In no small part because I appreciate the opportunity to distract myself with my face over a bowl of food so I don’t have to look at her.
It’s not how I was raised to eat, but again—screw how I was raised.
I want to be more like Daphne.
Relaxed.
Owning my life.
Talking with my mouth full.
Trying things I never would’ve considered off a menu in a strange place where I don’t have an assistant or life manager calling ahead to order for me so that I don’t have to waste energy making one more decision in the day.
And it was like that even before I took over as CEO.
I was trained from an early age on how to channel my focus on what mattered and pay other people—or let my parents pay other people—to take care of the minute details that didn’t matter.
It’s why I was able to complete a double bachelor’s degree program in four years and then finish my master’s in a year.
How I was able to dig in so deeply at M2G when my father assigned me the dual roles of senior logistics director and assistant to the chief of staff, and also have time left in the day to date Margot, who was also basically hand-selected for me without me having to make any decisions.
My father’s ego might have been his downfall, but the man knows how to squeeze the most out of every day.
For work and appearances.
Not forliving.
Though Margot was a good choice.
We were happy together.
Until I was thrust headfirst into the deep end of a situation that rapidly demonstrated for me that I wasn’t living the right life for me.
I’ve finished the grits and am discovering the okra grows on you when you have it with ranch dressing, that collard greens arenot my thing, and that this coleslaw is magical, when our server arrives with the rest of our dinner.
Meatloaf and chicken-fried steak and a cheeseburger and fried chicken legs and shrimp and grits—yes, more grits—and fried catfish.
“That must be one hell of a cheeseburger if it’s in her top favorites,” Daphne murmurs after our server has departed again with a request for two sweet teas. “I expected the chicken and dumplings.”
I grab the shrimp and grits without offering to share.
She laughs at me. “I’ll call Bea and ask if her dad had a secret recipe for grits. Kinda doubt it, but I’ll ask.”
“We need salads tomorrow. And more farmer stands with fruit.”
She smiles at me again.
My already full stomach flips over, and my dick strains harder again.
Hindenburg—fuck.
I’d say I’m suffering fromStockholmsyndrome, but I don’t think I’m suffering.
I think I’m glad for the company.
And glad my company is Daphne.
Two days ago—hell, even yesterday—that would’ve been the worst thought I could’ve possibly had.
