I shake my head.
“Hmmm, still a bachelor? At your age?” she quips as she cuts open a pumpernickel roll and slathers it with butter. Then she pauses. “Kids?”
“Not that I’m aware of. No.”
She pops a huge bite into her mouth and moans. “Oh my God, this is so good.”
She flags down the server and asks for another glass of wine.
“You said your grandparents moved in after your mother passed?” I lead the conversation back to her because I hate talking about myself and my privileged life.
Her expression softens slightly. “Yeah, she died suddenly when I was six. An aneurysm.”
Something tightens in my chest.
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugs lightly, though there’s a shadow in her eyes. “It was a long time ago.”
Quiet settles between us.
Then she smiles again, brave and determined. “But my sister Matty basically raised me after that.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Honestly? I was so young that I didn’t know the difference. Not really.”
I nod.
Tragedy like that … it binds people in ways nothing else can.
Our meals arrive.
The smell alone is enough to make my stomach growl.
We start eating. And the conversation keeps flowing.
Ranch stories. College stories. Conference planning ideas.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realize something unsettling.
I’m enjoying myself.
More than I should.
Because the truth is … I shouldn’t be here with her. Talking about personal things.
Getting distracted by the way candlelight catches in the silky strands of her hair.
My brain keeps reminding me of the line I shouldn’t cross.
She’s young. And she works for me.
This should be professional. Strictly professional.
But every time she laughs … or leans forward excitedly to explain something … or pushes her hair behind her ear …
That line starts to blur.
