Page 84 of A Ticking Time Boss

“Yes.”

“They never grant interviews.”

“Not surprising,” he scoffs. “They don’t want to be pushed on what they’re doing. As far as business models go, theirs is profitable. They live off the goodwill the newspaper has garnered over the years, until dwindling subscriber numbers force it into bankruptcy.”

“Vulture funds,” I say. “Everyone feared the worst when your company took over, you know. That the Globe would go down the same route.”

Carter’s eyes meet mine. “I figured. It looked similar in the beginning.”

“I was so angry at you,” I say, looking down at my bagel. “When I went up to interview you for the newsletter. To tell you the truth, I’d even prepared a bunch of questions to press you on the issue. I knew I’d be fired, but… I figured you’d probably gut the newsroom anyway.”

He grins. “You were going to grill me?”

“Yes. But then I opened the door and you were, well, you. Peanut guy.”

“That fucking name,” he groans.

It makes me smile. “Yeah. Threw me off my game.”

“Even thrown, you were a formidable opponent,” he says. “I had to hold my own during our lunch.”

I shake my head. “I wanted to believe you, even then. Have since the first time we met.”

“Oh?” Carter grins, all charm and confidence. “You wanted me from the first time you saw me. Admit it.”

I laugh and take a bite of my bagel to keep from answering. His smile deepens, eyes dancing on mine. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“I plead the fifth,” I say. There’s no reason to admit that I’d thought he was so wildly out of my league that I’d never entertained the thought.

Carter sorts through the newspapers and hands me one. The paper crinkles in my hands as I unfold it, watching over the edge as he returns to his article. Sunday morning, in a beautiful New York apartment, eating brunch over the newspaper. My chest feels tight with a sudden burst of joy.

“So we’ll see each other outside of work,” I say. “Weekends… evenings?”

He flips a page and looks across the table at me. There’s a promise in his eyes. “As many as you can spare, kid,” he says. “You’re not getting rid of me.”

EIGHTEEN

The day started good. Great, even. Audrey had texted me a minute past midnight with Happy Birthday, and the gesture—I know she likes to go to bed early—had made me smile. It’s been ages since someone did that.

My mother calls at breakfast and sings. She’s done it every birthday morning for as long as I can remember, even during the college years when I asked her not to. I put her on speaker in the car to work and catch Tom’s smile from the front seat.

So it’s a great day, all in all. Even better is the prospect of Audrey spending the night at mine tonight. She’s going for drinks with her colleagues first, and I’m having dinner with Mom. Couldn’t ask for a better Wednesday, not to mention birthday.

But then I see the text on my phone.

It was from an unknown number. Just a few innocent lines that fall like a cannonball through my day.

Happy birthday, son. Hard to believe it’s already been thirty-three years since you blessed your mother and me by arriving. If you ever want to talk, on the phone or in person, I’m here. Would love the chance to catch up. Dad.

The main question I have is how he found my number. Not what he wants, no, because I’m not a fool. He wants money. He wants to hustle me like he has so many other people, to nestle himself into my life. And he’ll say whatever he has to to get there.

My mood is suddenly black. Pitch-dark, a night without sun. And I hate that too. That he still has the ability to anger me after all these years. I’d pushed him to the very bottom of my mind for a reason, because I fucking hate feeling like this. I hate feeling anything at all where he’s concerned.

There’s a timid knock on my door. “What?” I bark. If it’s Wesley again, with an obsequious smile, I swear to God I’ll—

“It’s Tim,” my assistant says. “There’s a journalist here from Investigative for a meeting. She says it’s been scheduled?”

It has to be Audrey.

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