Played By Riggs

2

I met with James Branson 2 days after his interview. Over email, I suggested he come to my office and my driver would take us to the destination, but James figured it would be more beneficial if I were to meet him at his diner to see if he really had what it took. And who was I to decline the chance to evaluate?

His diner was small, but busy, real busy, with people pit stopping and some sat at the tables in the middle. It wasn't all that surprising, because I would often hear people talk about the diner in my gym. Two women last week, in fact, discussed how tasty the chicken salads were, and, of course, how tasty they found James Branson himself.

Tasty wasn't the correct word to describe Branson, in my eyes. I stood by the counter as I watched him serve a customer, studying his jaw line - an odd feature to be so focused on, but I couldn't seem to look away. 

"Ah, Kelsey, you're here. I apologize about that, can't seem to find a spare second at this time of day."

There was really no need for his apology, but I wasn't going to say anything. Customers came first, I got that. I watched him punch some keys into the till and rip off a receipt, which he tucked into his back pocket. There was also no need for him to call me Kelsey. I was definitely going to say something about that.

"Don't call me Kelsey. When we discuss business, you refer to me as Riggsby, and until I know you on a personal level, which I can't see happening, you can then call me by my first name."

He grinned at me. A grin that made me want to turn on my heels and say hell to partnering with him, I could, and would, find someone else. Someone whose grin wouldn't make my inner kitten melt. Someone who didn't have a really defined jawline that made me want to run my tongue along it. 

"Well, Riggsby, have you eaten?"

"No, I haven't," I answered, frowning. Whether I had eaten or not held no importance within this meet up. We had things to do. Places to see. "If you're finished, we can leave. My driver is out the front."

"Great, neither have I. Let's go out back and I'll make us a quick sandwich."

"Mr Branson, I do not have the time to sit and-"

"You don't have the time to eat?" he raised his eyebrows. "And you're fitness assembled? Surely you're the first to know eating is important."

I exhaled a sharp, frustrated breath and met his eyes, which, seemed to be laughing at me. "How fast can you make this sandwich?"

He smiled. "Fast."

The smell of food grew even stronger as he lead me out back to where the kitchen was situated. It was tiny, too tiny for a place so busy. It was colourful, too, greens and peppers and smoothies covered the tables and my stomach woke, fresh with hunger. I stood to the side as I watched him grab four pieces of bread and the ingredients. And, he wasn't lying when he said fast.

"Now, how's that for timing?"

"Impressive," I nodded.

"You haven't took a bite yet," he said. "Try it. I want to know what you think."

"Right here?" I blinked at him. We were surrounded by the cooks. What if I didn't like it? Not likely, given since my mouth was watering at the sight of it, but a possibility remained.

"Right here. Be gentle with your reaction; my employees work long hours back here getting things right."

"To hell we do." The man stood next to Mr Branson chopping some fruit had turned to face us. "Miss Riggsby, how nice to meet you. I would shake your hand, but I gather you don't want the smell of pineapple lingering on your fingers all day."