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“You’re five minutes and thirty seconds late, Ms. Adler,” he barks as soon as I’m inside and I slowly close my eyes to rein in the need to lash out.
“There was traffic.”
“I don’t give a fuck about traffic. When I say twelve thirty, do I mean twelve thirty-five?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
I stare at him. Or maybe it’s something a bit more intense than a stare when I grit out, “No, sir.”
His eyes meet mine and I’m trapped in a cage so wild and dark, I regret actually making eye contact with him.
What was my resolution about Daniel, anyway?
“Are you glaring at me, Ms. Adler?”
I shake my head.
“Then lose the attitude and lower your fucking eyes.”
I purse my lips and stare at my shoes, chanting.
This is for Jay.
You need this job now more than any other time.
You can’t throw the takeout bag in his stupid gorgeous face and leave.
“Are you going to get me the food or should I wait another five minutes?”
I walk so forcefully that I trip, but I catch myself and the food at the last second. That only makes Daniel impatient, because he’s throwing poisonous arrows my way from behind his desk.
After placing the bag down, I straighten. “For your information, your chef, Ms. Katerina, refused to give me steak and insisted that you have her precious menu du jour, even though I repeated twice that you don’t like pesto and parmesan. So I would appreciate it if you don’t blame me for this. It clearly isn’t my mistake and I don’t want to pay for other people’s stubbornness and lack of cooperation. Oh, and she sends her regards. Sorry, I mean her love. Now, if you don’t need anything else.”
I turn around to leave, realizing I kind of just had a mini-rant in front of him, which is possibly frowned upon in his stoicism dictionary.
But I can’t help it. The accumulation of meeting him again, what happened earlier, and the custody suit are turning my head to mush.
“Stop.” Daniel’s authoritative word makes my feet halt. “Turn around.”
I slowly do, my heart thundering in my chest. Please don’t tell me he’ll act on his threats and fire me this time.
“How do you know I don’t eat parmesan and pesto?”
His question catches me off guard. Out of all the word vomit I just said, that’s what he got out of it?
I clear my throat, summoning nonchalance. “It must be in the million requirements you sent me.”
“No, it wasn’t, and I told you to drop the attitude before I find an unpleasant way to extort it out of you. Now, tell me how you know about my preferences regarding parmesan and pesto?”
“I just know it. Why is that important?”
“I never shared it with you, so how did you find out?”
“I must’ve overheard one of the other assistants mention it.”
“Liar.” He stands up and my heart squeezes when he stalks toward me. The moment I smell him, the pine and lime and bergamot, I become drunk.
