Page 65 of Boss of the Year
“Louis sounds like a good friend,” Lucas said a few moments later.
“He was. Is.” I took a sip of water, since I’d only made onecajumocktail. “I still don’t know why he wanted to be my friend, but I’m glad he did. He made me braver than I actually am.”
“Maybe you’re braver than you think.”
I almost laughed. “I doubt that.”
Lucas didn’t seem to think it was funny at all. A thick crease appeared between his brows as he finished eating.
When he was done, he dabbed his mouth with his napkin and stood. “I’ll take my dessert to my room. I assume it’s in the kitchen?”
I nodded as I got up too. “There’s a passion-caju sorbetto in the freezer, already plated. I’ll come with you and finish it properly.”
“That’s all right, I’ve got it. You finish your meal.” He paused at the kitchen doorway, turning back to look at me. “Thank you, Marie. I do like something…sweet…before bed.”
His dark eyes bore into mine, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
Sweet Marie.
That deep voice.
Those curiously soft lips on mine.
But before I could summon the courage to ask if he ever thought about that moment too, he was gone.
14
GUAVA-RED WINE REDUCTION
*Experiment with other tropical fruits.
“You have to get out of that apartment, Mimi.”
Joni’s voice crackled through my iPhone screen, distorted by the FaceTime connection between São Paulo and New York. She was sitting on the gray Chesterfield couch in her and Nathan’s apartment, wearing what looked like one of his oversized Columbia T-shirts with her hair in a messy bun. Even when dressed like a slob, my little sister always looked like a model.
It would have been annoying if I didn’t love her so much.
Maybe it was still annoying.
I tucked a loose strand of hair under my silk kerchief—today, a gray Chanel scarf I’d found at a thrift shop in Le Marais—and stirred the farofa I was preparing for Lucas’s dinner. This time, I was cooking the cassava flour more traditionally by toasting it to a golden brown with crispy pancetta, kidney beans, and fried onions, inspired by some of the street food I’d tried my first night with Robbie.
“I’m working, Jo. This isn’t a vacation.”
“Do you hear her, babe?” Joni asked an offscreen Nathan. “The boss man can’t possibly need you twenty-four seven. What do you do during the day when he’s in meetings? You already said he takes his lunches to go.”
I focused on making sure the farofa didn’t stick to the pan.
“Marie.”
“Hmm?”
“Please tell me you’ve left that penthouse at least once since you got to one of the most vibrant cities in South America.”
I spooned out a bit of the grains to taste. No, not quite cooked yet. “I went to another market yesterday.”
“A market or a grocery store?”
I didn’t answer. Okay, so the market was a high-end grocery where half the staff spoke English and most of the products were imported from Europe. I’d needed a specific Italian oil that finished salads the way Lucas liked them.
