Page 7 of A Ticking Time Boss

“Yes! He knows nothing about it!”

“Ah. Talking out of his ass, then.”

“Yes. It was so patronizing I forgot to be nervous. I can’t believe I got all dressed up for this,” I say, looking down at my uncomfortable shoes. “It looked like you had better luck.”

He rubs a hand over his neck, almost as if he’s embarrassed, and gestures toward the street. “We should walk. He might leave any minute.”

“Oh. And I’m not on my way to my… What was it? My sickly mother?”

“I kept it vague,” he says. “Lies usually work better that way.”

“You’re an expert at it?”

He snorts. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

“So?” I press on, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “How was your date?”

He shrugs. “It went all right.”

“I’m sorry if I interrupted it, by needing… assistance,” I say.

“Oh, it was already over. I told her I didn’t want to see her anymore.”

I stop and stare at him. He notices and rolls his eyes. Auburn hair has fallen over his square forehead and his jawline is sharp from this angle.

“Don’t look at me that way,” he says. “She knew it wasn’t going anywhere either.”

I think back on the excited blonde he’d chatted to at the bar. “Right,” I say.

“At least I didn’t lecture her about how to do her job,” he says, smiling crookedly. “I know better than to do that.”

I rub a hand over my mouth. “God, he kissed me, too. More like lunged at me.”

“I saw that,” he says, and there’s sympathy in his voice. “Didn’t look good.”

“Definitely wasn’t.” We’ve reached my subway stop and I pause, digging through my purse for my card. I doubt he’s heading downstairs too. “Thank you for helping out back there,” I say.

He nods, eyes on me. “Anytime, kid.”

I groan. “Not that again.”

“Riling you up is fun.”

“You should get a hobby.” It’s another rude thing to say, but somehow, it feels fun with him. Knowing he can take it and dish it back just in kind.

He leans against a streetlamp, cool and collected and seemingly oblivious to the people passing us. “Oh, this is my hobby,” he says. “Rescuing damsels in distress at bars who go on bad blind dates.”

“Happens a lot, does it?”

“More than you’d think,” he says. “Where do you find these guys, anyway? Dating apps?”

“I’ve tried a few of those,” I admit. “They’re not my favorite, but… you get dates, at least.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says.

I brush past the enigmatic compliment. “But this guy was actually someone my friend set me up with.”

“Renouncing that friendship?”

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