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Just a few minutes later, there’s a sound behind me, and I turn to see Saxon standing in front of my desk, reading from a sheaf of A4.
He looks up at me. “You finished typing the report.”
“Yeah.” I close the cabinet drawer. “You’re right, it was quite technical. I hope I haven’t screwed up too much.”
He stares at the page. “It’s perfect.”
“Oh.” I can’t help but feel a little thrill at the compliment from the nerd/geek. “I’m glad.”
He flicks one of the sheets up. “You say there are a few seconds of the audio file you couldn’t make out.”
“Yeah. It happens.”
“But you put the source code in.”
“I did what I thought would fit, that’s all.”
He stares at me. “You know PHP?”
I feel a flicker of worry. Oh shit, maybe he’s precious about his coding. “Um, yeah… I can take it out if you like. I was just trying to help…”
He looks back at the page. “You also put: I saw an ad for a PHP developer for a porn site the other day. It was really attractive, but I don’t know if I could bring myself to admit before my friends and family that I do PHP.” His eyes rise to mine.
It’s an industry joke based on the fact that some programmers think the code has issues and prefer to use something like C++ or Java, and therefore they’re more worried about admitting they use PHP than that they use porn. I assumed he’d get it. But as he continues to stare at me, my smile fades. “I thought it was funny. I was trying to brighten your day.” I bite my lip. “Sorry, in retrospect I can see how it might appear unprofessional.”
He lowers the sheaf of papers to the desk, then puts his hands on his hips.
“Am I fired?” I ask.
He gives a short laugh. “Get your coat,” he instructs. “I’m taking you to lunch.”
“I’m not fired?” I say hopefully.
“No, Miss O’Clery, you’re not fired.” He lifts his brown coat from the coat hook and tugs it on while I scramble into my wet black jacket, and then gestures with his head to the doorway. “Come on.”
I follow him out of the building, and he leads me across the road and starts walking toward the collection of shops at the end of the road. “You all right to walk?” he asks.
“I’m pregnant, not disabled.”
“Okay, Miss Smart-Arse, but you did also pass out on me this morning.”
“That was from the shock of seeing you.”
“I do tend to have that effect on women.”
I give an exasperated huff. He smirks.
We continue to walk in silence for a few minutes until we reach the shops.
He slows outside a sign that says Frankie’s. It’s small and quaint, a restaurant rather than a café, and the menu declares it’s French cuisine. I look at the menu pinned to the window. Jesus, one hundred and forty-five dollars for three courses! Do people really pay that for food? I stare through the window at the small, intimate tables on which three different forks and knives sit either side of the placemats.
Saxon opens the door and goes in, then turns and beckons to me. When I don’t move, he frowns and walks back to me. “Come on. I’m starving.”
I don’t say anything.
He looks over his shoulder at the interior, then back at me. “I didn’t mean to imply it’s a romantic dinner, I swear. I bring clients here all the time. It’s a nice place, good food—I thought you might like a treat.”
I shake my head, feeling the blood drain from my face. I wouldn’t know what to order or which fork to use. I couldn’t eat in there any more than fly to the moon.
