“Just dinner?” I ask with a sniffle. Suddenly all the ache, the anger, and the frustration from earlier fades away. “Not counting the breakfast for the whole building, I guess?”
Sloane smiles, and it warms my heart.
“Perhaps if you play your cards right, I will letyoubuy dessert.”
I let out a strained, relieved laugh.
“How fucking noble of you," I say, looking up at him through tear-stained eyes.
“I told you, Oliver, I’m not a monster.”
He stands taller, and instantly I see the shift. In his eyes, his stature. His voice returns to that dark tone that makes my insides twist and my heart long for his praise.
“Unless you want me to be a monster, that is.” His voice deepens.
Part of me wants to say yes.
I want to know what he’s capable of. But the other part of me knows that the real monster between us is me. And I can’t let him see those poisoned parts of me, ever.
Even if I want to.
“Now come. I am starving.”
“Yes, Sir," I say as I wipe my eyes and follow him through the office, down into the parking garage.
He opens the door for me, and I can’t help but feel the warmth spreading within me.
“Thank you," I say softly.
He doesn’t speak until he is in the driver’s seat, until the silence is palpable and it is justus.
In this space, alone, in the silence.
“Please tell me your dinner selections do not include chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese.”
I laugh. Really laugh. It feels good, almost cathartic. My eyes fill with tears again, but it’s not sadness.
It’s almost like freedom.
“Chicken nuggets are delicious,” I say through a laugh. “Don’t come for my nuggz.”
“Fucking hell, Oliver. We must expand your taste buds.”
“Yes, Sir," I say, leaning back in the seat. I turn to look at him, noting the smirk on his face as he turns the car on.
Chapter Sixteen
Oliver
“What the hell is prosciutto?” I ask as I skim the menu for Ma’s Pizzeria.
When Sloane chastised my favorite food, I thought for sure he’d take me to some upscale place where the chicken would be served in a bag or something like on the Food Network, but instead, he took me out of the city to the smallest pizza shop I’ve ever seen.
Which is damn near dead, save for the burly man behind the counter who I’m not entirely sureisn’ta murderer by the way he keeps watching us.
“It’s delicious,” Sloane says. “If you like bacon, you’ll like it.”
“What, uh… what are you getting?” I ask, trying to be nonchalant. I know we’re technically just two co-workers out to eat, but…
