"What's wrong?" I ask. "Thought this was your favorite restaurant."
"It is, but I always lament their lack of British foods. I'd kill for some bangers and mash."
"Okay," I say like I have no idea what he's talking about, because I don't. "I'm guessing that's not some weird sex slang."
"No, it's weird food slang for sausage and mashed potatoes." He goes back to perusing the menu while he tells me, "I haven't had bangers and mash in ages."
"Why don't you cook that for yourself?"
He glances up at me, moving only his eyes. "My cooking skills begin and end with heating water for tea, and I do that in the microwave."
"Maybe I can figure out how to make bangers and mash for you." I say the words before I realize what I'm suggesting. I want to cook for him? Yeah, I kind of do. Huh. "Is it some special kind of thoroughly disgusting British sausage?"
"It can be any type of sausage." He fake-frowns at the menu. "What, no bubble and squeak? I may have to reconsider this as my favorite bistro."
"Bubble and squeak? You just made that up, didn't you?"
He smirks at me over the top of his menu. "No, I did not. My mother makes that the day after she cooks up a traditional roast dinner. She uses the leftovers to make bubble and squeak."
I give him a teasing smile. "Otherwise known as dumpster diving?"
"Very funny, but we don't dig through the rubbish bin for leftovers." He sneaks a hand under the table to grasp my knee. "Careful. If you keep harassing me, I might have to do something completely inappropriate."
We order our food, and I pretend to be disappointed when he orders a hamburger with French onion soup. It's not British, as I point out, but he puts his hand on my knee again to let me know he's about ready to get inappropriate with the snarky American sitting next to him. I order the same thing, earning a sarcastic comment from him about what a copycat I am.
Throughout lunch, we talk. About anything, everything, whatever pops into our heads. I learn that he comes from a middle-class family that owns a beautiful, historic home in the English countryside, but when he asks about my family, I avoid answering. It would spoil the mood, and I love this mood we've got going here in the cutest bistro I've never seen before. He lets me get away with not opening up, at least for a while. We make each other laugh, a lot, and commiserate about working with Raisa.
Five minutes before we have to go back to the office, Chance finally pushes me for an answer to a question he asked me the first day we worked together. "Why didn't you go to law school?"
"What?" I'm acting dumb to avoid answering, obviously.
"You heard the question." He turns his chair slightly toward me. "You're very clever, hard-working, and write the most perfect legal summaries I've ever read. If I asked you to write an argument, I'm sure that would be perfect too. You should be an attorney, not a paralegal. I know you were accepted to law school, so why didn't you go?"
I slump in my chair, absently stirring the teeny puddle in my soup bowl, all that's left of my lunch. I can't look at him when I explain, "My dad ran out on us when I was six. I barely remember him. Mom worked two jobs to support me and my brother, Kyle. Six years ago, she got sick. Cancer. For eleven months, she fought so hard to beat it, but she couldn't. She died a week before I found out I'd been accepted to law school."
Chance settles his hand on my knee again, but he's not copping a feel this time. "I'm so sorry, Elena."
I shrug one shoulder. "I'd already gone into debt to pay for my bachelor's degree. Mom had life insurance, but not a lot of it. Racking up even more debt to pay for law school seemed like a huge extravagance, and besides, I had to take care of Kyle. He was fifteen at the time. So, I gave up on law school, got a crappy job as a legal secretary, and signed up for a paralegal certification course. Took me eighteen months to finish it. Working for Raisa is the second paralegal position I've had." I laugh a little, with no humor whatsoever. "It was my dream job."
"You excel at your job. Don't let Raisa ruin it for you. She'll calm down once she gets over the divorce and accepts that I am never going to be with her again."
I wince, unable to disguise my discomfort. How can I not tell him what Raisa ordered me to do? He deserves to know, but I can't tell him. Raisa ordered me to keep it secret. I don't know how long she'll wait for me to bring him to her on a silver platter.
How on earth does she expect me to do that, anyway? Even if I wanted to, which I absolutely do not, I have no clue where to start.
"What's wrong?" Chance asks.
"Can't tell you. Raisa swore me to secrecy."
He drums his fingers on the tabletop. "Does this secret have something to do with me? Is that the real reason you've been reluctant to get involved with me?"
"I can't say."
Chance scoots his chair a little closer to mine. "Look at me."
"Please let this go. I could lose my job."
"If this involves me, then I have a right to know. Raisa won't fire you, because I won't tell her I know the secret. All right?"