Familiar Strangers

Lunch

Antonio’s POV

After holding meetings since the moment I arrived at the office, Marcel slipped in quietly and whispered that Marissa was waiting in my office. I remembered she had said she was visiting my grandfather, so her being here could only mean one thing—he had sent her.

The thought of her being in my office made my chest thump. Again. At this rate, that doctor’s appointment I booked couldn’t come fast enough.

Fatigue settled over me like a weight. I looked around the conference room at the people seated there and, for what felt like the hundredth time that day, regretted hiring them. Which made no sense, because they were the best in their respective fields. Yet we had been circling the same problem since morning, and suddenly, they all seemed painfully slow.

I rubbed my forehead, shut the iPad, and stood up.

“You have until tomorrow,” I said flatly, “to come up with something better. Something foolproof.”

With that, I left the conference room and headed for my private elevator, Marcel following closely behind. Just as the doors were about to close, a hand shot in between them.

The doors slid open again to reveal Miss Luke—the head of planning. Young, sharp, and one of the few people in this company whose results spoke louder than her words. An asset to Johnson Corporation, without question.

“Pardon me, sir,” she said, giving a slight bow.

I looked at her, expression unreadable.

“What is it, Miss Luke?” Marcel asked.

She stepped into the elevator as the doors closed behind her. Facing us, she spoke calmly, a polite smile on her face as always.

“I apologize for stopping you like this, sir. I couldn’t find a better opportunity to share my idea, and I know how packed your schedule is today. If you don’t mind, I’m willing to sacrifice my lunch to explain it. I promise I won’t take much of your time.”

I gave a brief nod of acknowledgment.

She opened the file in her hand and shared the document with Marcel and me. At that exact moment, the elevator chimed, signaling our arrival. The doors slid open, ushering us into the quiet corridor beyond.

As we stepped into the corridor, Miss Luke continued explaining her idea, her voice calm and precise. I listened, but only halfway. My attention kept drifting—back to my office, to the person waiting there.

Marissa.

Just as Marcel pushed my office door open, I stepped inside, taking two steps and paused

.

Marissa stood by the side door, her hand resting on the handle as if she had been debating whether to open it. Miss Luke stepped in behind me and continued speaking—until she noticed my pause.

“The other sectors—” she stopped short when Marissa turned to face us.

“Hello,” Marissa said lightly, a small smile on her face, like a child caught somewhere she shouldn’t be.

I turned to Miss Luke.

“I’ll send for you.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, bowing slightly before excusing herself. Marcel followed her out and closed the door behind him.

Silence settled.

“How long have you been waiting?” I asked as I walked to the coat hanger, removed my suit jacket, and hung it up before moving toward my desk.

“Not that long,” she replied, leaving the side door and walking toward the couch. She paused, then added, “And in case you’re wondering, I didn’t go in there.”

I took my seat and looked at her.

“What are you doing here?”

She sat on the couch and reached for a bag on the table, only then did I notice it had been there all along. She pulled out a flask and placed it carefully on the table before turning to face me.

“Your grandfather sent me,” she said. “With lunch. To have with you.”

She met my gaze, completely at ease.

“So,” she added, “let’s have lunch,I'm famished.”

I glanced over my desk at the pile of work waiting for me. The past month had been relentless; lunch had become optional, sometimes nonexistent. Still, I stood up anyway, rolled up my sleeves, and walked over to her.

I took the armchair opposite her and watched as she dished out the food, unhurried, almost domestic.

“Talking with Grandpa today,” she began casually, “I found out you’re not the original Antonio Johnson.”

My brows lifted.

“You were named after him,” she continued, “so technically, you’re Antonio Johnson Jr.”

She looked up at me then, smiling, eyes bright, before returning her attention to the food—still smiling, like she had uncovered some grand secret.

There was nothing to it and it wasn’t a secret, just that nobody knew.

But besides that, looking at her smiling profile she is beautiful, she actually did not have to put in any effort to look good which I have realised during our breakfast together where she was always barefaced.

“And he told me stories from when you were younger,” she added, sliding a plate in front of me. “I must say, for a guy, you lived quite cautiously. Very strict. Nothing like me—I was wild.”

She said it lightly, almost proudly.

It wasn’t surprising. Even now, that streak showed in everything she did—the way she spoke, moved, lived. Still, what caught my attention was the fact that she acknowledged it so openly, without defensiveness or apology.Not bad.

I studied her for a brief second longer than necessary before looking down at the plate in front of me.

The aroma of the food hit me, rich and inviting, and just looking at it made my stomach tighten.

“You know,” she said, breaking the quiet, “one way to build a solid relationship is by communicating and sharing. Since I’ve heard a bit about you, I’ll tell you something about me too. How about that?”

I raised an eyebrow and unlike me I was curious.