Ever since my dirty fantasy of Mr. Lancaster last night, I’m embarrassed to see him. It’s not like he knows he’s the star of my own personal porno, but I still try to keep busy all morning, not to accidentally make an ass of myself by turning beet red in front of him. So instead, I bury myself in work. When I look up from my computer, it’s a little after eleven. I can’t believe how fast the day has flown by. The good thing, however, is things with Grant are not as tense as they were before. Progressively they’ve gotten better as if our silent war is now at a truce. We’ve established a fairly consistent routine, which helps ease the tension. He arrives before me, getting the day set up, and when I arrive, I can usually get through a handful of emails before he calls me into his office.
With the exception of today.
I thrive on routines, and with his habitual mood swings in the past, I’m wondering if I’ve done something to set him off on the warpath again. I stand up from my chair, a pile of folders in hand, and head toward his office. When I walk in, he’s on the phone. I don’t want to disturb him, so I walk to his desk and place the pile down. Just as I lift my hand his rises and we touch. It’s a whisper of a touch, but it lingers, sending my pulse to beat erratically. How can such a small touch be so inflaming? I pull my hand away quickly, my cheeks flushing.
“I’m sorry about that,” I mutter. My eyes rise and lock on his. I expect to see the typical indifference, but instead, I’m met with the same heated gaze I’ve seen before. He’s affected, just like me. He says something into the phone, but I don’t hear his words. I’m too fixated on him.
I turn to walk away, needing to get out of this situation. It isn’t good for either of us to want something we can’t have. I’m almost at the door when I hear my name called out.
“Bridget.”
I turn my head over my shoulder and meet his gaze. “Yes?” My heart pounds in my chest, crashing into my breastbone and making my breath accelerate.
“Have you had lunch yet?”
Disappointment washes over me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was not it. “No, not yet. Did you need me to get you something?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Sure.” I move back toward his desk. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Your choice, since you’re grabbing it,” he says, and I see his lip lift. Is he smiling? A small dimple forms on his right cheek. He is smiling. Wow, I’d forgotten how handsome he is when he smiles. But now he reminds me of the night at the bar.
My own lips start to spread. “I bet you think I’m going to say salad.”
He nods, and I laugh.
“I’m not.”
“You’re not?” His eyebrow lifts.
“Nope.”
“So what are you gonna have?”
“I could kill for a hamburger and fries.”
With that, his eyes open wide, and what was once a small smile now spreads across his face into a full grin. “A hamburger.” He laughs. He actually laughs. In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never heard him laugh. Maybe he laughed the first night, but I was too drunk to appreciate the sound.
“Does that surprise you?”
“You have no idea.”
“Good. I like to surprise.” My tone is a little flirty. I’m talking to Mr. Lancaster as if we were at the bar not at the office. The revelation has my cheeks warming again.
His smile falters, but he keeps his cool.
My stomach tightens. Shit. Just when we were getting along, I had to go fuck it up. I stare at him for a beat, willing myself to speak. I need to say something to ease the embarrassment. As I open my mouth, he beats me to it.
“I’d love a hamburger.”
Forty-five minutes later, I enter Mr. Lancaster’s office with a very heavy bag of the best burgers in New York. I place the bag with his food on his desk.
“What do we have here?” he asks, not looking up from his desk. “It smells amazing.”
“Just a family favorite,” I respond.
“Is this family favorite a secret?” he muses, still typing on his computer.
“Yes, and if I tell you, I have to kill you.”
“That so?”
“Absolutely. We wouldn’t want the place to get too popular. I like not having to wait for my food. Nobody wants to meet up with a hangry Bridget Miller.”
With that, he looks up from his desk. A half smile appears on his face. “Hangry?” He chuckles.
“That’s right. I’m angry when I’m hungry.”
“Duly noted.”
He doesn’t look up from his paperwork when he says that. I take the moment to study him. The scruff on his face and the circles under his eyes tell me something is up. He appears tired as if he hasn’t slept.
“Are you okay?” I ask timidly, not wanting to overstep and piss Mr. Moody off.
“Honest answer?”
“Always,” I say.
“I’m exhausted. I have a lot riding on the opening going off without a hitch.”
I nod, not knowing what else to say. He doesn’t look up at me, and I take it as my cue to exit. I’m halfway out the door when I turn around. “It’s a little diner down the road from my apartment.”
Grant looks up, confused. “What?”
“The hamburgers.”
“You live nearby?”
“Define your definition of nearby?”
He angles his head as if he doesn’t understand, and I laugh.
“I live in the West Village.”
“You went to the West Village to get me lunch?”
“It’s really not that far, and besides, I didn’t just go to get you lunch. I went to get us the best lunch.” I put the emphasis on us. I need him to know I haven’t eaten yet either. I just hope he’s not mad that I went so far.
“I did it all in under forty-five minutes. I figure that still leaves me time to eat as well. Hope you don’t mind. Technically, I still have fifteen minutes. I promise to eat quickly.”
He opens the bag and inhales. I can tell by the way he licks his lips that he understands why I say these burgers are the best. The smell permeates through the space, making my mouth instantly water. “Sit,” he orders, and I stand like a deer in headlights.
“You want me . . . You want me to eat with you?”
“Yes.”
I don’t move. I can’t. It’s as if I’m cemented in place.
“Please.” His voice dips with sincerity.
The tone is my undoing. I walk back over to his desk and take the seat across from him as he removes the pile on top of the desk.
“Do you want anything to drink?” he asks.
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Maybe I want to.” His words hang in the air uncomfortably. What does he mean? I don’t want to think too much into it. “You did go to all this trouble to get the best burger . . . for me.”
I smile shyly.
“So what do you want?”
“I’ll have a Diet Coke,” I reply.
He stands and walks out of the office. About a minute later he returns with a Diet Coke for me and a water for him.