Page 19 of Faking It With My New Boss

He obviously wasn't one to apologize very much in his life. If at all. Part of me wanted to wait for him to say he was sorry, but a much larger part of me realized it wasn't coming. That just wasn't the type of man Bryan Callahan was.

“You haven't had dinner yet, have you?” he asked.

“No,” I said, shaking my head as I pushed back slightly from the desk. “I was thinking about ordering something, but I hadn't gotten around to it yet.”

“Good. Now you don't have to.” He set the food down on the corner of the desk and I moved the work I was doing aside so it didn't get in the way of the containers as he unloaded the bag. “You're working hard enough. You don't need to think about dinner, too.”

It was an odd comment, but I felt like it was his attempt at getting close to admitting he was wrong without actually taking the leap to say it.

“It smells good,” I said.

“If you want, I can stay late with you and go over what you've done,” he offered.

I didn't really want a repeat of the day before. Collaboration wasn't something I was particularly used to or fond of when it came to my creative endeavors. I never worked with other designers and encouraged my clients to give me as much space and leeway as absolutely possible so I could just do my thing. Bryan had completely thrown that out the window and spent an inordinate amount of time picking apart the ideas I gave him.

It was almost like he wanted to make sure he had poked and prodded at every single one so there wasn't anything left that was really my vision. Just for the principle of it. That wasn't something I felt like going through again, particularly after having to shoehorn in a few of the more absurd demands he had. But the food smelled amazing and I was starving, so I nodded.

“Sure,” I said.

He sat down and handed me a fork and a paper plate. I examined the plate and gave him a questioning look.

“I made a stop by the break room before I came in,” he said.

“Ah.”

We doled out the food and started eating. It tasted even better than it smelled and I figured I would be perfectly happy to just sit there eating for the rest of the night and not even bother to do any more work. Unfortunately, that wasn't really an option. After a few minutes of eating, we tucked into the planning again.

“One thing that I really liked about all of your ideas is the way you integrated the food into the theme,” he said. “I can't remember that ever really being something that was done at the parties before.”

“That's the impression I got,” I said. “From everything I went over about the previous parties, it seemed to me the menu was basically a generic catering menu. High-quality food and impressive in its own right, don't get me wrong, but just… predictable. There wasn't really anything about it that made it stand out from any other gala, wedding, or other social event. Integrating the food into the overall theme will make it more interesting and really make the guests take notice.”

“I agree,” Bryan said. “Food is an important part of the experience.”

“If it's done correctly,” I said.

“If it's done correctly,” he repeated. “And I have a feeling you'll make sure it is. What do you think about a dessert bar?”

We went back and forth about the menu options for a little while and I noticed how much more he seemed to come alive when he was talking about something like this rather than just the company itself. Bits of information about himself trickled into the conversation and I offered a couple of details of my own.

“I hope you don't mind me saying it, but you really don't seem to like your job very much,” I pointed out when I ventured into the realm of talking about the company and noticed him stiffen up.

He chuckled a little. “Somehow I don't think you actually care if I mind.”

I shrugged. “Probably not. But the observation still stands.”

A breath seeped out of him. “It's not about me liking it or not. That's not what matters. This is what was expected of me my whole life and so it's what I'm doing.”

“Why was it expected of you?” I asked.

“Think of it as my inheritance. I got the job because my father died,” he said.

There wasn't any emotion behind the words, which surprised me.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

Bryan brushed it off. “It doesn't really matter to me. We weren't close. The only impact his death made on my life was this job. What about you? What's your family like?”

It sounded less like a curious inquiry than an attempt at detouring the conversation. He was obviously not comfortable talking about his family, so I decided to give him a break. I told him a little bit about my family and what it was like growing up. I skirted around any mention of my interior design experience, wanting to steer clear of that potential pitfall. Eventually, we found our way back to discussing the actual work in front of us.

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