Drunk on You: an age gap, enemies to lovers, fake engagement, office romance (Love & Whiskey Boo

Chapter Ten

“It’s late.”

Dad’s voice has me jumping out of my skin as I look up from my computer and control my breathing to slow my heart rate.

“It is?”

I glance at the clock. Six o’clock. Hardly late. Hell, some days at Benson, six o’clock was when I would down some espresso, get a second wind, and work until ten or eleven.

“Your fiancé left over an hour ago,” he points out. “Did you two not carpool this morning?”

Shit, I didn’t even consider that.

“We weren’t sure how it would all work with today being my first day. I didn’t want to hold him up.”

“Go home,” Dad says gently. “Tomorrow is another day.”

I want to argue, but I bite my tongue, knowing he’s testing me. This is what he doesn’t want—his CEO working until all hours of the night instead of being home with their family.

“You’re right,” I agree, saving what I was working on so I can work on it at home. It’s not like I’m actually going home to spend time with my fake fiancé.

When I get home, I park inside the garage and notice Julian is home since his car and truck are both present. I close the garage door and then head in through the mudroom that’s located off the side of the kitchen, immediately getting a whiff of what smells like garlic.

Mmm, Italian.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I didn’t eat lunch or dinner because I was too busy working on my pitch for the Ronan Flynn collaboration.

I’m expecting Julian to be at the table with takeout, so I’m taken aback when I instead find him standing in front of the stove, dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a white shirt, his feet bare, stirring something in a pot.

“Are you cooking?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He glances my way and chuckles. “No, I just thought it would be fun to pour a bunch of ingredients into a pot and watch them boil.”

I roll my eyes at his sarcasm. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“You don’t know a lot of things about me,” he says dryly.

“Touché.”

“When I was growing up, my mom said everyone should know how to cook, clean, and do laundry,” he says, continuing to stir whatever’s in the pot. “She made my sister and me cook with her several times a week, clean our own bedrooms and bathroom, and do our own laundry.” He shrugs. “I have someone come in to clean and do my laundry now that I can afford it and am busy with work, but I prefer to cook for myself rather than go out to eat or order in every night. It’s healthier, and it tastes better.”

I stare at him in shock and awe at how normal that sounds. I’ve never done any of the above, but I’m not about to mention that and sound like a spoiled brat. It’s not that I think I’m above it, but unlike his mom, mine never considered cooking, cleaning, or doing laundry a teachable life lesson. She came from money, and from the time I was born, all of that stuff was always handled.

Unlike my friends though, I only had a nanny when it was necessary—when Mom would attend engagements with my dad that I didn’t go to. She preferred to devote her time to me, and I believe that’s why we were so close. She was my best friend, and I miss her so much.

“So, you think your cooking tastes better, huh?” I say, poking the beast. “Clearly, you’ve never been to Enzo’s in London. It has three Michelin stars.” I walk over to the stove and look into the pot, spotting the tomato sauce. “One of them was for his sauce alone.” I’m making that up, but Julian doesn’t know that.

“No, I’ve never been to Enzo’s,” he admits, taking the spoon and lifting it to my mouth. “And I’ve obviously never been given an award for my food, but I have been told my sauce is delicious.” As the last word rolls off his tongue, the spoon touches my lips, and I still in my spot.

“Blow,” he murmurs, his green eyes filled with mischief.

I do as he said, blowing lightly on the spoon for a few seconds before I part my lips and he slides the spoon into my mouth. Julian feeding me his sauce shouldn’t be such a turn-on, yet I find myself squeezing my legs together, trying to find a little bit of relief.

I close my lips and suck on the wooden spoon, and fresh garlic, several different herbs, sweet tomatoes, and so many other flavors instantly burst against my taste buds.

“Holy shit,” I murmur. “That’s …”

“Orgasmic?” Julian finishes for me, raising a brow. “Yeah, I know.” He smirks and goes back to stirring the sauce. “I’ve been told.”

I don’t know why, but the thought of him feeding other women and them comparing it to orgasms has me seeing green with jealousy. I’ve never been that type of woman, never cared enough about a man to feel that kind of emotion, and the fact that I’m feeling it because of Julian and his damn sauce doesn’t sit well with me. I’m supposed to be focusing on beating him out of the CEO position, not having foodgasms.

“Whatever,” I mutter, walking away.

Before I can get far though, he grabs my wrist and pulls me back to him, my body pressing against his. My hands land on his muscular pecs, and it doesn’t go unnoticed how hard his body is. Was it only a few days ago that I was wrapped around him, kissing him like he was the breath of air I needed to survive?

“Have you had dinner yet?” he asks, his hand sliding down my side and landing on the curve of my hip.

The intimate gesture feels so good that all rational thought flies out the window.

When I shake my head, unable to form words, he nods once and says, “Go get comfortable. Dinner will be ready soon.”

I should tell him that I’m good and then hide out in my bedroom, away from his mesmerizing emerald eyes, hypnotizing scent, and orgasmic freaking sauce, where it’s safe, but instead, I find myself agreeing.

After I’ve rinsed the day off and changed into a pair of comfy leggings and a tank top, I make my way back downstairs, where I find Julian pouring me a glass of red wine to go with the delicious-looking spaghetti and meatballs on my plate. There’s also a salad and …

“Are these homemade?” I ask, pointing to the fluffy garlic knots.

