“I brought you dinner.”
I watch him pull outtwoStyrofoam to-go containers, vaguely interested. I ignore my stomach that threatens to grumble on spot.
He opens the containers, and I see the lines of sushi, the little dab of wasabi and bundle of ginger. I barely hear him say the name of my favorite sushi restaurant in New York. I’m too slack-jawed that he got something right. Maybe I’vebeen too harsh, too bitchy and judgmental just because he’s from California and says a few sleazy things.
I grimace as I try to come to terms with beingnicetoo. I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “I only have one chair.” I near my desk and peer into the plastic bag, taking out chopsticks and soy sauce.
“That’s okay. You can sit on my lap.”
I glare.
“Just kidding,” he laughs. “I’ll sit on your desk.”
Fine.I settle in my rolling chair and pick the to-go box with the rainbow roll, also my favorite. Connor usually brings me dinner in the city, and the fact that he’s been replaced by Scott agitates me. “So who told you I liked sushi?” I ask him.
As promised, he sits on half of my desk, his legs hanging close to me. “I’ve always known it’s your favorite, babe.”
I pause, my chopsticks frozen above the ginger. So he’s definitely playing into ourfakeold relationship. Two can play this game. “I never ate sushi with you,” I retort. “You said you hated it, and you always made me eat alone.”
His lips twitch in a cringe, which he hides very well. He sets his to-go box on his lap. “Things have changed.”
“You like sushi now?”
He eats a piece, chews and swallows. “Ilovesushi now.” He smiles, and I absorb his features, the dishwater blond hair that’s styled in a messy, dysfunctional way. And the light layer of scruff along his jaw that makes him look a little older than his age.
I hate that he’s not ugly. I wish he had a thousand warts and a hairy nose. Instead, he could be an actor on a daytime soap, not a producer.
“You miss me,” he suddenly says.
My eyes tighten. “Not for a second.” My phone buzzes on the desk.
Scott snatches it before I can.
“That’s incredibly rude,” I tell him as he opens my text.
He lets out a laugh. “Marilyn Monroe, Paul Newman, James Dean.Your boyfriend is so fucking weird.” He tosses the phone back to me, and I just barely catch it without dropping my chopsticks.
“Sometimes weird is better than normal,” I say. “Normal can be boring.”
He touches his chest. “I’m not boring, honey.”
Why does he have to say everything so condescendingly? “I fell asleep every time you wanted to have sex. What do you call that?”
“A personal problem.”
I roll my eyes and quickly text Connor back.Fuck. Marry. Kill.I’m more comfortable with the idea of having sex with a woman than I am with a man, as strange as that may seem. Connor will most likely pick up on this, but I don’t care. I hit send and set my phone back safely on the desk, away from Scott’s grabby fucking hands.
“I saw your mother yesterday,” he says.
“You did?” I try not to act surprised, but my heart has lodged in my throat for a second. Why would he visit my mother?
“We ate lunch and caught up. It was like old times.” He passes me a water bottle and then takes a swig of his Cherry Fizz. “She said she wished Daisy was around, that the house was too quiet without all of you girls there.”
“Stop,” I tell him, standing up and setting the sushi on the desk. It feels like fool’s food, a trap, something you give a three-headed dog before sneaking into a treasure cove.
He frowns. And I can’t tell whether it’s real or fake. Honest or deceitful. “What’s wrong?”
“You don’t know me,” I refute. I return to my tubs of clothes, but I don’t want to squat down in front of him.
