He looks confused. Actually confused. His eyebrows pull together as if I just insulted his ancestors.
“It’s coffee,” he says, offended. To prove it, he takes a sip from his own cup and actually sighs in contentment. “Perfect.”
Perfect???
Is he insane?
“This is not coffee,” I declare firmly. “This is a sugary milkshake. A crime.”
Understanding finally dawns on his face. Then amusement. A slow, spreading grin takes over, lighting up his features in a way that should be illegal in a professional setting.
“Oh,” he says, pointing his cup at me. “You’re a dark person.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“People who like bitter, black coffee without milk or sugar are soulless,” he explains casually, as though stating a scientific fact he discovered personally.
I roll my eyes so hard I briefly see the meaning of life.
“Wow. Impressive analysis. Truly. I’m honored to be psychoanalyzed by someone who drinks dessert for breakfast,” I snap. “Anyway, I’m not here to discuss your terrible taste in coffee. I’m here to meet the CEO. I’ve been sitting here for forty minutes. Your boss is a no-show.”
His lips twitch into a small almost-smile. I hit a nerve, apparently. Good.
“Does no one value time in this company?” I continue, fully committed to my rant. “Because if this is how things function, I should leave before I develop ulcers and high blood pressure at age twenty-five.”
Instead of defending his boss, he does something completely unexpected.
He sits down next to me. Not diagonally across. Not one seat over. Directly next to me. Like we’re colleagues. Like we’re friends already. Like he belongs in my personal space. My horror grows with every second.
He sits back comfortably, spreading his legs in that infuriating thing men do—manspreading, claiming territory like lions. Normally I’d shove his knee inward with a pointed look, but he’s a stranger, and I should probably avoid violence in professional settings.
I inhale tightly through my nose. He smells like freshly brewed warm spices, maybe sandalwood, maybe something expensive I’ll never afford. His presence is warm. Large. Unavoidable.
Which I hate.
“Anyway,” I say sharply, forcing myself to focus on the reason I’m here, “what is your boss like? I should know before meeting him. Not that I want to meet him anymore.”
He taps his fingers together thoughtfully, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, giving me his full attention. And that attention is… intense. His eyes lock onto mine like he’s reading something in my expression that I didn’t authorize him to read. It feels strange. Like he sees more than he’s supposed to.
“What do you wish to know?” he asks, amusement dancing in his green eyes.
Green. Green eyes. What in the genetic lottery…? The majority of Indians do not have eyes like that. Except apparently, this one does. They’re not even a dull hazel pretending to be green. They are properly, unfairly green. And they catch the light like tinted glass.
I hate that they’re mesmerizing. I hate that I’m staring. I hate that he knows I’m staring.
His smile widens, knowingly. I stomp down the urge to cover my face with my hands.
“I—I mean,” I stammer, mentally hitting myself, “what’s he like to work with?”
He lifts a brow, considering the question. “Well… people don’t complain much while working with him.” That’s vague, but okay. “So he must be nice,” he concludes with a shrug.
“Must?” I repeat. “You don’t work for him?”
His laugh is softer this time, like he’s sharing a private joke with himself. “How can I? I’m not that lucky.”
Lucky? To work for a CEO who can’t respect meeting times? I am confused.
I blink hard. “I don’t follow.”
