CHAPTER 12: DINNER INVITATION

Maya

The rest of the day moves in slow motion. Every time I look up from my desk, Philip’s eyes are on me…quick glances over the top of his laptop, lingering stares through the glass of his office door. Each one sends a jolt of heat through me, making my fingers shake as I type up notes for our dinner meeting.

Sarah notices, of course. She slides a cup of coffee onto my desk just after two, leaning in so close her perfume fills my nose, something floral and sweet.

“Everything okay?” she asks, nodding toward his office. “You keep looking over there like you’re waiting for something.”

“I’m just… focused on the project,” I say, but even I can hear how thin the excuse is. My eyes drift back to his door, and sure enough…he’s looking at me, his gaze heavy and dark. When he sees me looking, he doesn’t look away. He holds my stare for a full ten seconds before turning back to his screen.

Sarah laughs quietly. “Focused, huh? That’s one way to put it. You know, in all the years I’ve worked for him, I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that. Not even his ex-wife.”

I feel a jolt of something sharp… jealousy, maybe, before I push it down. “He’s just being a good boss. Making sure I’m settling in okay.”

“Right.” She pats my shoulder before walking away. “Whatever you say, Maya. Just… be careful. He’s not like other men.”

I try to focus on my work, but it’s impossible. Every sound from his office, the tap of his pen, the rustle of papers, the soft murmur of his voice on the phone… pulls my attention away. I find myself re-reading the same paragraph over and over, my mind stuck on the way he’d looked at me when I’d suggested dinner. The way his hand had brushed mine, warm and firm.

At four o’clock, he calls me into his office. I stand up slowly, smoothing down my blouse, and walk through the door. He’s standing by the window again, looking out at the city as the sun starts to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reflect off the glass buildings below.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask, closing the door behind me.

He turns then, and his eyes scan me from head to toe, lingering on my hair, my neck, the way the silk blouse clings to my shoulders. “I looked over your analysis again,” he says, his voice low. “It’s even better than I thought. The social media concepts… especially the one for I*******m are exactly what we need.”

“Thank you,” I say, walking closer until I’m standing just a few feet from him. “I did a lot of research on millennial engagement patterns. They respond better to visual content that feels authentic—not just polished ads.”

“I know.” He takes a step closer, and the space between us narrows. “That’s why I wanted you on this project. You understand what we’re missing. You understand how to connect with people.”

“Is that why you asked me to dinner?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. “To talk about connecting with people?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at me, his eyes dark and intense. I can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands clench at his sides before relaxing again. “I asked you to dinner because I want to know you better,” he says finally. “Not as Monica’s daughter. Not as my intern. As Maya.”

The use of my name makes my heart skip a beat. “You already know me.”

“Do I?” He takes another step closer, so close that I can smell his cologne, mixing with the faint scent of his aftershave. “I know you drink oat milk lattes with extra cinnamon. I know you like chocolate chip cookies with sea salt. I know you’re smart and hardworking and angry at the world for reasons you don’t fully understand. But I don’t know you. I don’t know what makes you laugh until your sides hurt. I don’t know what scares you. I don’t know what you really want.”

I look up at him, my breath catching in my throat. “And what if I don’t know what I want?”

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” he says, his hand moving like he’s going to touch my face…then stopping just short, hovering in the air between us. “But we have to be honest with each other, Maya. No games. No secrets.”

“I’m not playing games,” I say, even though we both know it’s a lie. “I just… want things to be different. For my family. For me.”

“I know.” He lets his hand drop to his side. “We should go. The restaurant I have in mind is twenty minutes away, and I want to get there before the crowd.”

He picks up his jacket from the back of his chair, sliding it on with practiced ease. I watch him…his hands, his shoulders, the way he moves with a confidence that comes from years of being in control. When he turns to look at me, his eyes are fixed on mine.

“Ready?” he asks.