The Boss Upstairs - Roya Carmen Page 0,14
on my desk at home, and I’m used to seeing him every day. It just didn’t seem right not to bring him along. Sure, I know it’s been over two years, and it’s a little weird, but I don’t care.
Walter stares back at me. That’s the small artist Smurf figurine Donovan gave me years ago. He holds an artist palette and a paintbrush, and his tongue sticks out in concentration. Donovan gave it to me years ago because it reminded him of me. Apparently, I always stick out my tongue when I’m highly focused on my work. He used to say it was the most adorable thing. I highly doubt it.
I sigh at the recollection. So many memories, and they hit me at all hours of the day, sometimes at the most unexpected times. I miss him so much.
It’s one o’clock and my stomach is growling. I’m readying to head home for lunch break when Weston surprises me.
“How are you today?”
I smile up at him. “Great… and you?”
He grins widely. “Fantastic. I’m just about to have lunch.”
“Me too. I’m starving,” I tell him. “Not sure if I have any decent food at home, but I’ll figure it out.”
He studies me for a second or two. “Would you like to eat with me?” he asks. “I have tons of Thai leftovers. I always order too much.”
I’m taken aback by the offer. It was the last thing I expected. Ethan is at daycare, and nothing is waiting for me at home but cans of Campbell’s soup, and I love Thai food. “Uh… sure. I’d love to. Thank you so much.”
He smiles. “No worries. I’m thankful for the company.”
We stand awkwardly for a beat.
“Well, shall we head to the kitchen?” he says
“Yes.”
I follow him eagerly to the beautiful state-of-the-art kitchen. It’s all sleek granite, stainless appliances and glass. And unlike my own kitchen, it’s spotless. I wonder who cleans it.
He reaches into the refrigerator, and pulls a myriad of food containers. I assist him in opening them, and he fetches plates from the cupboard. We brush past each other as we fill our plates. I revel in his wonderful scent, earthy and just… delicious.
I ask him about his kids. As he busies himself at the microwave, I steal a few looks. He’s wearing dark jeans and a fitted blue long sleeve shirt, and I want to reach out and touch the soft fabric. He heats up my plate first, ever the gentleman, and asks me how Ethan likes his daycare. I tell him all about it, and I wonder if he’s really interested, or just making polite conversation.
I ask about his kids’ school as he washes his hands meticulously. We finally settle down at the kitchen table. I marvel at the view as we dig into our plates. The food is delicious and my stomach does a little happy dance.
“So where did you study?” he asks me between bites.
“The Art Institute of Chicago.”
He nods. “That’s a good school, I hear.”
I smile bashfully. “I guess.”
We stare down at our plates again. Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore, I’m nervous. “How about you, Mr. Hanson—”
“Call me Weston, please.”
“Uh… okay. Where did you study, Weston?”
“Harvard and MIT,” he tells me casually, like this isn’t impressive at all. “I studied architecture and business.”
“Funny how we find ourselves eating together,” I say, “the artist and the entrepreneur.”
“Yes, a delightful twist of fate.”
I smile at his use of the word ‘delightful’. He’s like a character from a Jane Austen novel.
“Have you always been interested in art?” he asks.
I think back, remembering my mother’s refrigerator, covered with my drawings. “Yep… pretty much.”
“How about you, Mr. Hanson? Were you building cities with Legos when you were a kid?”
He glares at me for a second, and I wonder what I’ve said wrong.
He smiles. “I asked you to call me Weston.”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry… it’s just… I’m sorry, Weston.”
He smiles. “Now that’s more like it. Good girl.”
I freeze for a second, blushing crimson.
Good girl. Damn, say that again. I like it. A lot.
An impish smile traces his lips. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he knew exactly what he was doing to me. But just as quick as it came, his smiles fades, and he’s all business again. “Yes, to answer your question,” he says. “I was always building things. I was quite obsessive about it actually, or so my mother tells me.”
I smile, picturing him as a kid, surrounded by building blocks. “Ethan loves his blocks. He just plays