I glare.
“Jesus,” she continues. “That guy’s a walking HR violation. But he’s got an ass that won’t quit. Maybe you should violate it so you’re not so grumpy.”
I lean forward and bury my face in my hands with a groan. “No,” I say, lifting my head. “You don’t fuck where you eat. Or whatever the saying is.”
Jen hums thoughtfully. “Speaking of,” she says, glancing toward the outer desk, “I see you have a new assistant—”
I cut her off immediately, pointing at her.
“No. You absolutely will not.”
She grins.
“Now go review those redlines,” I say. “We need to get this contract out.”
Jen stands with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Harsh my bisexual queen vibe, why don’t you?” She walks toward the door, then pauses. “You’re crankier than usual, actually,” she tuts. “Maybe you should fire your intern and help him with his oral fixation, hmm?”
I blink at her, then point firmly at the door. “Get out.”
She laughs, waves me off, and steps into the hallway. “I’ll swing by at lunch.” The door closes behind her.
I wake my laptop and glance at the clock in the corner of the screen. 7:58 a.m.
I lean back in my chair.
This is going to be a long day.
Five
Semi-Charmed Life
Ryan
When I was a kid, I spent countless dinners at my best friend Bobby’s house. His mom, Trish, was a culinary expert and prominent food critic in North Carolina. Their gourmet kitchen always smelled like butter and herbs and something caramelizing in the oven, and to this day, I can’t walk into a kitchen like that without thinking of her.
One night, while we were enjoying one of her ridiculous meals—braised short ribs, I think—Trish reached across the table and placed her hand lightly over my little wrist.
I looked up at her.
“I’ve noticed, Ryan,” she said softly, “that while my son and husband inhale their dinners, you seem to be on a slow mission to capture each forkful of food.”
I froze.
I remember heat flooding my face. Mortification, pure and simple. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I didn’t like her cooking. On the contrary, dinners at the Winthrop house were the highlight of my week.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Winthrop,” I said quietly.
She shook her head, set her wineglass down, and smiled. “No, don’t mistake my meaning. It’s a good thing.”
I must have looked confused, because she chuckled softly. “You’re not being a slowpoke, Ryan. You’re carefully selecting every mouthful.”
Her eyes sparkled over the rim of her glass. “Do you know what we call that in the culinary arts?”
I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”
She leaned forward slightly. “That,” she said, “is what we call la bouchée parfait—the perfect bite.”
I looked down at my plate.
