Page 49 of Think Outside the Boss

“No,” I admit. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I don’t get one at all this time.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“I might have done something that’s slightly… against the rules.”

“What’s this, Strait-laced? Tell me.”

“Well, technically speaking, the invitation I received last time was addressed to the former tenant.”

A smile spreads across his lips. “Frederica Bilson.”

“I went, I saw, I conquered.”

“It’s came,” he corrects. “I came, I saw, I conquered. And you most certainly came.”

I bury my head in my hands, unable to look at him. Thank God we’re the only ones in the deli. “Christ, Tristan.”

His laughter is unashamed. “So you snuck into a Gilded Room party. I have to say, this challenges my view of you.”

“Terrific. Can we lose the nickname now?”

“No,” he says. “I did wonder how you’d paid for membership on a trainee’s salary… so this solves that conundrum.”

“I didn’t pay at all.”

“A beauty membership after all,” he muses. “Well… let me phrase it this way. If you end up receiving an invitation, will you go?”

I look up at him. He’s watching me with practiced casualness, like my answer is nothing but a curiosity. But there’s a burning interest in his eyes that he can’t entirely mask.

He’s going.

And he’s asking if I’m going too.

My stomach locks into a fist of anticipation as want floods me. We’re playing with fire, and I’ve always been careful. Always done the right thing.

But now I want to be burned. “I think I will,” I tell him. “If I get an invitation, that is.”

“Good to know,” he says, smiling. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Maybe you will… Tristan.”

12

Freddie

A thick, golden envelope is waiting for me when I get back from work a few days later. It’s lying on my trodden doormat, innocuous. Like before, my address is written on it. Like before, my name isn’t.

“Well, well… let’s see what you have in store for me this time,” I murmur, slicing it open with my finger. This is worth daring a paper cut for. I pull out an invitation printed on thick cardstock.

It’s addressed to me.

Me, as in, Frederica Bilson. Not Rebecca Hartford.

I sink down onto my kitchen chair with the invitation still in hand. This has to be Tristan’s doing—it has to be. Has he paid the fee for me? Pulled some strings with the selection committee?

My eyes scan the rest of the invitation.

Frederica Bilson,

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