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“I’m not sure. I’ll ask.” For a second, he seems distracted, scanning me, his dark eyes lingering on my body. Making sure I’m okay? No way. “Do you want dinner? I’m going to order.”
I don’t have money for that. Just like I don’t have money to order lunch. I have $11 in my bank account and a credit card bill to pay. Rent. Food. My dad’s doctor’s appointments. I also didn’t bring enough food for dinner. Shit. “No, thanks,” I say calmly, and go back to my desk.
An hour later, building staff drops by with a takeout bag. Jonah tips them handsomely from what I can see out of the corner of my eye. Because of course he does. Soon, the smell of pasta drifts from his office. My stomach gurgles hungrily, and I shift in my seat to cover the sound.
“Thompson. There’s a ton of food in here. Do you want anything?”
“I’m good,” I say, and go back to putting together an email for the lawyers on what documents I need. Just a few more minutes, and then I can work on the paper. The printer needs the final layout by two a.m., four a.m. if Ray is working, because he’s a whiz with the press. I really hope Ray is working. I finish the email and start going through the photos I have for the week. We don’t have a headline article. My dad’s piece on the asbestos in the local school hit a snag when the school board denied our interview requests. I haven’t been able to work for a week, and we just have…nothing. Maybe it is time for the rat infestation article. Ugh. My stomach growls again, and I leap out of my chair. There are snacks in the break room. I’ll go, grab a bag of peanuts, scarf it in the bathroom, and keep working.
“Thompson.” Jonah’s voice comes from behind me, and I startle. “Eat something.” He looms over me, arms crossed. His eyes are wary, and his body practically radiates irritation. “I don’t want you collapsing on the job. Let’s go.”
“Fine.” I follow him into the office and sit in the chair across from his desk. It’s a mess of papers, with takeout containers scattered about. There’s penne a la vodka, meatballs, broccoli rabe. My stomach growls again, and I blush.
“What do you like?” he asks.
“What? Oh. You’re serious.” He’s staring at me. “Um, I’m not picky.”
He raises a brow. “I asked you a question.”
“Fine. I like penne and meatballs, but I hate how bitter broccoli rabe is. It’s like broccoli’s sad cousin.”
His mouth tips up as he prepares me a plate. On real flatware. He must keep it in the office.
“Do you eat in here a lot?” I tip my head toward the plate.
“A fair amount.” He passes me the plate and some silverware. It gleams like real silver and I want to laugh.
“More than you’d like to admit, then.”
“Stop snooping and eat.” His voice is milder than earlier, though. I don’t think he’s even annoyed at me, just reacting out of habit. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.
“What if I’m trying to get to know you?”
He makes a disagreeable sound but doesn’t respond. The food is good. Really good, actually, and I tell him that.
“It’s from the place on the corner of Lexington. Italian Table.”
“You order takeout from there?” I shake my head, smiling. “It’s good to be you.”
“Is this going to end up in an article somewhere?”
“Diets of the rich and famous? You’ll never believe this one weird trick.” I smile at him and there’s a glimmer of a smile back. Hope springs in my heart, because I’m an idiot who can’t stop trying to see the good in people. For a few minutes at least, Jonah Crown looks like he doesn’t hate me.
I eat as quickly as possible, because Jonah doesn’t seem inclined to let me go before I finish.
“Why did you turn down dinner tonight? And lunch?” he asks, as I’m chewing my final bite.
I lick my lips and look up to see his gaze rapt on my mouth. Well, that’s unsettling. And hot. Ugh, you idiot. “I, uh, don’t have meals out in the budget right now. And since I’ve been paying for your lunches, I doubly don’t.”
For a second, he looks stricken. “You didn’t expense them?”
“Why do you care?” I don’t mean it in a flippant way. I’m genuinely puzzled. “Torture means torture, right? I’m supposed to suffer. I assumed paying for your lunch was part of that.” I didn’t even ask because I assumed the answer would be no. I rise and stack my plate neatly on top of his. “Anyways, thanks for dinner. Do you want me to bring these plates to the building’s kitchen?”
“Leave them.” His voice is rough.
We don’t speak for the rest of the night. Somehow, I fall asleep at my desk, and when I wake up around three a.m., there’s a stack of cash next to me with a note.
Take the money, or you’re fired.
