senior partners looked at him with surprise. He marched to the table and, for a second, he nearly scattered the tray of coffee things across it. But if he did, it would be Mrs Barstow clearing it up later, not either of these two complacent bastards. Instead, he slammed it hard, making everything on it rattle and jump. The solicitors stared.