Page 33 of A Ticking Time Boss

It’s late when I finally get my coat from the check. I don’t know how late, exactly, because I haven’t looked at my phone in hours. But judging by the rapidly thinning crowd, I’m amongst the stragglers.

Worth it.

Carter’s voice has the same dry humor as before. “Had to pry you two away from one another,” he says.

“Thank you,” I tell him earnestly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you for making the introductions. I think that was the best conversation of my life.”

He runs a hand over his jaw. “Well, I’m going to have to top that.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he says, holding up my left sleeve and helping me into it. “Judging from the smile on your face, you two had a good time?”

“I did, at least. I think he enjoyed himself but he has that stoic face, you know? It’s difficult to read him. Do you know what he said?”

“Tell me,” Carter says.

“That he’d keep a lookout in the Globe for my articles.” My heart feels like it’s fluttering as I say it. Dean Allen is a legend, working far past his retirement age, with more accolades than one can count. This event is black tie and he’d worn a tweed jacket with a hole near the sleeve.

Declan would have died and gone to heaven, seeing that.

“I’m glad,” Carter says, a small smile on his face.

“Okay, okay, I know I’m fangirling, but I think I just had the best night of my life. God, I have to thank Booker for this. But how? Is it too much to get her flowers?”

Carter laughs, his arm finding mine. “Come on, kid. You’ve had too much champagne.”

“I’ve had exactly the right amount. If I’d had any less, I wouldn’t have dared ask Dean Allen all those questions.”

“Think you can call him just Dean now?”

I shake my head. “No. You don’t end up on first-name basis with a person like that. He’s a bit like you, you know. Not for us normal people.”

Carter snorts. “Well, I’ll address that comment in a bit. How are you getting home?”

I stop our descent down the steps. The New York air is cold, and a faint drizzle hangs in the air. We’re well and truly in fall now. “I’ll go… in that direction,” I say, pointing to the nearby stop.

“You’re taking the subway home,” Carter says.

“Yes. How else would I get there?”

He takes a step back and gives me a once-over, from my black work pumps to my prom dress. It hadn’t looked too out of place in there, but I doubted I’d fooled any fashionistas.

Maybe I should just start rocking tweed blazers too.

“In that?” Carter says. “You’ll be accosted.”

I look down at my chaste dress with a frown. “This was my prom dress.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Your prom dress,” he repeats quietly. “Really?”

“Yes. I went with Sveinn, an Icelandic exchange student, and we spent most of the night behind the bleachers. I got food poisoning.”

“Wow,” he says, and then has absolutely no comeback.

“Are you speechless? This has to be a first.”

He shakes his head. “There’s just so much to process. So many questions to ask. But first, you’re not taking the subway. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

---