Page 41 of A Ticking Time Boss

“I’m sure. So you weren’t scared today, at any rate, seeing as you can apparently read my intentions from my face. How did people react after I left?”

I shrug. “People didn’t know what to make of it. Most people assumed, and I think correctly, although let me know if I’m wrong, that it was a good sign. Was it? Does this mean you’re considering giving Investigative more resources?”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“Never.”

Carter doesn’t reply. He stops outside a restaurant instead. “Have you ever eaten here?”

I peer through the windows. The place is Italian and kitschy, with a painted mural of the Colosseum on one of the walls. The tables have red plastic tablecloths.

“Nope,” I say.

He pushes the door open. “Come on. They have the best pizza in Queens.”

I don’t move right away. I stare at him instead, tall and with a pressed tuxedo on, holding the door open for me. “Volare” plays softly from the speakers.

Carter’s eyes are steady. “Audrey?”

I step past him into the warm restaurant. We’re greeted by a smiling hostess in her mid-fifties and ushered into a booth in the back. Her gaze lingers on Carter.

Probably wondering what a man dressed like him is doing in a place like this.

“You’ve been here before?” I ask.

“Might’ve been, yes.” He pushes the menu across the table at me. “Their calzone is delicious.”

I open the menu without reading any of the items. Just when I think I have him figured out, he changes. But nothing about our friendship is normal. Why should I expect him to be?

“They have passable house wine as well,” he says. “But I think the beer is a safer bet.”

“Oh, I’m not drinking around you anymore. I get too… talkative when I do.”

“It’s entertaining when you do, though.”

I roll my eyes. “Christ, I’m sure. But I can’t stand by the things I say.”

Carter’s mouth stretches into a wicked smile. “You remember what you told me at the ball?”

“I remember all of it,” I say, heat flooding my cheeks. “And there was so much of it that I’m not even sure which embarrassing thing you’re referring to.”

“You didn’t embarrass yourself.”

I look down at the pizzas on display. Far too many for any mortal person to sort through. “You’re nice, but I definitely did.”

“Hmm. Would one of them be getting food poisoning at your senior prom?”

“Oh God. I really did admit to that, didn’t I?” It had been one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, throwing up on the dance floor. The teachers threatened to call my parents about my underage drinking.

It was mildly humiliating to have to explain to them, my hand clasped to my stomach, that I’d never tasted a drop in my life, because I’d never been invited to the frequent house parties the cool kids threw.

Carter’s voice drops. It’s soothing again, the deep register washing over me like a balm. “Was the Icelandic boy nice to you?”

“Yes. I think he was secretly a bit put out that I ruined his American prom experience, though.” I chuckle at the memory. “But I told him to go inside and have fun, and he informed me sternly that he would never leave a sick friend.”

“What about your parents?” He reaches out to grab hold of the salt canister, twisting it around in large hands. I’d never really looked at them before, but I watch them now, long fingers moving with dexterity. There’s a light dusting of hair across the back of his hands. “Tell me about your family.”

I smile at him, but he’s looking down at the salt. Is this because of my stupid comment about not really knowing him? Are we getting deeper?

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