I answered with a quick shrug and, "Did you think we'd bring you on without an extensive background check?"
"No. Of course not. But I didn't thinkextensivemeant three hundred years of family history, and I didn't think you'd take time from your very busy, very important schedule to get my dirt."
I tipped my chin up. "I prefer to know who is in the building."
"Oh, yeah?" he challenged. "You review background checks and CVs for every intern? What about the guy who works the omelet station in the cafeteria? Or the lady who cleans your office? You know all of them, Miz Malik? You know their stories?"
"You're referring to Ido and Marian? Yes, I know them. I can't say the same for every intern as we have more than five thousand of them in offices around the world. However, I make a point of acquainting myself with the backgrounds of the interns on campus."
Gus dug into his meal, his gaze still fixed on me as he ate. Eventually, he asked, "Is this your way of telling me I'm not special, Miz Malik?"
"Do you need to be special?"
He bobbed his head as he speared a few chickpeas. "Doesn't hurt."
"Mmhmm. I see the royal bloodline runs thick with you."
He choked out a brittle laugh. "Says the kingmaker."
Again, my brows winged up. He knew something of my history as the right hand to brilliant leaders, as the second-in-command who consistently helped the first shine in spite of themselves. This man was robbing me of my poker face and I didn't care for it one bit. "It seems you've done some background study of your own."
Gus reached across the table, drummed his fingertips on the back of my wrist. "You like that, don't you? You like when someone digs up your dirt. You like being noticed.Explored."
I gave him a disinterested frown and returned to my biryani. What had I been thinking? What made me believe I could share a meal with this man and his arrogance and—and his hands?
We ate in silence for several minutes before he said, "You found my comment offensive."
"Not offensive. Rather, needlessly self-important."
"And that's an issue for you?" When I blinked at him, he continued, "I've been here for less than two months and I know everyone in the Valley is needlessly self-important. Compared to most of these motherfuckers, I'm Humble Henry."
"And yet you're the only one inserting yourself into my day and leaving a flock of birds behind."
He grimaced, cut his gaze to the VCs beside us. "Forgive me for doing my job in a manner that fails to align with your specific vision, Miz Malik."
I was prepared to volley back but stopped myself. My attention was my greatest asset and I wasn't paying it to this petty debate. "Let's set these issues aside for now. We can share one meal without contention. I'm sure of it."
He blinked at me as if he was surprised by this request. "Certainly."
After a thorny pause, I asked, "How is your meal?"
He bobbed his head as he savored a bite of dosa. "Excellent. Best I've had in—I don't know—years. And I think that was in Mexico City."
"Mexico City has amazing Indian food." I hummed in agreement. "Whenever I'm traveling, I try to sneak in stops at local Indian restaurants. I have an ongoing samosa study."
I watched a warm, cheerful smile brighten his face and crinkle his eyes. "What's this samosa study involve?"
I pressed the edge of my fork into the uttapam, suddenly and irrationally shy about my multi-continent cataloging of Indian cuisine. "I'm not sure whether it's an atavistic desire or callback to my childhood." I paused, studied my tray. "We didn't eat out when I was a child. We didn't have the money for restaurants and my parents didn't enjoy the local favorites. It took them twenty years to fully embrace Lowcountry barbeque. But on special occasions, my parents loaded us into the car and we'd drive to different cities in the area. Greenville, Spartanburg, Asheville. Athens, once. We'd always go out for Indian and meet the Desi people in that area. Even if they didn't hail from the same region as my parents or speak the same dialect or cook the same ways, they were our people, our extended family. And now, well, I just—I tend to judge cities by the quality of their samosas…and other dishes."
He made a sound. A rumbly, growly, throaty sound. Somehow, I knew it was one of approval. "Yeah? Any surprises?"
"I'm not sure about surprises." I sampled the uttapam. I loved these savory pancakes topped with tomatoes and onions. That they constituted a traditional South Indian breakfast mattered little to me. If they were crisp and fresh, I'd eat them any time of day. "There are Desi people all around the world and many of them make superb food." I gave him a pointed nod. "Just as there are French and Brazilian people everywhere and some of them choose to carry on their cultures in the most delicious ways."
"Point taken." He drummed my wrist again. This time, he went to the trouble of dragging his fingertips over the back of my hand and staring into my eyes while he did.So damn arrogant."But I still want to know your favorites."
I thought for a moment. "Albuquerque. Egypt, outside Cairo. Beijing. Then again, there are no bad meals in Beijing."
"Haven't been."
