“Not one of those things was his name?”
Braiding the end of my ponytail, I shrug. “It doesn’t matter at this point. What matters is that I can’t go back to Atlas 22.”
“Sure, you can.” He pats my shoulder, picking a small piece of lint from my blue sweater. “A week from now, no one will remember that you trashed the place.”
I hide my face in my hands. “I’m trying to forget it ever happened.”
Max tugs my hands down. His hazel eyes lock on my frown. “Cheer up, Bella. You still have your date with Dale to look forward to.”
I wish I were meeting non-Dale for dinner instead.
Max places another picture in the photo album on his lap.
One Sunday a month, Max and I convene at his apartment for pasta night and pictures on his couch.
I bring the pasta from Calvetti’s, my grandma’s restaurant. Max drags a cardboard box filled with pictures out of his front closet. While we eat whatever my grandma packed for dinner, Max tells me stories about his family while he sorts through the old photographs.
One or two pictures make the cut each week. Tonight a baby photo of Max and a weathered, yellowing photograph of his great-grandfather took their rightful place on the tenth page of the album.
Genealogy is all the rage in Max’s world at the moment.
I stretch out my legs. “I need to get home. It’s back to the grind tomorrow.”
Max skims a hand over the knee of my leggings. “Do you want to go to a movie this week?”
“Wednesday works for me.” I punctuate my answer with a nod of my head.
“It’s a date unless Dale asks you out for dinner that night.” He narrows his gaze. “By Dale, I mean the real Dale and not some random in a restaurant.”
That random in the restaurant hasn’t left my thoughts all weekend.
I may have enjoyed some alone time in bed while thinking about what could have been after our date if only it were a real date.
I tug on the hood of Max’s gray sweatshirt. “I’m going home. I’ll text you when I’m done work tomorrow.”
“You better.” He kisses my cheek. “I hope it’s as boring as a Monday should be.”
Chapter 5
Bella
I peer around the corner into Duke Garent’s office, expecting to see my boss’s smiling face.
The gray-haired man in a black suit standing with his back to me, staring out at the morning view of midtown Manhattan shouldn’t be here.
Ivan Garent, Duke’s father, works out of the Chicago office of Garent Industries. Whenever he plans a trip to New York, I’m on the list of people who need to know about it.
I had no clue that he’d be here today.
If I had known, I would have chosen something other than the red sheath dress I’m wearing. I paired it with a pair of red heels and matching lipstick.
Duke doesn’t subscribe to a dress code. I wore a dark blue suit to my interview with him. He told me that day that he doesn’t follow the same rules as his dad and I could wear whatever I wanted to the office if I landed the position of his executive assistant.
I take my job seriously, but a pop of color never hurt anyone.
I glance at the watch on my wrist. It’s ten minutes before nine. I’m early.
Duke is late. He’s usually in his office by eight-thirty or so he tells me.