My stomach growls loud enough to have her looking up.
Her gaze flickers from her food to my stomach. “Do you want to stay and have some?”
I blink twice. “What?”
“I ordered way too much anyway.”
“You’re offering me food?”
“No need to make it a big deal and treat it like the Last Supper or anything. You’re obviously hungry, and I’d hate for good food to go to waste.” She holds out a plastic set of utensils and the container filled with brisket—my personal favorite.
“I’m surprised you’re willing to share.”
“You’re the one who always had a problem with sharing. Plus, it’s the least I can do after you drove me to the hospital and everything the other week.”
I take off my suit jacket and throw it on the table before sitting on the floor opposite to her. “You’re right.” I stab into her pile of pulled pork and grab a forkful.
“Hey!” She smacks my fork away with her own.
“I thought you didn’t have a problem with sharing,” I tease before taking a bite. The burst of flavor nearly makes my eyes roll.
“You like it?”
“I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” I don’t speak again until half the brisket is gone.
“Do you usually work this late?” She swallows a forkful of mac and cheese.
“Yup.” I dig into the street corn since Dahlia would cut my hand off with a plastic knife before letting me have some of her mac and cheese.
“Why?”
“Not like I have much else to do.”
She looks at me with a strange expression. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you could enjoy life a little?”
“I do.”
“Really? Because you’re kind of a workaholic.”
I frown. “So what?”
“It’s not a bad thing, per se.” She looks up at the ceiling.
“You sure make it sound like one.”
“It’s sad to think you made all this money at such a young age to make life easier, yet all you do is work anyway.”
“I like my job.”
“But do you love it?” She stays quiet as she takes a few more bites of her food.
Not anymore.
As if she can read my mind, she makes a confirmatory noise.
“What?” I ask.
“You don’t seem happy.”
