"You were running around barefoot for a while out there." He kept his eyes on the road, not on me. "Drink some. Warm up."
I didn't know how to react. This man seemed like an entirely different person from the one I'd met in the CEO's office that morning.
"Thank you."
He gave a quiet hum.
I drank the tea slowly, one small sip at a time.
The warmth of the ginger spread from my stomach into my limbs.
But what struck me more was the temperature of the tea itself. Not too hot, not too cool. Just right.
As if someone had timed it perfectly.
I didn't know how to begin talking without shredding what was left of my dignity.
That afternoon I'd been sitting across from him, bold as anything, pitching him on how I'd boost the commercial value of his "contract girlfriend" arrangement.
And now, just hours later, here I was: disheveled, panicked, a complete wreck outside his building.
What lie could I possibly tell that he'd believe?
"That wasn't the livestream account for the contract couple thing," he said, his tone easy. "If you're chasing clicks, you don't have to go this hard."
I looked at his profile. There was the trace of a smile, but I couldn't tell if it was mocking or teasing.