“Yep,” he says, pouring himself three fingers of scotch, which I immediately recognize as Kingston’s from the crown on the label—the company’s signature logo my dad designed many years ago. “Today was stressful, and I find cooking is a good way to relax.”

“Why was it stressful?” I ask, taking a sip of my wine.

“Spent most of the day putting out fires,” he says, taking a bite of a garlic knot and then washing it down with his scotch. “How was your day?” he asks.

“Productive,” I admit, noting how domestic this feels. “I got my office set up and spent the afternoon working on my pitch.”

He nods. “Oh, since we’re playing house, Ryder and his fiancée are doing a destination wedding in Hawaii.” He rolls his eyes, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s against the wedding or Hawaii. “Everyone, including your dad and Selene, will be there, so I need you to plan to go.” He thinks thoughtfully for a moment, then adds, “I’ll have Josie sync our calendars. That way, we can keep track of our commitments.”

“Ryder’s the CFO, right?” I ask, remembering him from my research.

“Yeah, and my best friend,” he says, taking a bite of his food.

Of course he is. Apparently, I’ve stepped into a damn gentleman’s club. Sure, women work there as well. Most of them are in other departments or are assistants. A few are managers or supervisors, but the majority of the upper-level team is made up of men.

“What’s that look for?” he questions.

“What look?”

“As soon as I told you Ryder’s my best friend, you got a sour look on your face.”

Damn it, I forgot how observant this man is.

“I just noticed that a lot of upper-level management are men. I didn’t realize how sexist my dad was.”

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel I’m a good fit for the position, which means I don’t stand a chance against Julian and everything I’m doing is pointless.

The thought has my hackles rising and motivates me that much more. If I do everything better than Julian, go beyond the expectations, Dad will have no choice but to pick me or risk looking sexist.

Julian scoffs. “Your dad is not sexist. Besides, I’m the one who handles the majority of the hiring.”

“So, you’re sexist,” I poke, making Julian glare my way. “Oh, c’mon. Every three-letter position is filled by a man,” I point out.

“That’s not true,” he argues.

“Oh, really? Let’s see here. CEO: man,” I start, ticking it off, using my pointer finger. “COO: man.” My middle finger goes up. “CFO: man, CMO: man, and CTO: also a man.” With all five fingers in the air, I give him a condescending wave and a matching smile. “When I get the CEO position, I don’t know how all you men are going to handle taking orders from a woman in charge.”

“You know, Red,” he says, annoyance and anger dripping with every word, “if you bow out now, I can assure you that you’ll have the spot as the COO, and then there’ll be a woman with three letters.”

“Ha!” I bark out a laugh. “That sounds to me like you’re scared. As you should be,” I say, taking a sip of my wine and locking eyes with him. “And unlike your false promises, when I become CEO, I’ll consider keeping you in your position.”

I stand despite wanting so badly to eat my delicious food. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

I walk by him, stopping when I’m right next to him.

“One thing about working with men is that you have no idea how crazy a woman can be when she wants something,” I say, leaning down and using the table to hold myself up so I don’t touch him. “The thing about spiders is that they’re quiet, so you never see them coming. And before you realize they’re there, they’ve already attacked and left you for dead. Be careful, Julian. Like you said, I’m venomous. Let this be your warning. I’m coming after you, and I’m not going to hold back.”

“Knock, knock.”

I glance up and find my dad standing in the doorway of my office. I was so lost in what I was doing that I didn’t even hear him approach.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, smiling through my annoyance at my concentration being broken. “What’s up?”

“I, uh …” He clears his throat, and I can’t help noticing he looks nervous. A million thoughts go through my head, but when he speaks, I’m a bit confused. “I was wondering if you might want to have lunch with me.”

He wants to eat with me?

I look at the time and see it’s noon. Technically, I can take a lunch, but …

“I’m in the middle of working on my pitch,” I tell him.

With us only having a couple of days before the meeting, he must know we’re going to spend every second possible on it. Yet he pretty much demanded I go home early last night, and now, he wants me to take a break to have lunch.

His face falls, but he nods in understanding.

“No worries,” he says. “Another day.”

He forces a smile and then retreats, leaving me alone.

I turn back to my laptop screen and continue to work, but I can’t get the sad look on my dad’s face out of my head. And the way he was nervous to ask me to eat with him …

And then Julian’s words come back to me. “But every Wednesday, she came to the office and brought him lunch, and every week, he told her he was too busy. Eventually, she stopped coming.”

And it hits me. Today is Wednesday, and I just did the same thing to my dad that he had done to my mom. He’s trying to right his wrongs, but he’s right. Instead of doing the opposite of the man I resented, I’ve become him. Only I justify it because I refuse to get married and have kids, so I’m not hurting anyone but myself—and now him.

Grabbing my card and phone, I rush out of the office and over to the sub shop we used to frequent when I was little and order our favorites, hoping it’s still his. Then, I go straight to his office, hoping to find him there. When I find his office empty, my heart sinks. But then he steps out of his private bathroom, and our eyes meet.

“I bought us subs,” I tell him, lifting the bag as proof. “If you’d still like to have lunch with me.”

His eyes turn glassy, and a beautiful smile spreads across his face that makes me hate myself for going six years without seeing him. Yeah, he fucked up. But he’s human, and after we lost Mom, we only had each other. But instead, I left, thinking I was punishing him—without realizing I was punishing us both.

“That would be wonderful. How about in the conference room?” he suggests despite him having a table in his office.

“That sounds perfect.”