Page 32 of Think Outside the Boss

“I won’t. Those details would haunt you.”

I give a mock shudder. “Where are you going with the new guy?”

“We’re going to walk the High Line. He’s never been there.”

“He’s new to New York?” Quentin asks.

Toby nods. “Just moved in from out of state. The poor guy doesn’t know his subway lines.”

I take a sip of my whiskey. “Hey, I’m from out of the state. What’s the High Line?”

“Oh dear,” Toby says. Quentin shakes his head and reaches for his beer, the too large sleeve flashing a glimpse of a digital watch.

I hold out placating hands. “It’s that bad, is it?”

“The worst, I’m afraid.” Toby puts a hand on mine. “Will you let me show you around the city? Please?”

“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.

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.”

“No,” Quentin says.

“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.”

“Freddie?”

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

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