There are two neat paper bags on the top shelf of my refrigerator, neither of which was there last night. One is from a restaurant I don’t recognize. Regio. One is from a bakery Idorecognize, but have never been able to justify buying from because their pastries cost more than some of my office supplies.
Next to the bags is a carton of orange juice and a couple of bottles of electrolyte drinks.
My cheeks heat.
Of course he brought me electrolytes.
Because apparently Mario Conti can fuck a woman so hard, she needs epic hydration.
I am feeling a little parched, though.
I reach for the orange juice, then stop when I notice a folded note tucked against the bakery bag.
My name is written across the front.
I pick it up gingerly and open it.
Eat. Hydrate. Do not work today.
M.
I stare at the note, then read it again.
“Do not work today,” I repeat under my breath.
The audacity of this man.
The sheer, breathtaking audacity.
I should be annoyed.
I am annoyed.
I am also smiling, which is deeply unfortunate and must stop immediately.
I set the note down carefully and reach for the other two bags.
I open the first one and find two containers of soup, a wrapped sandwich, and what looks like roasted vegetables and chicken. The second bag contains pastries, fruit, and some kind of small almond cake that smells so good I close my eyes and stick my nose in the bag to inhale.
Mario Conti has now ruined me in more than one way.
How will I ever eat a Pop-Tart again?
I hear his voice in my head.
Hydrate.
I roll my eyes at the empty kitchen, grab the carton of orange juice, and twist off the cap.
“Happy?” I mutter.
There is no answer.
I shut the refrigerator and lean my forehead against the cool door.
This is bad.
This is so bad.
