He holds my gaze, the smoldering stare singeing every nerve in my body.
One second, two seconds, three.
At four seconds, one side of his mouth tilts up in a smirk, the secret smile just for me.
Finally, he breaks eye contact and focuses his attention on my lunch companions.
“You must be Marisol.” He extends a hand to the woman sitting across from me.
“And of course, the third in our rep assess team trifecta: Silas,” he adds, shaking my other colleague’s hand.
I’m impressed. How many team principals can so easily name new hires the way he just did? Marisol and Silas both look a bit starstruck, so it’s safe to say they appreciate the consideration.
Alaric mentions his enthusiasm for our department, emphasizing how much he’s looking forward to seeing the first week of data, before moving on to ask about lunch.
“Did you enjoy the barbecue? Our culinary team prides themselves in offering authentic local cuisine as often as they can.”
Marisol nods.
Silas rubs his flat stomach, groaning. “It was delicious. I ate way too much. Pretty sure I put away my share as well as Evangeline’s.”
Alaric turns my way, a confused scowl painted on his face. “You didn’t eat?”
“I ate,” I retort, holding up my lunchbox.
He homes in on the pink and purple container, then lifts one eyebrow in challenge. “All meals are covered for Granata employees,” he explains. “It’s part of your compensation package.”
I press my lips together and try to hold my nerve. Maybe he really doesn’t remember our time together last weekend.
“I’m a picky eater,” I remind him, going for flippant. “I don’t mind packing.”
His scowl morphs into a hard glare. He quickly wipes the expression from his face, but not before I clock it.
He’s displeased by my response.
My stomach sinks. Shit.
The shame that flares to life brings with it a string of memories revolving around the displeasure my eating habits often evoke. As a kid, it took years to receive a diagnosis and for my parents to come to terms with my limited palate and genuine inability to consume certain foods. When I was an adolescent, other kids would start rumors about my restrictive diet. Luca teased me relentlessly, routinely dismissing my diagnosis. And he honestly thought compliments about my body would somehow magically cure me of my disordered eating. Except ARFID isn’t linked to body image or perception like most eating disorders. It’s rooted in sensory processing, something my ex couldn’t seem to grasp.
I’m hard to go out to eat with. That’s a fact. Even when I look over menus in advance, I don’t always know how I’ll feel when it’s time to actually eat. It’s stressful not knowing whether I’ll like a food based on the flavors or the texture or even how it breaks down in my mouth as I’m chewing.
Providing my own food should be a nonissue. I’m here to work, and I want to do it well. I can make that easier for myself and for my whole team by packing safe foods and sticking with what’s familiar. That way I minimize the anxiety associated with eating.
Blessedly, rather than press the issue, Alaric makes a bit more small talk with my coworkers before saying goodbye and moving on to another table.
Silas and Marisol exchange an intense look, then, in unison, they turn their focus to me.
“You actuallyknowAlaric Steele?” Silas hisses.
Surprised by the shock in his tone, I freeze. What am I supposed to say to that?
Hedging my options, I decide to come clean to my colleagues. It’ll be easier than trying to hide my connection to the Steele family.
“I’ve met Alaric before,” I say, nodding and hoping like hell this next part lands casually. “I dated his son for a while.”
I leave it at that. They don’t need to know that Luca and I were in a long-term relationship, that we practically lived together, or that when he broke up with me and left me with a shitload of debt, his father found me lying in the driveway and took pity on me, offering me this job.
Silas slaps the tabletop. “YoudatedLuca Steele?”
