Like a Boss - Annabelle Costa Page 0,9

me.

It must kill him to know he’s not perfect anymore. Maybe that’s why he’s so cold now. Heartless.

He places his right hand on what seems to be an accelerator of some sort. There’s no hesitation in his movements—he’s very comfortable driving using his arms. He looks more comfortable than I do when I get behind the wheel in this city.

It takes me a few minutes to realize we’re heading in the direction of the North End. He’s doing a good job maneuvering through the disarray of the streets of Boston. And by “good,” I mean he’s aggressive as hell. Let me tell you something about Boston drivers: They’re insane. I grew up in Jersey and I thought they were insane over there, but Boston is a million times worse. The streets of Boston make absolutely no sense: streets change names, zig-zag, and do all kinds of things, and it makes the people who drive here lose their freaking minds.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“It’s an Italian restaurant,” he says. “Rosita’s.”

“Have you been there before?”

“Yes.”

“Is… is it any good?”

He skids to a halt at a red light. “Do you think I’m taking you to a restaurant I think is bad?”

“No.” Oh God, I can’t believe how badly I’m screwing this up. “Sorry, I just… Sorry.”

We spend the rest of the drive in silence. Anytime I get the urge to say anything, I bite down on my tongue. Hard.

Luke pulls into the small parking lot of an expensive-looking Italian restaurant. I’m about to point out to him that the lot is full, which was always an issue when I went to the North End in the past, but then I realize that, of course, he can park in the handicapped spot.

“Okay,” he says as he kills the engine. “You can pry your fingers off the dashboard now.”

I laugh like he made a joke, but he’s not smiling. Admittedly, I’m a bit shaky as I climb out of the car. You have to be an aggressive driver if you live in Boston, but there were a few times when I saw my life flashing before my eyes.

Without thinking, I start up the steps to the front door. I hear Luke clear his throat loudly, and I turn around. He’s sitting in his chair, at the foot of the stairs. “Eleanor,” he says.

I grip the railing of the steps. “Oh. Uh… do you need…?”

“There’s a ramp around the side,” he says.

“Right.” I swallow hard. “Sorry.”

I can’t believe I was so thoughtless. Obviously, he can’t get up the stairs. Usually, I’m pretty sensitive to other people’s emotions—I can always tell when somebody’s having a bad day. But Luke is throwing me off my game big time. I hate the fact that I want so badly to impress him. And not just because he’s my boss.

He pushes himself up the ramp to the entrance, and we go inside together. This Italian restaurant doesn’t quite look like a place where you would have a business lunch. It’s a little too dark. A little too romantic. And definitely very expensive.

“Kind of dark, isn’t it?” I say with a forced smile.

Luke frowns. “Dark?”

“Like… it’s not…” I squeeze my hands together. “It’s hard to see. You know?”

He stares up at me, like I’ve said something too stupid to respond to. Which I suppose is fair.

He made reservations and the hostess leads us to our table, which has got to be the most secluded table in the whole damn restaurant. It occurs to me that this is the closest thing I’ve had to a date in about six months, and that is so sad, I almost want to cry.

We’ve been seated for less than a minute when a waiter dashes over to our table. “May I offer you a drink?”

“I’ll have a glass of pinot noir,” Luke says.

I know having a glass of wine at lunch isn’t a big deal, but I feel like it’s important to have complete control of my senses now. Plus, I’m a lightweight and even one glass of wine is liable to alter my judgment.

“I’ll have a ginger ale,” I say.

Luke stares at me again. I desperately wish I could take back my order, but the waiter has already dashed off to bring our drinks.

“Ginger ale?” he repeats. “That’s what you want?”

“I’m not a big drinker,” I say defensively.

I pick up my menu and study it intently, avoiding his gaze. But when I lift my eyes, I see he’s watching me.

“You know,” he says, “they don’t