Page 67 of Think Outside the Boss

Nothing is going to happen.

Don’t think of the possible drop.

The elevator gives a cheery sound when it reaches the top floor and I breathe a shaky sigh of relief, emerging in a narrow corridor. A sign points to the right with the words Rooftop Terrace emblazoned in gold letters.

Balconies and rooftops are my kryptonite. I hedge toward the glass door. It’s dark outside, it’s December, it’s cold.

Why had he gone up here?

Wrapping an arm around my midsection, I pull open the glass door and immediately regret it. Goose bumps race over my bare arms at the chill in the air.

One step out onto the terrace.

Another step.

I’m far away from the ledge, but I can still see it, fenced and menacing in the distance. A dark figure is standing with his hands on the railing and head bowed against the chilly wind.

I brave another step forward. “Tristan?”

He turns his head. “Freddie?”

“Yeah.”

Releasing the railing, he runs a hand through his hair. Wind whips at his suit jacket. “Christ, you followed me up here?”

“Yes. Ta-da.”

His mouth quirks, but it’s brief. Then he’s shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping it around me. It’s warm from his body heat and I drown in it. “Thank you,” I murmur, my fingers curling around the fabric. “Why are you up here?”

He shakes his head, looking away from me to the soft Bostonian skyline. It’s less crowded than New York’s. “You’ll catch a cold,” he says.

“You looked like something was on your mind.”

His mouth twists in a not-smile. “Someone was.”

My stomach feels like it might give out. “Oh.”

“You, in fact.” His jaw clenches, working tight. “I saw you and the other trainee, and the jealousy hit me like a fucking freight train.”

“It’s not… Tristan—”

“I know,” he says. “I have no right, Freddie. You told me you can’t go there with me. Not to mention the two of you were just talking. I know the jealousy is irrational, but it lives inside of me nonetheless.”

“I don’t want him.”

He closes his eyes. “All those people down there, all of them wanting to talk to me. Not for me, but for what I represent. And the only person I wanted to talk to was you, but approaching you was unthinkable. I was jealous of that, too. They could talk and laugh with you and I couldn’t.”

“I’m here now.”

“Why are you?” he asks. “Why follow me up here?”

“We’re friends.”

“Friends, yes. Friends. And yet I think about you all the time. How you felt in my arms, the taste of you, the sounds you made. I want you so fucking much, Freddie, and I can’t have you, and it’s driving me up the walls.”

My breath hitches, every word of his a blow against my resolve. “I didn’t tell you I wanted to be friends because I don’t want that either, Tristan. I go to bed hoping you’ll call me and ask me to meet you at the deli. I walk the corridors at work hoping to bump into you. I think about you all the time.”

His eyes are focused and sharp on mine. “I used to be in control before you,” he accuses.

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