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There are two neat paper bags on the top shelf of my refrigerator, neither of which was there last night. One is from a restaurant I don’t recognize. Regio. One is from a bakery Idorecognize, but have never been able to justify buying from because their pastries cost more than some of my office supplies.

Next to the bags is a carton of orange juice and a couple of bottles of electrolyte drinks.

My cheeks heat.

Of course he brought me electrolytes.

Because apparently Mario Conti can fuck a woman so hard, she needs epic hydration.

I am feeling a little parched, though.

I reach for the orange juice, then stop when I notice a folded note tucked against the bakery bag.

My name is written across the front.

I pick it up gingerly and open it.

Eat. Hydrate. Do not work today.

M.

I stare at the note, then read it again.

“Do not work today,” I repeat under my breath.

The audacity of this man.

The sheer, breathtaking audacity.

I should be annoyed.

I am annoyed.

I am also smiling, which is deeply unfortunate and must stop immediately.

I set the note down carefully and reach for the other two bags.

I open the first one and find two containers of soup, a wrapped sandwich, and what looks like roasted vegetables and chicken. The second bag contains pastries, fruit, and some kind of small almond cake that smells so good I close my eyes and stick my nose in the bag to inhale.

Mario Conti has now ruined me in more than one way.

How will I ever eat a Pop-Tart again?

I hear his voice in my head.

Hydrate.

I roll my eyes at the empty kitchen, grab the carton of orange juice, and twist off the cap.

“Happy?” I mutter.

There is no answer.

I shut the refrigerator and lean my forehead against the cool door.

This is bad.

This is so bad.