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“No,” he says shortly. “I don’t gamble.”
He leans forward, meeting the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Drop me off first. There’s an extra hundred in it for you.”
“Dropmeoff first,” I say. “Please. I can’t be late. I can give you...” I rack my brains, “a pumpkin spice bagel.”
“You’re both going to the same block,” the driver says, in a voice that suggests his day has already been far too long.
“Oh.” I hesitate. “Do you still want the bagel or...?”
“Please stop talking,” the driver says, as he turns up the radio and pulls out into the ruthless Manhattan traffic.
We drive for a few blocks, until the silence is broken by my stomach growling. My ears burn. “I didn’t eat breakfast,” I explain.
“I don’tcare,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s a nice nose, with a prominent bridge to keep it from being too perfect. Like the profile you see on old Roman statues of ancient gods. If the ancient god in question was really annoyed.
I shift my focus to trying to inch my bagel out of the bag one handed since there’s no place to set my coffee down.
It takes about fifteen seconds of inefficient paper rustling for the Suit’s patience to snap.
He grabs my coffee from me. “Just eat the damn thing.”
I don’t say thank you, because it’shim,but I don’t argue either.
I scarf the bagel down, sighing happily as the melted butter and rich nutty taste fills my mouth.
The Suit eyes me out of the corner of his eyes, his jaw tightening. He probably disapproves of women who enjoy eating. He looks like the type who expects his dates to order salads and spend their mornings on a stationary bike.
Not that I have a problem with stationary bikes. Just men who buy them for you for your birthday, then break up with you a month later, leaving you with a giant machine you didn’t want taking up most of the space in your tiny apartment.
It’s possible I’m projecting onto the Suit a tiny bit.
“What’s your opinion on stationary bikes?” I ask the man around a mouthful of bagel.
He looks pained and turns away from me without answering. He raises one of the coffees he’s holding to his lips, then chokes, coughs, and lets out a vicious “Fuck.”
“I think you drank mine,” I say mildly.
He shoves it back at me like it’s poison. “How much sugar did you put in this?”
“I’m sorry I’m not a masochist like you,” I say primly. “Unlike some people, Ienjoysweetness in my life.”
His lips thin. “There’s nothing sweet about you.”
I know he means it as an insult, but I can’t help feeling a little prick of pride. I didn’t do my normal small, nice, polite thing. I fought back. Iearnedthat insult.
It feels like a good omen.
New job. New Amelia,I remind myself.
“We’re here!” the driver interrupts, as the car screeches to a halt and slams me back into the real world. “Have a good morning—”
I don’t hear whatever else he says. I’m already rushing out of the car and up the block to my building. I’ve got three minutes to make it into the building and up sixteen flights to my office.
I hardly notice the heavy steps behind me.
At least not until I make it into the lobby of my building and see the Suit is following me.
He’s so scowly that for a wild second I think he’s followed me in here to yell at me for ruining his morning. But then I remember how many offices are in this building.
