“You actually smiled,” he whispers. “And it looked good on you.”
I laugh. It’s true. Even I felt the edges of my mouth lift. The threat of legal repercussions had been weighing on my mind. Even though I was confident in my decisions, being certain wasn’t something I could afford to be. Especially not how the past few months have progressed.
“It’s a relief,” I say.
He nods. “Now open the bag.”
The box inside is large. I immediately recognize the footwear brand. It’s one of my favorites. I hesitate. Something in the back of my mind is wondering if this could be some sort of joke.
I crack the lid. It sticks, lifting the box with it. It’s heavy in my grip.
Ben sits quietly and just watches.
The piece of tape securing it closed is easily removed with my nail. The top slides off smoothly.
Underneath is black tissue paper, but peeking out from the ruffle is bright pink. I pull the paper back.
A pair of Wellington boots. Identical to my own. In my size.
“CEOs shouldn’t have wet feet on company time.”
“You shouldn’t have…”
“I wanted to.”
He moves to stand, and I rise with him. He leans across my desk, hand outstretched. I take it without thinking. His grip is warm. Solid under my fingertips. It’s familiar.
“We work well together,” he says. “And team players look out for one another, whether it’s about Barbie boots or clinical trials.”
He’s turning away toward the door, but I’m not ready for him to leave. I haven’t even said thank you for the boots. As he reaches the threshold, for once, I act on impulse. For once, I take the leap.
“I don’t normally mix business with personal time,” I say.
He stops, freezing for a beat before turning around.
“But would you join me for dinner?” I ask. “To thank you.”
I gesture to the boots. I haven’t agreed to dinner with a man in years. Never mind invited one.
“I’d like that,” he replies, his voice soft but honest. “Tell me where and when.”
Then he leaves, and all I can do is watch him go. I pick up the boots, then take them over and set them beside the older pair. Both identically made, one with years of wear, but both still perfect in their own way.
It’s dinner, I tell myself. Not a declaration of anything more.
But even then, I know I’m lying to myself.
I do nothing outside the office that I don’t want to do.
And I want this.