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Boss squared must be a regular here.
Before I can say “nice to be in the top point-one percent,” our glasses are filled with wine that no doubt costs more than I make in a year.
“Where’s the menu?” I whisper, not wanting to sound like a rube to the nearby CEOs.
“I usually order the chef’s choice,” he replies, matching my lowered tone. “Want to risk it with me?”
Nodding, I take a sip of the amazing wine and check out the impeccable tablecloth in front of me.
This place is fancy. Too fancy to take someone if you wanted to fire them. Or just talk to them about testing sex toys, for that matter.
But then—
Can it be? Am I on a date?
Chapter Ten
No. This can’t be a date.
This is just a place he likes—and why not, if he can afford it? Since his parents own a restaurant, he’s probably a major foodie and a snob for tablecloths and such.
Yeah. That must be it.
He scans my face. “Are you sure you’re fine? You seem a little shell-shocked.”
“It’s this place, not the… umm… incident from yesterday,” I reply, my cheeks instantly burning.
He looks around as if seeing the restaurant for the first time. “We could go somewhere else.”
“No, this is fine. You’ve only got fifty minutes as is. I want to get down to business.”
He arches his perfectly real eyebrow.
“Project Belka,” I say. “I wanted—”
The waiter appears as if out of thin air and inquires if we’ve decided what to order.
“Chef’s choice,” we say in unison.
The waiter bows and scurries away.
“Back to the matter at hand.” I take a sip of the wine, for bravery. “The testing for Project Belka—”
“Is not something we want to discuss in such a public venue.” He glances at the swanky people nearby. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I put my wine glass down with a little too much force. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
He gestures at the ice statues and the other décor. “We’re here because we need to eat.”
My cheeks flush, but with anger instead of embarrassment for a change. “I don’t like having something like this hanging over me.”
His sensuous lips flatten. “It doesn’t have to.”
Is that a threat? “So you’re firing me over—”
“Firing you?” He looks genuinely perplexed. “Given the circumstances, I just assumed you’d want to give up the project.”
I get it now. He doesn’t think I can handle it. Like my asshole ex, he probably thinks I’m too much of a prude goody two-shoes for sex toys.
