Page 23 of The Boss Upstairs
“It’s all about compromises.”
I follow him closely as we walk over to the kitchen. He offers me a glass of wine. He has quite the extensive collection. I opt for a red Shiraz — we’ve been indulging and drinking wine at lunch.
His gaze runs over me as he hands me my glass, and I feel it deep inside. I’m quick to take a sip because I desperately want to take the edge off. Being in such close proximity to him is nerve-wracking.
He’s so damn beautiful, especially up close like this.
We both stand in silence for the longest time, and it’s not weird. We’re already getting more comfortable around each other. At the start of the week, we could have never looked at each other like this.
“So I was pondering my silly moniker for you,” he says, his voice deliciously soft. “You don’t mind, do you?”
I smile. “No… not at all. It’s fun.”
“I was thinking it over. Seeing as you’re so dedicated, I should have rather called you Worker Bee or Busy Little Ant.”
I laugh out loud.
He bites his lip. “You have a beautiful laugh.”
I’m speechless. No words. At all. Mute.
“Uh… I’m sorry,” he falters. “You knowThe Ant and the Grasshopper? One of Aesop’s most famous fables?”
“Yes, of course. I read it occasionally to Ethan. I love the message it conveys.”
“Well, then you know how lazy the grasshopper was,” he teases. “The ant was the responsible one. I’m more of an ant myself.”
“I’m kind of a grasshopper,” I confess. “Except when it comes to my work.”
He takes another sip of his wine. “Well, then the moniker fits.”
We fall into another long silent stare, and my breath is about to get away from me when the doorbell buzzes.
“Food’s here,” Weston cheers.
I blow out a long breath as I reach for the plates in the cupboard. I love Japanese, but I might be too worked up to eat. All I can think about is kissing him, touching him.
I love it. And I hate it.
I haven’t felt like this about anyone, no one since Donovan.
He’s as excited as a kid when he gets back, hands full of bags. We dig in eagerly and shuffle containers around. I fetch some serving spoons and we help ourselves.
“This is so good,” I tell him.
He digs into the unon noodle dish. “Yes, I always order from this place.”
“Do you ever cook?” I ask. “You have such an amazing kitchen.”
He shrugs. “Occasionally, if I have the kids. If it’s just me, I’d rather order in.”
I nod, wondering again why he’s alone. “How often do you get your kids?”
“Every other week.”
I reach for a gyoza. “And that works well?”
“Well, as well as it can.”
