Page 10 of Ricardo

I think.

“Do you miss it?” he asks.

I look up. “Miss what?”

“The charity boards.”

“No.”

The answer is so immediate that his expression shifts.

“No?” he asks.

“No.” It's not exactly a lie. Well, only a little one, anyway. I miss the charities. I don't miss the people.

“You spent your career in that world.”

“I spent my career being useful in that world.”

“That is not the same.”

“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”

His gaze moves over my face, slowly enough to feel like touch and not slowly enough to be improper.

I hate that distinction.

I hate that I am making it.

“What do you miss?” he asks.

I should tell him this is not the sort of question he needs answered. I should smile politely and say something empty about community impact. I should remember that I am at work and he is not a friend.

But his voice is not prying.

That is the worst part.

It is quiet and direct. As if he already knows the diplomatic answer and has no interest in it.

I look down at the folder.

“Being good at something without feeling watched all the time,” I say.

The words are honest enough to embarrass me.

Ricardo does not respond immediately.

When he does, his voice is softer. “And do you feel watched here?”

A laugh almost escapes me. I stop it before it becomes anything too revealing.

“This is Conti Enterprises,” I say. “Everyone is watched here.”

“Yes,” he says. “But that is not what I asked.”

My fingers tighten slightly on the pen.

I think of Harrison’s eyes across a crowded room. His smile for everyone else. The careless and often cruel words afterward. The little corrections to every aspect of my behavior. The way he could make concern sound like ownership.