New York Billionaires Series

“Don’t say yes,” Quentin warns.

“Quiet,” Toby retorts. “He’s just annoyed because I offered to go shopping with him and give a few constructive pointers. He declined.”

“My clothes are perfectly fine.”

“You’re right,” Toby agrees, a little too quickly. “They are.”

I grin, looking between them. “You know the two of you are like an old married couple?”

“No, we’re not,” Quentin protests.Content rights by NôvelDr//ama.Org.

Toby shakes his head at me. “Very cute, but don’t try to deflect. When did you move to the city?”

“A month and a half ago.”

“And where do you live?”

“Upper West Side,” I say, but seeing their widened eyes, I hasten to explain. “Oh, it’s tiny. I’m practically renting a shoebox on the top floor. An old lady is renting it to me, and she thought I seemed trustworthy. Honestly, I know I’m lucky to have found it… even if it is the most expensive shoebox I’ve ever paid for.”

“Another one in Manhattan,” Toby tells Quentin. “See, that’s why you should abandon Brooklyn and join us.”

“Imagine how much shorter your commute will be.”

“Brooklyn has soul. No offense,” he adds to me.

“None taken,” I say. “Should I have?”

But they’ve devolved into an argument, and I grin, watching it. The sparks are flying. I don’t know if Quentin swings that way, but if he did… hmm.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once. Twice. Pulling it out, it’s a New York number I don’t recognize. It could be work, even if the odds of that are slim.

“Give me a minute, guys,” I say, slipping out of the booth.

I hit answer. “This is Frederica Bilson.”

“Yes, that’s me.” I sidestep a few students singing, their arms around one another, and make a beeline for the door.

“There is a lot of noise on your end.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that. Give me a moment…” I pull the door open and step out into the cool, New York air. “Who is this?”

“Tristan Conway,” the deep voice replies.

“Mr. Conway?”

“The very one,” he repeats, voice dry. “Am I interrupting your evening?”

“No. Well, I’m out for drinks with a few of my co-workers. I just stepped outside.”

“Good,” he says.

I can think of absolutely nothing to reply. How did he get my number? Why is he calling? We haven’t spoken since the meeting in his office over a week ago.

“I’m calling about work,” he says.

“Is it about the Thanksgiving Family Day? Because everything is in hand for the weekend.”

“No, it’s not about that.” A beat of silence. “Perhaps it’s better to speak about this when you’re not surrounded by Exciteur employees.”

“I’m not surrounded. I stepped outside.”

“Still, I think it’s better we have this conversation when you’re in a place where no one can overhear. Call me when you get home.”

“Call you, Mr. Conway?”

“Yes. This is work-related, Miss Bilson, but I think it’s better we don’t have this conversation in the workplace.”

Curiosity gnaws at my insides. “I’ll call you as soon as I get home. When is too late?”

“I’m up,” is the curt reply. “Talk to you soon, Miss Bilson.”

And then he hangs up.

I stare at my phone for a long few seconds. He can’t be calling to fire me, can he? No. I thought I’d convinced him out of his suggestion of shifting my internship to a different company, too.

Work-related.

But I thought it was best to have the conversation outside of the office.

“Is everything all right?” Toby asks when I return inside. He’s taken off his suit jacket, and it lies innocently between him and Quentin on their side of the booth.

“Absolutely,” I lie.

The sky has darkened to a deep midnight black when I finally get home to my building, nodding hello to the doorman outside. I’m not sure when it will ever stop striking me as surreal that I live in a building with a doorman.

New York is my home now.

Correction, I think, as I unlock the door to my tiny studio on the top floor. This expensive shoebox is my home now. The single window offers a view of the opposite building’s rooftops. Sometimes there’s pigeons on them. It’s riveting.

I sit down onto my bed and take out my phone. It’s just past eleven, but he’d told me he’d be up.

Tristan answers after the first signal. “You were out late.”

I bristle at the clear disapproval in his tone. “It’s not midnight yet, but if I were, it would be my business.”

“You could be performing at less than your usual standard tomorrow at work,” he points out. “That would make it my business.”

“I assure you, I always perform at the peak of my ability.”