Page 50 of Cakes for the Grump

Now I’m frustrated by everything: the unmarked doors, how maze-like these corridors are, that I’m feeling queasy in my stomach, and how I ever thought bringing dinner to Luke’s office was a worthwhile endeavor.

All these feelings escalate when the next turn I take opens up into a great big yawn of a boardroom. The walls are high, the meeting table is long and dark, data reports flash on the screen, and there are dozens of heads aimed forward in one direction. At him. The head of the beast. Luke Abbot in a dark blue suit, leg crossed over, looking emotionless but also powerful like a twitch of a finger can cleave heads off.

“The subsidiary, sir—” says a man.

“Has been sloppily run,” interrupts Luke. “I don’t have time for negative growth. They should have never been purchased in the last round of buy-outs. Find me ways to slice their operating costs in half.”

Shocked whispers run through the business suits.

“Half?” questions a brave soul.

“Why do you need me to repeat myself?” scolds Luke. “That’s what I said. Do whatever it takes. Now, someone talk to me about the stock figures. We don’t have all night. I’m sure some of you want to head home before the sun sets.”

The projector screen flicks to another set of dense numbers. Not that I’m paying it any attention. My eyes are on him. I don’t recognize the extremeness of this personality. It’s too cold. Uncaring. Brutal.

Another suit talks about daily analysis, but his explanation is cut short by an audible squeak. The receptionist has found me. Every head turns our way in synchronicity.

Luke is already standing and heading over to us. His eyes are hard and bright. “What is it? Are you hurt?” he asks me.

I shake my head,reallyfeeling I shouldn’t have come now. To bring soup issilly, a childish assumption to go where I am not invited.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist apologizes.

“It’s alright,” says Luke. “I’ll take it from here. This way, Rita.”

He leads me through the maze until we reach what must behis office, considering it feels as if it takes up at least a fifth of the floor. Fleetingly, I notice details like accolades on the walls, the separate seating area, another breathtakingly broad view of the city—that with the sun setting—looks to be on fire.

This reminds me of our first meeting, like I’m having an audience with the king. The most important person in this building. Heir to billions.

“What is it?” he asks again, his eyes scanning me up and down. “Tell me what is going on. Is everything alright?”

His tone is not as even-keeled anymore, as if my presence has snuck under that slick polish and struck a nerve.

“I’m okay,” I say. “And your kitchen hasn’t burned down, promise.”

“Then why have you come here?”

In an attempt to make things simple, I hold out the food. I’m about to unveil the soup and bread, but his face caught under the bright overhead lights stops me. It’s drawn out, and up close I can see how pale he is. There is a sheen to his forehead.

Forgetting all awkwardness, I squint closer at his symptoms. “You look terrible.”

“What?”

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were unwell.”

Unconsciously, I reach for his forehead.

He grabs my hand before it can make contact.

“Stop that,” he orders.

Using that same hand, I twist my fingers so they hold on to his wrist instead. “You should sit down, I think. And eat. I’ve got a feeling you haven’t had anything all day, which is why I’ve brought soup.”

I attempt to lead him to the seating area, but he’s stronger than me. Realizing it’s futile, I take the food and start unpacking it on the couch.

“If that’s why you’ve come, I don’t have time for that.” His eyes sweep over me, linger, then cut away. “I don’t have time for you. Not here.”

“Everyone has a few minutes to eat.”