I nodded, trying not to feel jealous that he was having lunch with someone else.
Someone else. You're his employee. Not his... anything.
But watching him leave, I realized I wanted to be.
Dangerous. So dangerous.
∞∞∞
That afternoon, we worked side-by-side for hours. Reviewing contracts, vendor relationships, schedules.
Every time he leaned close to point something out on the computer, I caught his scent. Every time our hands accidentally brushed reaching for the same document, electricity sparked.
He felt it too. I could tell by the way he'd pause. Glance at me. Look away.
This attraction was mutual.
And impossible.
Around 6 p.m., I hit a wall.
"You're done," Quentin said, closing the laptop. "I don't want to break my new employee on day one."
He pulled leftover Chinese food from a mini-fridge hidden in his bookcase, popped it in a hidden microwave.
"That's a clever setup," I observed.
"Didn't think a minifridge would look professional next to this antique desk." He knocked on the wood. "Paid a fortune for this. They don't make them like this anymore."
"You're going to live on leftover Chinese food?"
"I work late. Hate interrupting my train of thought."
I gathered my notes, stood. Started for the door.
Then turned back.
"Thank you again for hiring me, Mr. Vanetti. I'll do everything I can to exceed your expectations."
"I believe you will."
The words came out before I could stop them. "You know, you really should eat better. I could cook you something homemade sometime. Something actually nutritious."
His expression shifted. Surprise. Pleasure. Something warmer.
"I'd like that," he said softly.
What did I just do?
"Good night, Mr. Vanetti."
"Good night, Julia."
In the elevator, descending to the parking garage, reality crashed down.
I just offered to cook for him. To cook. For my target.
The man I was supposed to get close to. Potentially kill.
