“I’m not. That’s not a thing. You can’t just go around having roasted duck on a Wednesday, unless you’re, like, as pretentious as the Harrisons.”
Brijesh shrugs, as if he’s considering whether he’d like to be. With an evil grin he adds, “I’ll need a full report of Alex Harrison’s food and beverage choices tomorrow during your lunch meeting.” He may as well have said sexual intercourse. I already regret telling him about Saanvi’s weird YouTube idea. “I can tell things about people from the way they order,” he explains. “It’s my own personal zodiac.”
“What does mine say about me?”
“That you’re chaotic. Meanwhile, my meal choices are intentional. If I had to guess, I’d say Alex runs the creature comfort foods gamut.”
I have no idea what he means by that, and I don’t want to ask, lest I sound more invested than I’ve got any right to be. But still, my mind wanders back to what Alex said in the elevator, him questioning if I’d been right about him all along. And in the next breath: I’m dying to be wrong about you. You’re not making it easy.
My whole body frowns every time I try to decode that exchange.
“You’re thinking about him, and you wish you weren’t,” Brijesh says.
“Good Lord,” I groan, mortified. “Am I seriously that easy to read?”
“Yes.” He smirks. “You’re very expressive.”
I find myself much less concerned about Brijesh reading my thoughts than Alex reading them, which is concerning in and of itself. “He just—is so—”
“Intense,” Brijesh offers.
I frown. “Intense?”
He leans back, rubs at his chin stubble. “Honestly, Alex kind of reminds me of you in that way. You’re like each other’s inverses.”
My glare is instantaneous. “What did I do to deserve that comparison.”
“He’s all fueled up with ideas coming out of his ass every thirty seconds, and meanwhile, you’re this steady, reliable kind of genius. If people need help with something specific, you’re the first person they’d ask, but if they need a soundboard for ideas, they’d go to Alex.” He drags another piece of bread through olive oil. “I’d bet my whole cookbook collection you two have an identical podcast lineup.”
Our waiter returns with a plate of roasted squash in hand. It’s been done up all fancy with pistachios, fennel, and prosciutto. “Compliments of the chef,” he says.
Brijesh drops his sliver of bread. “Fuck!”
I flinch. The waiter takes a step back from the table, eyes wide with confusion.
Remembering himself, Brijesh apologizes and thanks the waiter, who sets the food down and scurries away.
“Well,” he says. “I can officially cross ‘restaurant critic’ off my list of future career opportunities. My anonymity is shot.”
“Oh. Someone recognized you?”
“Must have.”
My eyes track to the hostess and a few waiters in a circle, staring at us and whispering conspiratorially. Brijesh is watching them, too. Specifically, he’s watching a waitress with pink hair and doe eyes.
I don’t think Miriam minds when Brijesh hooks up with other people, considering their friends-with-benefits arrangement is her idea. Then again, I have no clue what’s really going on between the two of them. Mostly, I just stay out of it. But right now, there’s a carefully concealed smile of intent behind Brijesh’s eyes I can’t avoid.
He grabs his wineglass. Swirls it. Sips languorously.
I pin him with a knowing look. “You’re loving this, you attention whore.”
“You can’t prove that!”
After dinner, he takes home the hostess, and I take home the gnocchi.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’m halfway through last month’s P&L prep when Alex swings into my cubicle. One of his hands is clinging to the flimsy wall’s edge, the other open and lifted. His hair is a wreck and he’s wearing a crimson-and-yellow tie striped on the diagonal. With a clip.
“Tie clip,” I comment dryly.
“Does it offend you?”
“Depends. Is it engraved with the logo of your personal clothier?”
“Of course,” Alex says, just as dryly. “I visit him in the South of France each June after the Cannes Film Festival. Where do you summer?”
“The Florida Panhandle.”
He whistles appreciatively.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I could have met you in the lobby.”
The face Alex aims at me is triumphant, insufferable, and I can already tell he’s going to gloat about something. “I wanted to tell you right away that I got the budget expanded.”
“What? How?” I spin toward him in my swivel chair and cross my legs beneath my maxi skirt.
“With the right motivation, anything is possible.”
My eyes narrow. “Who’d you get fired to cobble together the money?”
“Looking at her.”
I blink in rapid succession. “You’re hilarious.”
He smirks. “Don’t worry, Simba. Much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t get anything done without you. The extra money came out of Garden Girl’s budget. I now have enemies on thirty-eight who might try to off me with poisonous flora.”
“Worse ways to go.”
“Even so, I won’t be accepting strange teas for the time being.”
“Not even from me?”
“Especially from you.” Alex taps on the wall a couple of times, then leans against it, crossing his arms. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
“Oh.” I rip them off my face. “They’re just blue light.”
He hums. “Here I thought we finally had something in common.”
“Contacts?” I ask.
He nods. “Since I was a kid.”
I get a sudden flash of Alex in the morning, dressed in boxers (with a lacrosse stick motif) and an old HARVARD T-shirt. Glasses on, hair wrecked. The image makes my ears get weirdly hot.
“You ready for lunch?” he asks quietly, as if he really is just asking me if I’m ready for lunch. His expression is warm. After what I admitted to him yesterday, maybe he’s trying to be gentle with me.
I put my computer to sleep, grab my bag, and stand. With a weary sigh, I warn him, “This whole YouTube thing might be an absolute shit show.”
“Knowing us, it will be.” He smiles. But something about it seems kind of sad.
“Alex.” My chin tilts down toward my shoes. “I…”
When I don’t finish, he takes a step forward. “Yeah?” His voice is still soft. Encouraging.
I want to be wrong about you, too.
A more magnanimous person would say it. But if I told him I want to move forward, it would still feel like a betrayal to myself. His employment here is a hump I’m not fully able to get past, and maybe that’s okay, but it’s not right for me to lord it over Alex’s very qualified, hardworking head, either.
“For today, should we just … put everything aside? For Bite the Hand’s sake?”
He gives me another smile and looks out the window, hands in his pockets. “Sure, Casey. If that’s what you want.”
I nod. He nods. I start walking, and he follows.
On our way to the elevator, Alex says, “Hey, Benny.”
Benny holds up a palm, head hung in defeat from all the schedule wrangling he’s had to do this month. “I cannot engage with you today, Alex. I simply cannot.”
I stifle a snort.