Page 17 of Lying to the Boss

Once Tage removes his things from the cart, he’ll put it out into the hall and it’ll get picked up.

The bedroom is spacious, as they usually are. Decorated minimally in calming blue tones with pops of burnt orange. The bed is king-sized, and there is a bathroom to the left. I can spot the tub from here, and I will most certainly be indulging in that later.

I unpack my clothes, hanging them in the closet and putting them away in the drawers. Toiletries go in the bathroom, laid out on the sink for easy access. No matter how long my stay is, I always unpack my things. It makes me feel more organized. Digging through a suitcase to look for a sock or a matching shirt is for children. When everything is unpacked, I head back into the main living area to find Tage smiling down at his phone.

“Care to share?” I say, moving to stand in front of him.

“No,” he says, not looking up at me.

“Do you have friends?”

Frowning, he looks up at me. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not very nice. I was just wondering if you had friends.”

Anger crosses his face, and he says, “I found a place for dinner. It’s a ten-minute drive.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

I clap my hands and head toward the door.

I insist on driving, because I don’t trust him to do that yet. And I enjoy showing him I’m capable of taking care of myself and that I’m not the baby he thinks I am. Though, I can’t tell if he actually thinks that, or if he’s just messing with me. He’s hard to read.

The restaurant has valet, and Tage assured me he has made reservations.

I give my name once inside, and immediately we’re led to a table beside an indoor garden with a water fountain; the water trickling loud enough to hear over the classical music playing from the speakers disguised as rocks. I think it’s cheesy, but it works for the Grecian theme they have going on in here. Decor, I couldn’t care less about. The chocolate cake better be top tier, though.

We go through the rigmarole of waiter introductions, specials, and drink and appetizer orders.

The menu has zero photos on it, as they typically don’t in places like this when the prices are high, as if that means the food is good. Some of the best food I’ve ever had was from the food trucks in New York City. Less than ten dollars for a container stuffed so full you can eat from it two to three times. Money doesn’t make things good; it just gives the illusion that it is. People believe it. And the cycle goes on.

“So, have you ever been to Connecticut before?” I ask. “Other than passing through, of course.”

“Yes,” he says, eyes on the menu even though I know he isn’t reading it.

“Do anything fun?”

“Not really.”

“What area have you been to?” I push.

He huffs. “All over.” The annoyance is clear, and I don’t like that it stings. I shouldn’t care if he likes me, but damn, I really want him to.

“Would it kill you to pretend you want to be here?” I ask.

His eyes snap up to meet mine, full of rage and fire. But only for a second or two. They settle, softening, until he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t force you into this position, Tage,’ I say.

“I know that.”

“If you didn’t want it, you didn’t have to take it.”

“I was a little desperate.”

“So, the only reason you took it was because you were desperate?” I ask.