Page 163 of Boss of the Year
I remained standing, clutching my portfolio like a shield. “How do you even know I’m job hunting?”
He nodded toward the résumés in my hand. “Lucky guess. I suppose the better question is why?”
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m out of a job.”
Lucas frowned. “If you’re referring to those threats the other night, I think we can both write that off to alcohol, don’t you?”
My foot stamped on a hard cobblestone like a child’s. “No, I don’tthink. I told you, Lucas, I don’t work for you anymore.”
“Why not? The hours are better, and I pay a hell of a lot more than any of these places.”
“It costs me a lot more too.”
His lips quirked. “Well, I can’t argue that.”
We eyed each other over the table. I could walk away, I knew. Or use this opportunity to tell him to go to hell. But he was, actually, quite patient. Waiting. Watching. Not hurrying me, not turning me down.
After the day I’d had—really, the life I’d had—it felt kind of good to be wanted. Even if it was just for whatever game he was playing.
“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the empty chair again. “You look tired.”
I was tired. The combination of stress and emotional exhaustion was wearing me down, and the scent of coffee and bread was making my mouth water. I hadn’t eaten since that espresso and two bites of croissant this morning.
I sank into the chair. “Fine. But I can buy my own coffee.”
“I’m sure you can, but it’s too late now.”
Before I could object, he’d signaled the waiter and ordered two café au laits and a baguette with butter. The efficiency annoyed me almost as much as his presumption that I’d sit down.
“No one drinks café au lait in the afternoon,” I informed him.
“You look hungry,” he said. “Have you eaten at all today?”
I didn’t answer, just flexed my toes in my shoes. They were flats generally well-suited to the cobbled streets of Paris, but after hoofing it all over the city, my feet needed a good soak and a rub.
“Give me that.”
Before I could stop him, Lucas had bent down, slipped off my shoe, and pulled my foot into his lap, where he proceeded to rub it under the table.
My jaw dropped. “That is…you can’t just…right here at a café?”
I should have pulled it back, but it just felt so. Damn. Good.
Lucas smirked as he pushed a thumb into my arch, eliciting a long moan from deep within my chest. “Good?”
“Too good. Stop—oh my God,don’tstop that.”
The waiter arrived with our coffee and bread, took one look at what Lucas was doing, and immediately left, muttering something like “vulgar Americans” in French.
I couldn’t find it in myself to care as Lucas switched to the other foot.
Ten minutes later, my feet were completely rehabilitated. I’d eaten some of the baguette, drunk half the café au lait, and felt like a new person.
“Thank you,” I said stiffly as I put my feet back in my shoes. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Then tell me what I do need to do to win you back.”
I sighed, coffee halfway to my mouth. “Lucas…”
