I crossed to his desk instead, set the bag down, and started clearing him a space. I laid out the container, the fork, the napkin, and peeled the lid back so the steam came up between us, and set the whole thing in front of him.
He put his call on mute. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
“Word on the street is you’ve been living off vending machines.”
He unmuted the call and his hand found my waist, warm through my shirt, there and gone, and he kept talking. “Then we revisit the cap table from the top…” he paused, grabbed the fork, and ate a forkful of the rice, “…because if you’re moving the goalposts on equity, nothing downstream of it holds.”
I grinned, satisfied, watching him eat something. While he negotiated, I wandered around his office. I’d been there several times in daylight, and it hadn’t looked like this. Two of the four walls were nothing but floor-to-ceiling glass. One behind his desk, the other along the adjacent side, so the whole corner of his office hung out overdowntown like the prow of a ship. He had a huge desk, a low couch, a little round table with three chairs, a media nook with albums and a stereo and speakers, a door to a private bathroom. Everything squared away.
I drifted to the side windows and looked out at the city doing its slow night breathing. Headlights threading the streets, a billboard cycling color over the south end, all of it laid out and glittering. I’d always loved city lights at night. Something about them undid me a little.
Julian was still on the call. I caught his eye and mouthed it.Eat.
He nodded and took a bite of the chicken, then held up a finger while chewing.One second.
One second became ten minutes. Somebody else came on the line and he muted it, glanced at me. “Sorry, Lyss. They’re being difficult.”
“They’ll still be difficult tomorrow.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He unmuted and dove back in.
I sat on the couch, scrolling my phone, looking up when his voice climbed. The edge sharpening, and his patience wearing out. I tapped my wrist at him, giving up on subtle.
I came around behind the chair and put my hands on him. He went rigid for half a beat, then as I dug my thumbs into the granite at the base of his neck, the breath went out of him all at once. The voice on the speaker kept droning about payout provisions. I worked the knot under his shoulder blade, and felt the fight start to leave his body under my hands.
“—which brings us back to minority shareholder protections,” the voice said.
His eyes had closed. When he spoke again, the steel had gone out of it. “You know what… let’s table this. It’s late, and nobody’s thinking clearly tonight. Tomorrow, ten a.m. My assistant will send the invite. Good night.”
He ended the call before anyone could argue and let his head drop forward into my hands.
“That was a cheap trick,” he said.
“That was an intervention.” I came back around. “Finish eating.”
He sat back and actually ate, and after a few more bites nudged the container toward me. “You want some?”
“I ate hours ago, like a regular person. That’s all yours.”
For a while neither of us said much, and the quiet didn’t need to be filled.
“When’s the last time you took a vacation?” I asked finally.
“I travel constantly.”
“For work. That doesn’t count and you know it.” I tucked my feet under me. “When’s the last time you did something that wasn’t for the company or your family or this whole city? Something for you.”
He chewed, didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’m doing something for me right now,” he said. “I’m eating chicken.”
“Don’t deflect.”
“It’s good chicken.”
I let him win that one, because the smile was worth it.