It was too much.
Too much.
And I was so fucking fucked.
CHAPTER 19
SILAS
Much to my father’s disapproval, I left work early. He kept hounding me about an updated version of the bid, and I kept pushing him off. The fact he thought I could whip it together in a handful of days spoke volumes to how unimportant he thought my ideas really were. There was deliberation and care and understanding that had to go into designing plans that would incorporate the kind of innovation required to stay at the forefront of our industry. It wasn’t as simple as drawing up new schematics and adding greenery.
Resigned to ignore him, I texted Lincoln so he could order ahead for dinner, then I headed home. Our apartment smelled like olives and hummus when I arrived, and Lincoln was bent over the dining room table, spreading containers out so we could both reach them from our usual seats.
“Honey, I’m home,” I called out from the door, adding a Ricky Ricardo kind of inflection to my voice. Kicking the door closed, I dropped my laptop bag by the door and toed off my shoes, and then I let my nose carry me to the table. Lincoln sat down and grinned up at me when I got there. I kissed the top of his head and collapsed into my own chair with a groan.
“Long day?” he asked.
“Long week.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
I snorted and stared up at the ceiling. “My dad is being the worst again.”
“I don’t know how you work with him.” Lincoln leaned toward the center of the table and picked up a clear container of hummus. He set it between us, and I passed him a pita chip.
“At the time, I didn’t have much of a choice,” I grumbled, and it was true.
When I was in school, I didn’t get any internships after graduation, so taking a job with my dad had felt like the only option. In hindsight, it had just been the easiest, and now it wasn’t anything more than a trap filled with quicksand.
“Do you now?”
“I could look for other work, but I don’t have a lot of experience on my resume.”
“Just because dad is dated doesn’t mean you don’t have experience,” he countered, pointing at me with a half-eaten pita chip. “You got that article published, and you’re working on another one, so they’ll see you’re not stuck in the past just because your boss is.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, even though my heart wasn’t in it.
“I’m sure you don’t want to talk about work. Shawarma or gyro?”
“Shawarma,” I said.
Lincoln passed me a white Styrofoam container overflowing with rice and shawarma. I opened it up and breathed in the smell of all the herbs, then shoved a forkful of meat into my mouth.
“Let’s talk about your boyfriend,” Lincoln said right as I swallowed.
The shreds of chicken roped together in my throat, and Ichoked. Pounding my chest to get the bite down, I narrowed my eyes and glared at my best friend.
“What do you mean?”
Lincoln arched a brow. “Isn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Marshall.”
“He’s not—” I stopped, catching myself in the lie.
Marshall was my boyfriend, technically, I guess. He was also my Dom, even though we were still figuring out the logistics of how those two things would work together.
