Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
The last word, the question, hangs in the air.
“I’d like to think that I’m the person you’d thank for being herself.” I laugh softly. “I’ve never had that happen before. Seems cool.”
He laughs too. “So, who are you, Shaye Brewer? Besides the obvious.”
“Besides the chatterbox, non-coupon cutting, fairly competent in the executive assistant realm?” I joke, hopping up on my desk and letting my feet swing.
“I somehow think that’s a very under-serving description of yourself.”
“Me too. I’m also a decent, probably slightly below average cook.”
He chuckles and relaxes back in his chair. “Slide that carbonara over here while you talk.”
“Yes, sir.” I push the container, a plastic fork, and a bottle of water his way. “Do you have any allergies I should be aware of in the future? Peanuts? Shellfish? Even though there’s no way I’m ever making anything with shellfish.”
He opens the Tupperware. “Not a shellfish fan?”
“Not an anything-that-was-ever-in-the-water fan.”
“You’re missing out.” He scoops up a forkful of pasta. “But no, no allergies except to bullshit.”
“Ah, I happen to share that particular affliction.”
He takes a small, measured bite. His eyes widen. “Oh, that’s good.”
Internally, I beam. Externally, I try to remain unaffected.
“I thought you said you couldn’t cook?” he asks, gathering another bite.
“I can cook the basics decently well. It’s edible.”
He shoots me a look as though I’m being silly and wraps his lips around the fork. My breath hiccups as I watch the soft yet determined way he slips his mouth over the utensil.
My body heats, my face probably flushing an embarrassing shade of crimson as I equate watching this man—my boss—eat to porn.
“It’s very good,” he says, setting the container down. He reaches for the bottle of water. “I was starving.”
“Which explains why you think it’s good,” I joke. “When was the last time you ate?”
He takes a drink. “Lunch. Did I have lunch?” He screws the top back on the bottle. “Maybe breakfast. Hell if I know.”
“You have to take better care of yourself.”
His smile is warm. “You sound like my mother.”
“She sounds like a brilliant person.”
He laughs and sits back in his chair again. “My mom is pretty brilliant. She raised five sons and started her own jewelry line and takes care of everyone in the family.”
“So, that’s where you get it, huh?”
His lips drop back into a thoughtful line. His head cocks to the side.
“I mean that you seem to have a lot of those qualities too,” I say quickly. “You’re a businessman. You’re smart. And I can tell that your brothers respect you tremendously.”
He feathers his chin with his thumb. “It’s a mutual respect.”
“I can’t imagine having a family like that.”
He drops his hand and straightens himself in the chair. “Tell me about yours.”
I bite my lip and smile around it. It’s more of a wince, an internal sob about discussing a topic that you’d rather fight a bull than discuss. But the longer I fidget on my desktop, the more intense his determination for me to answer gets.
I search wildly for an acceptable starting point into an explanation that is both politically correct and honest. Telling the truth—that my mother is heartless and my ex-husband was abusive and now deceased—feels like it would paint me in an unfavorable light.
“My family isn’t like yours,” I say carefully.
He snorts. “That might be a good thing today.”
I swing my feet again, watching the slight golden thread in my Hey Dude shoes catch the light. He’s expecting me to say more, to explain, but I don’t know how to do that.
“You don’t really want to talk about it, huh?” he asks.
I look down at the floor. “Well, there’s nothing to really gain from that conversation. It’s also mildly mortifying to go in depth about your family’s dysfunction when the person you’re talking to has … your family.”
“We …”
I look up.
He sighs. “Honesty is the one trait that I value most. It’s above loyalty and integrity and generosity.” He shakes his head. “No. The importance of honesty is that it is an element in all of the others. Right? You can’t have integrity or truly be devoted to someone else if you’re not honest with them.”
“True.”
He moves around in his chair. “So, I’m going to be honest with you. And I’d like to think that you’ll be honest with me too. Always.”
“Of course. That doesn’t mean that I want to spill my family secrets to you,” I say with a nervous laugh. “But it is refreshing to hear that honesty means so much to you. It does to me too.” My mind flips back to Luca and my mother. “It doesn’t for most, sadly.”
He leans forward and looks me in the eye. The contact isn’t physical, but it might as well be. The weight of it is heavy.
“The conversation I was having when you came in tonight was with my father.” He stills as if the admission is new to him too. “Growing up, Pops was my hero. I wanted to be just like him. I wanted to be him. He was the master of his universe, you know? He was exactly what I thought made a man a man.”