1Love Redesigned (Lakefront Billionaires, #1)(53)

“Perfect. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking that…” Dahlia swipes the bag of takeout from my hand.

She searches for the best place to eat before deciding to sit crisscross on the rug and use a cardboard box for a table.

“Thanks for grabbing it for me. I must have missed the guy’s call.” She pops open the first takeout container. The aroma of freshly baked cornbread and pulled pork fills the room, drawing another disturbing grumble from my stomach.

Her gaze snaps toward the source of the noise. “Did you have dinner?”

“Not yet.” I take a step toward the door.

She reaches inside the paper bag for another Styrofoam box and places it beside the first.

I pull out my phone to place an order at Holy Smokes, only to find out the restaurant closed fifteen minutes ago. “Damn.”

“What?” She pops off the top of the barbecue sauce and drizzles some over the pulled pork.

Saliva fills my mouth at an embarrassing rate.

“Do you have a key to lock up?”

“No.”

Great. “Did you expect to leave the front door open?”

She shrugs. “I thought I could sneak out of a window or something.”

I tip my head toward her purple cast. “My liability insurance company is going to go bankrupt because of you.”

Her soft laugh floods me with warmth. “Sam left me his key, so you’re safe. For now.”

First thing tomorrow, I plan on having a chat with Sam about office keys and temporary guests.

“Fine. Be sure to lock up.”

“Got it.” She offers me a half-assed salute before popping open the box containing a whopping amount of brisket, mac and cheese, corn, and some coleslaw.

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.”

Her acknowledgment shocks me.

She shakes her head. “I thought you were here living your best billionaire life, but honestly, everything about it is kind of pathetic.”

“Gee. Thanks.” I steal a scoopful of her mac and cheese in retribution, earning a little hiss from Dahlia.

She pulls the container farther out of my reach. “I’m not trying to be rude.”

“Yet it seems to be your default setting around me.”

My comment earns me a scowl.

“Your life is…” Her voice drifts off.

“What? Sad? Pathetic? Miserable? Take your pick.”

“Not what I expected,” she whispers.

My throat tightens. “What did you expect?”

“For you to be happy at least.”

“Were you happy before you came here?” My tone comes off more accusatory than neutral.

Her shoulders stiffen. “For a time, yeah.”

My napkin crumples in my tight fist.

Her brows furrow. “Julian…”

I rise in a rush and toss my crushed napkin and fork in the trash.