Page 33 of The Boss

I stood there, heart pounding, staring at the empty space he left behind.

* * *

The guilt gnawed at me for the rest of the afternoon. I’d been an asshole. I knew it. I’d snapped because I was frustrated, because I was confused, because the last thing I wanted to think about was how much of my time and energy was already orbiting around Chris fucking Landry like he was the goddamn sun. I cared about his feelings and I hated that I’d hurt him. But admitting that didn’t make me feel any less like a dick.

By lunchtime, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my coat and stormed out of my office. I found him at his desk, shoulders hunched as he focused on his computer.

“Chris.”

He didn’t look up. “Boss.”

I sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it.”

He kept typing. “Yeah, you did.”

I rubbed my beard, my breath escaping in a quiet rush. “Wearefriends, Chris. I…” I swallowed, the words catching in my throat. “I don’t have many, so I’m not used to opening up to people. And I don’t like making a big deal out of my birthdays. Perhaps I should’ve mentioned it.”You do matter to me, I wanted to say. But I stopped myself before those words could take shape, leaving them to hang at the edge of my tongue. When he didn’t say anything, I spoke again. “Let me make it up to you. Come grab lunch with me. Please.”

Chris finally glanced up, expression unreadable. “You asking me on a date, Zac?”

I snorted. “It’s an apology, not a marriage proposal. Now get your ass up and let’s go eat.”

A beat. Then, finally, a slow, pondering nod. “Typical Scorpio. I should’ve known.”

“Is that a yes?”

“All right. But you’re paying.”

“Obviously.”

We ended up at a small restaurant, one of those tucked-away gems you could walk past a hundred times without noticing—an old converted rowhouse on a quiet street off Benefit. The kind of place that had probably been standing since the 1800s, its brick façade weathered by time, its wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze. Inside, the floors were dark-stained hardwood, creaking softly underfoot, and the walls were lined with shelves of wine bottles and framed black-and-white photos of old Providence—cobblestone streets, gas-lit lanterns, men in suits and hats from another era.

The air smelled rich—garlic and butter, simmering stock, the faintest hint of fresh bread baking somewhere in the back. Low jazz played from an old speaker, blending with the quiet hum of conversation and the occasional clink of silverware against ceramic plates. It was cozy, intimate, the kind of place that felt effortlessly warm even on a gray, drizzly Rhode Island afternoon.

Chris went for fried cod, swiping a fry through a pool of aioli before popping it into his mouth. I cut into my steak, the juices pooling on the plate, and for the first time all day, things felt easy again.

“You know, I basically lived on instant ramen in college.”

I smirked. “That tracks.”

“Hey, it’s a classic. Cost, like, twenty cents a pack. Kept me alive.” He pointed a fry at me. “Bet you never had to survive on that kind of struggle meal, huh?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I went to MIT, Chris. You think I didn’t spend at least one all-nighter living off shitty dorm food?”

Chris chuckled. “Okay, fair. And what about now? Do you cook? Or do you have one of those sleek, spotless kitchens that exist purely for aesthetic purposes?”

I leaned back, sipping my Sauvignon Blanc. “I cook.”

Chris raised a skeptical brow. “Really?”

“Really. I actually enjoy it. And I’m not half-bad at it, if I do say so myself.”

“Huh.” He considered me for a moment, then smirked. “What’s your signature dish, then?”

I shrugged. “I make a mean chicken piccata.”

Chris hummed, tapping a finger against the table. “Sounds fancy. Gonna have to judge that for myself someday.”

I grinned. “That a request?”

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