Opening the container, the delectable aroma of garlic whiffed around the table, reminding Tony that he truly was hungry. After a few bites he remarked, “This is delicious, thank you again.”

“Mr. Rawlings, you don’t need to keep thanking me—”

“Patricia, how long have you worked for me?”

She feigned a pout. “You don’t remember?”

“I do. You’ve been my assistant for eight years. As I recall, you were the one candidate I never expected to choose for the position.”

Her eyes opened wide. “And why was that?”

“My assistant before you was extremely capable—”

“And you didn’t think I would be?”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, let me finish. She was capable, but she couldn’t keep up with the growth and technology. I wanted someone who would do both.”

“And, it wasn’t me because…”

Tony shrugged. “You were energetic enough, and your résumé…” He thought reflectively. “Graduated top of your class from MIT, with your MBA from Stanford.” He raised his glass again. “Impressive.”

Patricia smiled and lifted her glass too. “Thank you, Mr. Rawlings.”

“That’s why I asked you how long you’ve worked for me. Please, after all you’ve done, you may call me Anthony, outside of work hours.”

Crimson glowed from her cheeks. “Thank you, Anthony. I’m glad you took a chance on me, despite that dismal education.”

“Your education was superb, as you know. I was concerned about your age.”

“You do know that age isn’t a legal reason for not hiring someone? I believe they call that discrimination.”

He grunted. “Damn. Glad I hired you then. The last thing I need is another legal charge against me.”

Patricia reached out and covered his hand. “Shh, stop. Remember, you’re taking a break from that right now.”

Tony nodded, removing his hand from hers. “Fine…” he lifted the bottle of wine. “…as long as I can refill your glass. I’m glad I hired you, too. You’ve proven your weight in gold around here. I just imagined you getting settled and then—damn, this will sound sexist—leaving to have a husband and babies.”

Her eyes diverted to her food. “It did sound sexist. If I wanted that, I could do both.”

“If?” His alcohol-infused mind had no idea of the dangerous road he was maneuvering. Her shoulders squared, reminding Tony of Claire when she was about to tell him a piece of her mind. However, instead of stern, Patricia sounded sad.

“I mean, I’m not too old… but… you know what they say?”

Tony looked at her questioningly.

“All the good ones are taken.”

The food and wine helped lift a layer of grayness. He chuckled, “I thought you were going to say the good ones were gay.”

“No, I’m extremely confident that isn’t the case,” she murmured as she ate another bite of pasta.

As the last morsel of noodle was consumed, Tony’s phone buzzed. “Excuse me. With all that’s going down, I hate to miss any messages.”

Patricia nodded.

It was a text, from Brent.

“I JUST HEARD FROM EVERGREEN AND WANT TO REVIEW THIS PLEA AGREEMENT WITH YOU. WHERE ARE YOU? CAN ERIC DRIVE YOU?”

Tony wanted to take issue with his last comment, but truth be told, he shouldn’t drive. The pasta had helped to lower his blood-alcohol level, but not enough. He replied.

“I’M AT THE OFFICE. I SENT ERIC HOME FOR THE NIGHT. I CAN DRIVE, BUT PROBABLY SHOULDN’T. A DUI WOULDN’T BE GOOD FOR MY REPUTATION.”

See, he thought, I still have a sense of humor.

“I’LL BE THERE IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. DO YOU NEED FOOD?”

“NO. I JUST ATE—REALLY. JUST COME HERE.”

“SEE YOU IN FIFTEEN.”

Tony looked up to Patricia’s doe eyes.

“It’s none of my business,” she began, “but you were grinning. Was that good news?”

“Probably not. I’ll find out soon enough. Brent’s on his way here to discuss the plea agreement.”

“Oh,” she sounded sad. “I should go.”

Tony nodded. “Thanks again for the food and wine… can you drive?”

“I’ll be fine. Two glasses of wine with a meal, no big deal.”

He smiled again. “I don’t think that’s a real saying.”

Shrugging, Patricia gathered the containers and the wine. “I’ll leave this in my office, just in case you run out of whiskey.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, big meeting first thing.”

“I’ll be there Mr.—I mean, Anthony. You can count on me.”

Fifteen minutes later, Brent walked through the open door. “So,” he motioned toward the couch. “Is this your new bed? I told you to come to my house. You would have saved me a drive, and Courtney’s one hell of a cook. She wouldn’t let you drink your dinner.”

“You’re getting damn pushy, and I didn’t drink my dinner. That was my hors d’oeuvres. Patricia brought me some pasta.”

“Good. I’d like you thinking straight while we discuss this. Once you agree, there’s no turning back.” Brent threw the envelope on the table. “Afterward, I’ll join you for a drink.”