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I exhale in relief and work for hours, losing track of time, when the cellphone on my desk beeps, jolting me in surprise.
Marlow?
Besides Callie and Maddy, he is pretty much the only person who can possibly contact me.
But the beep on my phone is a text from Archer.
The fact that he is my boss still feels weird, but there is no way around it.
Archer: Are you good with Italian food?
I catch myself holding my breath.
Me: Sure.
In twenty minutes, Archer is back in his office, and one of his assistants, a short brunette in her twenties, arranges the take-out containers on his desk as I get another text.
Archer: My office.
“You don’t go out with your friends and employees for lunch?” I ask as I step into his office and the assistant motions to the chair across the desk from Archer.
“I don’t go out. No.” He picks up a plate and puts a modest piece of chicken marinara on it, then motions toward my plate. “Help yourself.”
He looks different today. Better. The swelling from his bruises is down, and his black eye has faded to yellowish, which makes him look normal again. To be precise—like the perfect Greek God that he is, one strand of his tousled dark hair falling down on his face.
God, do I want to play with it.
His v-neck long-sleeved shirt shows off part of his chest and the Cuban links. I wonder what he looks like in a suit, but I’m glad he dresses casually, which makes him approachable.
I’d love to just sit and drool over the sight of him. But even throwing occasional glances is sketchy as he seems to be constantly studying me.
I load up my plate with food and take a seat. “So the rumors are wrong?”
“Which ones?”
“That you don’t eat anything but cognac.”
Silence follows, and I raise my eyes to meet Archer’s cold ones.
“That depends on the date,” he says, a corner of his lips hitching in a smile.
“Out of line,” I blurt. “Sorry.”
Shit. Right. We are not friends. This is work.
To prove my point, Archer asks, “How’s work going?” as he cuts a small piece of his chicken and, not taking his eyes off me, puts it in his mouth.
Seeing this gorgeous guy eat is another thing that makes him more approachable.
“It’s been half a day. I’m getting to it,” I say, trying to sound confident.
The truth is, I’m not sure what I’m looking for yet.
I explain to Archer that I will separate the files of the security employees with any Eastern-European ties.
“It’s common sense.” I shrug as I eat penne pasta in the most amazing sauce I’ve ever had. “And I doubt that Tsariuk is that obvious, but it’s a start.”
Archer nods.
