Page 168 of Babies for the Big Shot
Laura’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Do youwantto go back?”
I don’t answer right away. A cab honks as it speeds past. Somewhere behind us, someone’s playing jazz on a speaker. The city feels both distant and immediate, alive and unaware.
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll need to see what happens with these babies first…”
A shadow passes over us as we near the corner café. Laura looks at her phone.
“I’ve got a meeting in ten. You good to grab your decaf sugar sludge alone? I promise you, this place is good. You’ll love it.”
“I’m waddling, not immobile,” I say, smirking. “Go. I’ll survive. And I’ll be the judge of your drinks expertise!”
She kisses my cheek and disappears into the crowd.
I push open the café door, the blast of cool air washing over my skin, a blessing from the gods. The place is mostly empty. Mid-afternoon lull, soft music, quiet baristas. I step toward the counter.
Before I can open my mouth, the barista gives me a strange smile. One that’s too knowing.
“Large iced decaf oat milk latte with a pump of caramel?”
I blink. “How did you…?”
“It’s already paid for.” He sets the drink down, then slides a folded piece of cardstock across the counter. “And this came with it.”
I stare at it for a beat.
It’s thick, high-quality stationery. The kind you don’t just carry around in a café apron. My name is written across the front in blocky, familiar handwriting.
Nick.
I glance behind me, half-expecting to see him lurking in a booth. But the room is empty, save for a guy on a laptop and a woman readingThe Goldfinch.
With a slow breath, I unfold the card.
Clue #1
We met in an elevator. You were wearing that navy dress. I was pretending not to be intrigued.
Go to the place where you first called me a “Wall Street cliché.”
(You were right, by the way.)
“What the hell is this?” No one answers me. “I have to gobackto the Armand Hotel?”
How embarrassing. The last time I was there, I ran from the elevator, thoroughly wrecked by the handsome stranger I had no idea would become my boss.
Beneath the note is a second slip of paper: a black car voucher. The driver’s name is already written.
My ride is waiting.
I should’ve known Nick wouldn’t make this easy.
I’m standing at the front desk of the Armand Hotel, trying to smooth the front of my dress as I fight to keep my face from turning into a tomato. The receptionist, blond, perfectly manicured, with the kind of smile that could sell you a penthouse, hands me a delicate envelope with my next clue.
I slip it into my bag without making eye contact, hoping the floor might open up and swallow me whole.
No such luck.
“Enjoy your day, Ms. Brooks,” she says, and I’m nearly out the door when I catch a glimpse of the note.
