Page 46 of Think Outside the Boss

“The deception was unintentional.” I tear back the paper wrapping around my pastrami. “This, right here, is the best sandwich New York has to offer.”

A glance up reveals Tristan, arms crossed over his chest, staring at me.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“How long did you say you’d lived in New York?”

“Um, a month and a half. No, almost two now.”

“Then you’re in no position to judge the city’s best sandwich.” He reaches for his own. “There’s nearly as many restaurants as people in this city, and there’s a shit ton of people, so that’s saying a lot.”

I take a bite of sandwich and flavors erupt in my mouth. Pastrami. Reuben dressing. Rye bread. Wiping at my mouth with my napkin, I shake my head at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of the snobby New Yorkers.”

“Snobby New Yorkers?”

“Yes,” I say. “Who disdain everything a tourist would like.”

He takes a bite of his sandwich, his gaze not leaving mine. I wait as he chews. “Good, right?”

“It’s good,” he admits. “Not the best the city has to offer, though. And for the record, I don’t disdain everything a tourist likes. I just… disdain that they are there too.”

I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “That might be the most New York sentiment ever. Despite the money they bring the city, you’d rather will them away.”

“Tourists and pigeons,” he mutters, reaching for another French fry. “The bane of every big-city dweller.”

I shake my head. “So you’re cynical, too. You must have lived in the city for a long time?”

“All my life.”

“Wow. A native New Yorker.”

“Manhattanite,” he corrects, but he’s grinning as he says it. “We’re very protective of the status.”

“Oh, of course. My bad. I didn’t mean to include the outer boroughs in my initial statement.”

“I can overlook the mistake.”

“Thank you, Mr. Conway. Very kind of you.”

He puts down his sandwich. “Mr. Conway. A couple of days ago, I was Tristan.”

I look away from the heaviness of his gaze, back down to my own sandwich. A stray pickle has escaped. “That was in a compromised position.”

“Protecting my son’s elephant,” he says, “on a Ferris wheel from hell.”

I reach for another French fry. “Exactly. Where’s your son tonight?”

“At home.”

I look over at him in surprise and he snorts. “He’s not alone.”

“Phew.”

“I’m not that irresponsible of a parent.” Tristan leans back in his plastic chair, crossing his arms over his chest, looking like he’s never been irresponsible a day in his life.

I push an escaped tendril of hair back. “So, as a native New Yorker, what are your favorite spots?”

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