Page 42 of A Ticking Time Boss

“Well, my dad’s a dentist and my mom’s a chiropractor. Kevin is three years younger than me. He lives in Brooklyn now, in an art collective with six of his friends.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah. We were best friends growing up. I’m a bit worried about him right now, though, but I think he’s just finding his way.” I shrug, closing my menu. “It’s tough to be young and idealistic.”

Carter raises an eyebrow. “Speaking from experience, are you?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I might be a bit idealistic too.”

“You? Never.”

I grin at him, and he smiles right back at me. Something flips over in my chest. It feels like the beating of a pair of wings, light and airy and launching into flight.

“Ready to order?” the hostess asks. I look away from Carter’s golden eyes, breaking the magic, and we order. The food arrives quickly, almost suspiciously so, but Carter accepts his giant pizza with a solemn thank-you.

“Better than a miniature quiche?” I ask him.

He cuts into his pizza with strong, energetic moves. “Kid, never get rich. It’s all events and sir, would you please look at this? and tiny fucking food. People never stop trying to con you out of your money, either.”

The words prick at my memories. I see my father’s crestfallen face, the bone-deep disappointment in himself after the man in a suit had swept through his life with honey-sweet promises. My entire college fund, gone. My brother’s, gone. A life’s worth of savings gone. “You don’t have to be rich to have people con you,” I say.

“No, you’re right about that,” Carter says, and there’s a trace of bitterness in his own voice. “Poor choice of words.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m sure you’re more likely a target. People always have investment schemes for you, don’t they?”

“Yes. Ninety-nine percent of them are pure bullshit.”

“That’s what you do as a venture capitalist, right? Find the one percent that’s worth your time? Like the Globe?”

He takes a bite of his pizza and chews slowly, eyes on mine. “Are you interviewing me?”

“Part two of the company newsletter,” I say. “Got a lot of requests for a follow-up.”

He snorts, reaching for his beer. It’s all deceptively normal, but I can’t look at him without seeing the well-fitted suit, the thick hair swept over a face that is, admittedly, unusually handsome. It’s no less so while he’s eating pizza and drinking beer.

I shrug. “Well, you’re fascinating. You don’t make sense to me, you know. I’m still half-convinced you’ll pull the rug out from under me one day and say ‘what, you actually thought we were friends? I own the company you work for!’”

Carter nods, like this is a distinct possibility. “Would I laugh maniacally as well?”

“Yes. Twirl your moustache.”

He smooths a hand over his jawline, across the five-o’clock shadow. It makes him look deliciously masculine. “I could grow one for you.”

“That’ll be the sign, then,” I say. “If I show up to work one day and see you with a moustache, that means you’ve decided I’m beneath you. No more socializing.”

His lips twitch. “I’ll bear it in mind. Don’t hold your breath, though.”

“I won’t. I rather like texting you,” I say, taking a bite of my pizza to avoid his gaze. It feels like a vulnerable thing to admit. To put into words the weird connection we have, this… non-thing that’s a thing all of its own.

It feels safer to keep it in the gray zone.

“I like talking to you too,” he says. His voice sounds gruffer than usual. Not the smooth, cultured suaveness.

I prefer this version.

We eat in silence for few minutes, the weight of our mutual revelation settling between us. Like sand sinking to the bottom of a lake, shoring up the bed.

He takes another deep sip of beer and meets my gaze. “Will you finally tell me why dating is so scary for you? It wasn’t the Icelandic boy, then, but it was someone, right? Tell me who and I’ll have him killed.”

---