New York Billionaires Series

“Don’t mention it,” he says.

But I have to. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten on that ride in the first place.”

“I shouldn’t have assumed you wanted to,” he retorts. “It’s on me, not you.”

It’s absolutely on me, but I don’t press the point. “Let’s agree to split the blame, then. Gender equality and all that.”

“All right. We’re really taking a stand here, aren’t we?”

“We’ll be mentioned in the history books.”

He clears his throat. “At least I didn’t catch you out at a bar tonight. Are you in between social engagements for the evening?”

“I don’t go to bars every night,” I tease. “Only every other.”

“Oh to live the careless life of a trainee.”

I reach for my hat, stomach grumbling. “I worked pretty late, and then I walked back to my apartment.”

“On the Upper West Side.”

A brief pause, like he’s considering his next words. But then they come. “You know I live on the Upper West Side too.”

“I remember,” I murmur. “We might be neighbors.”

“We might be.”

“I was just planning on heading out, actually.”

“To a bar?”

“No, to a deli. The one down my street has the best pastrami sandwich.”

“The best?”

“Yes. They also serve Chinese food, which is an interesting mix, but somehow they pull it off.”

“Never heard of a place like that in this area.”

“Well, it’s pretty good,” I say. And then, before I can stop myself, “Do you want to join?”

My question hangs in the air between us, and spoken out loud, it sounds ridiculous. He’s busy. He has a son, a company, and probably a far more well-stocked fridge than me.

“All right,” he says. “Text me the address.”

“I will.”

“See you soon,” he says, hanging up.

I stare at my phone in half-horror, half-wonder. Tristan Conway is meeting me at the small, wildly unsophisticated deli on my street.

At nine p. m. on a Thursday.

I race into the bathroom and wipe at the faint mascara smudges beneath my eyes from a full day of wear. A quick pinch of blush, a brush through my dark hair… it’ll have to do.

I’m halfway to the door when I realize I forgot mints. Finally ready to go. Nope, forgot perfume. It takes me a few minutes before I finally feel presentable enough to venture out.

He’s waiting outside the deli when I arrive. Leaning against the brick wall, his hands in the pockets of his navy coat.

I swallow at the sight. There’s no way he can possibly be here, waiting for me. But he is.

He nods when he sees me. “Freddie.”

“Tristan.”

“So this is your go-to place?”

I give him a crooked smile and push open the door to the deli. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

He holds up a hand in surrender, a smile playing in his eyes. “I won’t.”

We order a pastrami sandwich each and a plate of fries to share. The familiar cashier with a beanie gives me a wide smile.

“Back again, eh?” he asks.

“I can’t seem to stay away,” I admit. “You guys save me most evenings.”

“Well, it’s our pleasure.” He shoots Tristan a glance. “Glad to see you’re bringing friends, too. Boosts our business.”

“Anytime, Kyle.”

Tristan and I have a seat in the plastic chairs by the shop window. There’s a smile in the corners of his lips, one I remember from the teasing at the Gilded Room.

“What?” I ask.

The smile breaks into a grin. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Oh?”

“No. You’re usually so… Proper. Self-contained.” He raises an eyebrow. “Strait-laced. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be a regular at a place like this.”

“So a reformed goody two-shoes can’t go to a hole-in-the-wall for food?” I shake my head at him and reach for a French fry. “Didn’t expect someone who frequents… well, the places you frequent, to be so narrow-minded.”

“Narrow-minded.” Tristan reaches for a fry of his own, his fingers brushing mine. The small contact sends electricity racing up my arm. “I’m offended, Frederica.”

“Frederica?”

“Your name is beautiful. I don’t know why you insist on being called Freddie.”