Page 87 of A Ticking Time Boss

The door closes behind her and leaves me alone in the office, but with a gift on my desk. A cupcake. I push back my meeting another five minutes so I can eat the entire thing before they arrive, the memory of her smile and red lace bra burning behind my eyes.

* * *

“No,” I say. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”

“It’s not,” Audrey insists. Her hair is a beautiful mess around her head, her eyes glowing. “I went a full ten minutes thinking he was the owner.”

“And you asked him questions like he was, too?”

“Yes! How long have you had this business, sir.” She groans, but she’s grinning. “How will this affect your family, sir?”

I laugh and put my arm beneath my head. There’s no looking away from her stretched out on my bed, naked and laughing. “When did you realize you were talking to the son?”

“Embarrassingly late. He made a remark about college, and I thought that was odd, and then I saw his shoes. They were the kind of sneakers I’ve seen my brother wear. By the time his actual father walked in, the man I’d come there to interview, I’d manoeuvred my way out of the conversation.”

“Very slick,” I say. “But how could you confuse a twenty-one-year-old with a forty-five-year-old?”

She raises a finger my way. “Oh, you would have too, my sarcastic friend. He had a moustache and was at least your height. Plus, they had the same name!”

“He didn’t mention the Junior when he introduced himself, did he?”

“Nope,” she says. “He very conveniently left it out.”

I can imagine the young guy had seen Audrey come into his shop, beautiful and incandescent with curiosity about their struggling bodega, and seized the opportunity.

Couldn’t blame the guy, really.

“Did you get what you needed for the story?”

She nods and reaches for the edge of my comforter, letting the fabric run through her fingers. “Yes. I’m going to send it to Booker next week.”

“Nervous?”

“Terribly. It’ll be my first solo piece for the Globe, one where I’ve pitched the topic myself.” She buries her face against the comforter. “It’s good. I know it’s good. So why am I so nervous?”

“Because it matters to you. Because you’re secretly hoping that Booker will read it, think you’re a genius, and promote you to senior reporter instead.”

She laughs, the sound muffled. “Yes. How do you know what I’m secretly hoping for?”

“Because we all do it when we’re starting out. You think I didn’t hope the first company I worked on would join the Fortune 500 listing as a big cap?”

“Did it?”

“It did not,” I say with a grin. “It turned a profit, but only barely, and then I sold it on. I was sweating through the whole negotiations. If the other investment firm hadn’t taken it on, I had no backup plan. I was several millions of dollars in and had no other buyers.”

“Jesus,” she says. “How do you handle the pressure?”

“You get used to it. I couldn’t imagine interviewing strangers every day for a living.”

“Well, that part can be nerve-wracking, I admit. But it’s not every day. And most people want to tell their story. All I have to do is get the ball rolling and they supply the rest.” She rests her head on her hand, watching me just like I’m watching her. The best evenings are the ones she spends at mine. We still haven’t been out much, and I know it’s because she’s afraid of someone from the paper seeing us. “Would it be a conflict of interest if I ask you to read it?”

“Your article?”

She nods. “Yes, before I send it to Booker. I want another set of eyes on it, you know.”

“I’ll read it,” I say. “Just send it over.”

“You’re sure?”

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