"She left, boss." Boris set the bag on the coffee table, gentle as handling explosives. "Said it's for me, but I doubt it."
I arched a brow.
He paused, then pulled a clear-wrapped cookie bag from his pocket, scratching his head awkwardly.
"And this came with it." Boris eyed the cookies, then me. "But I know you hate sweets, so can I handle 'em?"
"Whatever."
I waved dismissively. Boris looked intimidating, but the guy loved sweets. He clutched the cookies and bolted, leaving me alone with the bag.
A faint aroma drifted up, my stomach twisting in protest.
I'd survived on black coffee and whiskey for four days. My gut screamed rebellion.
I stared at the bag, then—against better judgment—set down my pen, walked over. Just a peek. If it's crap, the janitor takes it.
I unzipped and twisted open the thermos.
A rich wave of sour cream and herb steam hit me.
Damn.
I grabbed the spoon, told myself one taste. Just one.
Next thing, my taste buds surrendered. I polished off half the soup, most of the beef. Warmth spread down my throat, soothing the spasms. Even the drill in my head quit.
I exhaled long and sank into the couch.
First comfort in four days.
Then, muffled voices from outside.
The executive office soundproofed well, but not perfectly. Especially with folks chatting in the lounge.
"God, these cookies are amazing!" That was Boris. "Oats and dark chocolate in there?"
Another assistant chimed in. "Was that delivery woman really Kirill's wife? She seemed so sweet, baking cookies herself."
"Shh! Keep it down!"
I sat there, eavesdropping on the whispers.
A weird feeling bubbled in my chest.
Not anger. Normally, gossip about my life during work hours? I'd fire them. But hearing praise for Harper, the woman I'd shut out, sparked aflicker of...
Pride?
But she was my wife. Those were my cookies. What right did these pricks have to enjoy them?
Fine.
Seemed everyone had time on their hands. If they could host a snack party, they could recheck that North Sea route insurance claim. Every punctuation mark from the last decade—till they puked up every bite.
My finger hovered over the intercom, ready to unleash hell on the outer office.
But a knock came.
