Page 101 of Think Outside the Boss

“Bye, Tristan,” I say. My voice breaks on his name.

His voice reaches me as I open the door out of his office. Against the New York lights streaming in through his window, he looks like a sentinel. A quiet guardian, a warrior of old. “Bye, Freddie,” he murmurs.

The door shuts behind me with a finality that bruises and I race down the hallway toward the elevators, the hated, blasted things, and for the first time I think I’d be happy if they drop me all the thirty-four floors to the bottom.

A hard chest stops me and I stagger back, looking up at the man who’s stepped out of his office. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Clive holds my elbow a second too long to steady me. “That’s all right,” he says, eyes widening as he sees the tears on my face. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, absolutely. Just… allergies.” It sounds just as stupid spoken out loud as it did in my head.

“Allergies?” Clive looks from me to the office down the corridor, at those incriminating letters emblazoned on the oak door. His eyes widen. “Ah. I see. Did he hurt you?”

What? “No, of course not. We were discussing work.”

“Work?” He releases me and steps back, eyes narrowing. “You work in Strategy, right? One of the junior trainees. You organized that Thanksgiving thing he suddenly decided to throw.”

There’s no way to surreptitiously wipe tears from your cheek, so I just go for it, forcing spine into my steel. “That’s right.”

Clive nods. “Interesting. And you’re sure, absolutely sure, that he didn’t hurt you?”

It’s an odd question. So is the gleam in his eyes, a gleam that turns my stomach from sad to uncomfortable. Suspicions form in my mind. “He didn’t.”

“Good. Had to ask.”

“I’m heading out,” I say, stepping past him. “Goodnight, Mr. Wheeler.”

Clive gives me a nod, gaze lingering. “Goodnight, Miss…”

“Frederica Bilson.”

“Frederica Bilson,” he echoes. “That’s right. Good night, then.”

* * *

I make it home without sobbing, but the tears burn at the back of my eyes like a party-crasher or an unwelcome guest. They’re in good company with the suspicions Clive had brought up, twisting into fear in my stomach. He’d realized right away that there’s something between Tristan and me.

My hand trembles around my phone. I can’t talk to him. Not so soon.

Not yet.

And yet I’ve worked for this career, and so has he. If my suspicions are correct… I have no other choice but to be professional and suck it up.

I dial Tristan’s number.

It takes him five long signals to pick up. Had he been back at the holiday party? Still in the sheltered silence of his office?

There’s no knowing, but the voice on the other end is weary. “Freddie…” he murmurs.

“Clive saw me on the way out of your office. He saw me, and he saw my… he saw that I was crying. I think he put two and two together.”

Tristan’s voice snaps into competence. “Okay. What makes you think that?”

I pace the tiny space of my apartment. “He knew. He asked me if you hurt me.”

“He asked what?”

“He asked it twice.”

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