Page 70 of Savage Suit
He hurried away and disappeared down the hallway. His sudden exit wasn’t my business. I inspected my surroundings, pretending curiosity didn’t eat at me. The middle-aged male suits staring my way left me as uncomfortable as I’d been on the twelfth floor when it happened, so I left the cafeteria.
After a bathroom break, I returned to the hallway outside of the cafeteria. As I contemplated my next move, a light cough got my attention, and I turned.
Megan smiled, her friendly expression comforting among the sea of scowls and ogling. I needed the congeniality right now.
“Would you like to get a bite to eat? My treat.”
My stomach grumbled at the thought of food. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
Chapter Sixteen
I tapped my foot against the cafeteria tile and sighed in frustration as Megan and I awaited a turn to choose what we’d eat. In the twenty minutes since Noah abruptly left, we had spent our time idling in the slow line, subjected to more than a few stares.
No. Notwe.Me.
I’m sure everyone knew Megan. But I lifted my chin and offered pointed glances at as many assholes as I could. They didn’t know me and yet they were judging me for whatever reason. That alone spoke volumes about the accuracy of Ingrid Warrington’s article. Still, I wasn’t an I.W. loyalist. I couldn’t be. She wouldn’t sign my checks or authorize direct deposits. Besides, the more I thought about all the ugliness the article revealed, the more I realized she’d served up a steaming pile of horseshit. She could’ve offered Noah a chance to respond.
“The food smells delicious,” Megan said, leaning down so I’d hear her over the cacophony.
My mouth watered and my stomach growled at the pleasant smells dancing around me. Only the promise of tasty food gave me the strength not to lose my patience. “It does. What are you having?”
She glanced at one of the electronic menus plastered on the wall, then looked at me again. “The garlic shrimp and fresh spinach pasta.”
It could’ve been stale pasta, and the dish still sounded fucking amazing. “Fresh spinach pasta?”
“Ummm,” Megan responded. “Noah… Mr. Keegan,” she amended with a small smile, “doesn’t have just a cafeteria with delivered food service. The company has several high-end chefs.”
“They cook the food on-premises?”
“Those double doors at the far end of the room leads to the kitchen. Besides this floor’s, there’s a kitchen on the fourth floor, the eighth floor, as well as the seventeenth, nineteenth, and twenty-sixth floors. The fiftieth floor was supposed to have a restaurant open to the public with rooftop dining as a possibility.”
“Why are those floors important enough for separate kitchens?” I asked, not bothering to comment on the planned restaurant, though curious why it was scrapped. On the surface, the project sounded as if it had enormous potential. But I wasn’t a restaurateur or a real estate developer. “Keegan Enterprises takes up all fifty floors?”
She grabbed a tray from the stack and set it on the serving counter. We were making progress, though no plates or utensils were in sight. Once I grabbed a tray, she answered.
“Floors forty through forty-five are luxury apartments. Floor thirty-nine is where the leasing office, condo manager, lobby, security station, mailroom, fitness center, and a couple of other rooms are located. There’s restricted access to all six floors.”
“I might have to tour this place,” I said with a giggle. “It would save so much time if I lived in the same building as my job.”
My teasing tone should’ve alerted Megan I was joking. Instead, she gave me a tight-lipped smile.
“From what I understand, you’re in a trial period, Ryan. Should you become permanent, I doubt your salary would cover the monthly rent. Our units range between six and seventy-five thousand dollars a month. If it is out ofmyprice range, it is out of yours.”
I didn’t want her as an enemy, but boundaries needed to be established from day one. She couldn’t walk all over me. It didn’t matter that she was my superior. I allowed no one to treat me aslesser.
“I’m joking. I should’ve made that clear, so you’d understand it,” I said with a laugh, hoping she picked up on the shade.
“You need to work on your comedic skills, hun,” she said, chuckling.
I decided commenting would be a waste of breath; her mind was made up. “How much garlic is in the pasta dish?” Food was a safe topic. Resorting to discussing the weather was status quo and boring as shit.
“Yes, I forgot your unfamiliarity with fresh pasta.”
I frowned, but her head was turned away.
“Our chefs make the pasta here on the day the dish is served. Dried pasta is easier, and more shelf-stable—”
“Dried pasta also uses semolina flour,” I gritted, offended at her assumptions. “And there are certain recipes that work better with dried pasta, especially with heavier sauces because fresh pasta will disintegrate quickly.”
