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I’m still stunned about the sashimi and stare at Max. “What’s this?”
By now, Max has already picked up his burger and is lifting it to his mouth. “Sashimi. It’s your favorite.”
The fact that he remembered this, then went ahead and ordered for me, is such a shock that I fumble with the chopsticks. They clatter to the table and I scoop them up.
“Is that okay? Would you like something else?” he says between bites, ignoring my clumsiness.
“Yes, it’s fine.” I move some wasabi from the plate to a small vessel, eager to change the subject. He got lucky, or is being polite, that’s all.
“When did you become a vegetarian?” I eye his plate suspiciously. The Max I used to know loved meat in all forms.
He lifts a shoulder. “Lucas is still my trainer, and he suggested it at the beginning of the season. I agreed to try a no meat, no alcohol diet, and I think it’s working well. It’s not much fun, but whatever it takes, right?”
“You do look amazing.” Dammit, I didn’t mean to blurt that out loud. But he does. The lean, sinewy muscles of his forearms and the rock-solid biceps make it difficult to stop staring.
He grins, the first real smile I’ve seen him express. “Thanks. You’re looking—”
“No.” I wag my finger and pick up my mojito. “I look like hell. Feel like it too.”
He swipes a French fry off his plate and pops it between his lips. He chews while studying me, swallows, then finally says, “Nah. You’re still beautiful.”
I almost choke on my drink but swallow a mouthful in time and cough softly. Did a compliment just leak from his mouth? Even when we’d been together, his compliments were reserved for intimate moments only, under the cover of darkness and usually whispered in my ear.
Obviously, he’s only being polite. He’s a European man, after all, and has an almost uncanny instinct of how to flatter women of all ages.
“Now it’s my turn to apologize.” He grins lasciviously. “I probably shouldn’t say that to my new boss.”
“Oh, please, Max . . .” My voice trails off, because I’m not sure what to say. There’s a little part of me that wants to soak in the compliment and flirt mercilessly with him, the way we used to. But I know better, partially because I am, technically, the person running this team.
And because I’m certain he’s said those words to dozens of women over the years. I might have been the first woman he slept with, but I definitely wasn’t the last, if the tabloids over the last several years are even a little correct.
The last thing I want is to be treated like all the others. As it stands, I was first. First in a long line of women, but still number one.
And I absolutely hate to come in second, to anyone.
“What?” He sips his water, seemingly unbothered by my protest. “I can’t tell you that you look good?”
“I don’t . . . it’s not . . . we shouldn’t fall back on . . .” Flustered, I take another gulp of my drink, which is cool and strong. We can’t do this. “Max, why did you ask me to dinner, anyway? Did you want to ask about what happened at my former job?”
He takes a bite of his burger and I eat a couple of pieces of raw salmon while he chews and swallows.
“No, that wasn’t why I wanted to have dinner with you. But tell me about the racing game company.” He dips a fry into a little tub of mayonnaise.
“You didn’t hear why I was fired from my last job?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I try not to read much of the news when I’m racing. I get too worked up.”
I hate responses like that, and I stab a chopstick into the blob of wasabi, then lick a little off the tip. Maybe the intense clearing of my sinus cavities from the spice will help me answer this question. “A guy I worked with loudly told people at a conference that I’d be a good lay.”
Max stops chewing, swallows, and glares at me. “What?”
“That kind of talk is common in tech. I’d been telling the executives in the company about how the few women at the office were treated. They ignored me. I endured a lot of that kind of behavior. So did the other women. Little things, like comments about my body, or photos on my desk, or drunken propositions at conferences. I ignored it the best I could for years, but it became too much. When that incident at the conference happened, I snapped. I tweeted it, along with the guy’s photo. I let anger get the best of me, which wasn’t cool. It snowballed from there, exploded all over social media and Reddit, and I was raked over the coals by tech bros. My address in San Jose was leaked, my car was egged, I received death threats. You know. The usual.”
I try to say all of this in an easy, breezy way, like my entire life wasn’t upended, like I hadn’t lived for weeks in fear. Max’s expression is a mixture of horror and disgust, and I don’t bother with explaining further about the online harassment that ensued. Max knows the price of fame.
“You had to put up with all of that? Even though you weren’t in the wrong?”
“I was a bit in the wrong by taking my company’s issues public. But in fairness, it was only after I’d tried to tell HR and the executives about what was happening to me and the other women.”
