Spoiler: there’s always one more thing.
The break room is down the hall, past the conference room and the printer that’s been making concerning noises all week. I could eat at my desk, but that’s a trap. If the pad thai is within arm’s reach of my keyboard, I’ll end up stress-eating while simultaneously updating cell G47 for the nineteenth time.
No. I need an actual break. A real one.
The kind where I’m physically separated from Excel and its infinite capacity to ruin my life.
My heels click against the floor. Someone on the cleaning crew is vacuuming somewhere nearby. The building hums with that late-night energy that feels both peaceful and slightly creepy.
I push open the break room door and freeze.
Nico’s sitting at the cheap laminate table, hunched over a bag of Doritos.
Not gourmet takeout from some Michelin-starred restaurant. Not even decent takeout from the Chinese place down the block.
Doritos.
From the vending machine.
So that’s why he left the glass opaque. Not some important confidential call or deep strategic thinking. Nope. He was sneaking off to have a romantic rendezvous with processed corn chips.
And didn’t want me to know, probably so I’d keep working.
Or something.
Anyway, the sight is so absurd I almost laugh. Here’s this billionaire CEO with his perfectly tailored shirt (sleeves rolled to his elbows), eating orange chips in a break room.
He looks up. His expression goes from tired to guarded in about half a second.
“Ms. Dawson.” Back to the ice.
“Mr. Rossi.” I hold up my lunch bag like a shield. “Just grabbing dinner. I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”
I move to the microwave, super aware of him behind me. The pad thai goes in. I punch in two minutes and thirty seconds. The microwave hums to life.
Behind me, I hear the crinkle of the Doritos bag.
The microwave beeps. I grab my container, the heat seeping through the glass into my palms. When I turn around, he’s still sitting there. Still eating those sad chips.
His hand has healed up, there’s only a faint line left where the mug bit into his palm. Butthe rest of him seems less... settled. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that screams stress headache. Meanwhile his facial scars seem redder somehow tonight, like he’s been scratching them.
Don’t do it, Bree.
Mind your business.
Eat your food at your desk like a normal person who values job security.
Instead, I walk over to the table and sit down across from him.
He blinks. “Did you need something?”
“Yeah.” I pop open my container. The smell of peanut sauce and lime fills the break room. “I need to eat.”
His jaw tightens, and the scar tissue at the right edge of his lips compresses, but he says nothing.
I force a smile. “By the way, you’re eating Doritos for dinner...”
He deadpans. “They’re Nacho Cheese. Very nutritious.”
