The lunch Damon had ordered was exorbitant—grilled salmon over wild rice from the bistro down the street, the kind of meal usually reserved for client meetings, not intern orientations.
He had cleared a space on the small round conference table in the corner of his office. The blinds were partially drawn to cut the noon glare, casting the room in a cool, intimate shadow.
Leo sat across from him, his blazer draped over the back of the chair. He looked small against the city skyline backdrop, picking at his salmon with a plastic fork.
"So," Leo said, breaking the silence that had stretched for two minutes. "Is this standard procedure for all new hires? Lunch with the CEO on day one?"
Damon wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. "No. But most new hires aren't my stepson."
"Right. Nepotism has its perks," Leo teased, flashing a grin.
"This isn't nepotism," Damon corrected automatically, though he knew it was exactly that. "This is... damage control. I need to make sure you understand the culture here. Blackwood Logistics is built on efficiency and focus."
"I know," Leo said, his voice turning serious. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I really do want to do a good job, Damon. I'm not here to play around."
Damon watched him. The boy looked sincere. His green eyes were wide and earnest.
"I believe you," Damon said. "That's why I was concerned about... distractions."
"Distractions?"
"Stevens," Damon said the name with more venom than he intended. "In accounting."
Leo blinked, looking confused. "Oh. Greg? He seemed nice. He just offered to show me the best sandwich place."
"Greg Stevens is known for spending more time socializing than working," Damon lied smoothly. Stevens was actually one of his top analysts, but he wasn't about to admit that. "Associating with him sends the wrong message. You want to be taken seriously, don't you?"
"Of course," Leo nodded fervently. "I won't talk to him again. I promise."
Damon felt a wave of relief, followed instantly by guilt. He was manipulating the kid. He was isolating him because the thought of Leo laughing with another man made his chest feel tight.
'It's for his own good,' Damon reasoned. 'He's here to learn, not to flirt.'
"Good," Damon said, taking a sip of his sparkling water. "Stick to your team. Learn the systems. If you have questions, ask Mrs. Gable."
"Can't I ask you?" Leo asked softly.
Damon froze, the glass halfway to his mouth.
Leo was looking at him with that same intensity he had shown in the bathroom—a look that stripped away the CEO title and left just the man.
"I'm on the fortieth floor, Leo," Damon said, his voice rough. "I'm running a corporation. I can't be teaching you how to use Excel."
"I know Excel," Leo countered, a playful smirk touching his lips. "I meant... big picture questions. Mentorship. You said you wanted to teach me how to be a man like you."
Damon set the glass down hard. "I said it takes time."
"I have time," Leo whispered.
He reached across the small table. For a second, Damon thought he was going to touch his hand. His heart hammered a warning rhythm against his ribs.
But Leo just reached for the salt shaker.
His hand brushed against Damon's wrist—a deliberate, lingering slide of skin against skin—before he grabbed the shaker and pulled back.
"This salmon needs a little kick," Leo said casually, sprinkling salt over his lunch as if he hadn't just stopped Damon's heart.
Damon exhaled slowly, feeling foolish. 'He wanted the salt. You're paranoid.'
"So," Leo continued, looking up through his lashes. "Since I can't eat with Greg, does this mean I can eat with you every day? Or is this a one-time 'orientation' special?"
Damon looked at the boy. He thought about the empty office, the silent lunches he usually ate while reading reports. He thought about the warmth of Leo's presence, the smell of vanilla, the way Leo looked at him like he hung the moon.
He knew the answer should be no.
"We'll see," Damon said. "My schedule is unpredictable. But... if I'm free, you're welcome to come up."
Leo's smile was blinding. "Awesome. I'll bring the hazelnut creamer."
He finished his last bite of salmon and stood up, grabbing his blazer. "I should get back. My lunch hour is up, and Mrs. Gable scares me."
"She scares everyone," Damon agreed, standing up as well.
Leo walked to the door, swinging his jacket over his shoulder. He stopped with his hand on the brass handle.
"Thanks for lunch, Boss," Leo said. "And thanks for protecting me from the bad influences in accounting."
"Just doing my job," Damon muttered.
Leo left.
Damon stood alone in the office. He looked at the empty chair where Leo had sat. He looked at the salt shaker that Leo had touched.
He sat back down at his desk and pulled up the internal directory. He found Stevens, Gregory.
He typed a quick email to the Accounting Manager: Please ensure the Q3 audit is Stevens' priority. He seems to have too much free time on his hands.
He hit send.
It was petty. It was unprofessional.
It felt fantastic.
Down on the fourth floor, Leo returned to his cubicle. He sat down, booting up his computer. He saw Greg Stevens two rows over, looking stressed as his manager walked over to his desk with a stack of files.
Leo smiled, opening a blank spreadsheet.
"Checkmate," he whispered.
He pulled a small object out of his pocket. It wasn't the salt shaker. It was a linen napkin from Damon's office—the one Damon had used to wipe his mouth.
Leo tucked it deep into his messenger bag, next to the tissue with the blood.
"Two down," Leo thought. "A million to go."