Page 88 of Think Outside the Boss

“Three months ago for me,” Tristan says. “But even before, I hadn’t been with anyone without a condom for years.”

His gaze drifts back between my legs, lingering over the evidence visible there. “Glad we can skip them from here on out,” he says, satisfaction in his voice.

“So am I,” I say, snapping my legs together. “If you’re done inspecting your handiwork, I think we should shower.”

He pulls me off the bed with a laugh. “You want to wash away my pretty signature?”

“I’m sure you’ll sign me again soon enough,” I retort, threading our fingers together. “Now show me the water pressure you must have here. I’m expecting perfection.”

“That was the pretext all along, wasn’t it? I bet your heater isn’t even broken.”

I push open the door to his en suite. Bingo. The giant marble shower is more than large enough for the two of us. “It was all a hustle,” I tease.

Tristan reaches past me to turn on the waterfall showerhead. “Then consider me a very happy mark.”

* * *

I pull on one of Tristan’s shirts, and it falls halfway to my thigh. “Should I get started on coffee?” I call.

He’s in the bathroom, brushing his teeth.

“Sure!”

I fold up his sleeves, one at a time, as I pad through the enormous apartment. Long hallways, rooms off to the side. One looks like a home office, another a laundry room. A guest bedroom.

The kitchen is a gleaming landscape of stainless-steel appliances and marble kitchen counters. Someone has meticulously organized the cereals into glass jars on the counter. The one labelled Cocoa Pops has a tiny sign next to it. Only on weekends.

It makes me smile. As does the schedule attached to the fridge, clearly outlining a child’s school year. I stop in front of Tristan’s coffeemaker. The appliance looks more monster than machine.

“Do you have to be a licensed barista to use this thing?” I call in the general direction of his bedroom, but there’s no response. Right. You probably need walkie-talkies in this apartment.

I’ve just figured out where you add water when a sharp elevator ding sounds from the living room. Someone’s here. I tug at the hem of Tristan’s shirt and head into the living room. He’s told me he has a housekeeper and a driver. It’s mildly embarrassing to be seen like this, though.

The woman I encounter in Tristan’s living room is very clearly neither. Snow clings to her black puffer jacket, flakes in the blonde curls of her hair. She’s a few years older than me, perhaps, a pair of mittens in hand.

She stares at me like I stare at her. From the shock in her gaze, she might as well have been confronted with a unicorn or a yeti.

“Hello,” I attempt. “I realize I’m not who you were expecting. Tristan’s in the bathroom.”

“Right,” she says. “Okay.”

“I’m Frederica.” Manners kick in and I step forward, offering her my hand. She shakes it woodenly, her gaze drifting to my shirt. It’s very clearly not mine.

“Linda. I’m his son’s godmother.”

I smile. “Oh, that’s right. He’s told me about you. Joshua stayed with you last night?”

Her eyes widen further, but then she gives me a tentative smile back. “That’s right. He’s downstairs.”

“Well, that’s good. I should probably change.” I glance down at my shirt. Mortification nips at my heels, but I don’t let it in. Tristan and I have done nothing wrong.

Well, not unless this woman is also an Exciteur HR rep.

“Probably,” she says.

“Tristan should be done any minute now.”

“Right,” she says. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone. He doesn’t often have guests over.”

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