Page 92 of A Ticking Time Boss

I release the breath I’d been holding. “You’re not just saying that because I’m sleeping with you?”

He laughs, surprised and delighted, and reaches for my hand. “No. Although it helped ensure I made time to read it, I’ll admit. But no. I made some notes and will send it back to you, but they’re marginal. You overuse the word ‘therefore’ a bit.”

I groan. “I cut out three therefores already.”

“Well, there are about eight too many left.” He squeezes my hand. “Pitch it to Booker. I have no doubt she’ll run it.”

“God, I hope so. She’s terrifying in the best of ways. I’m so glad to be working for her.”

Carter’s smile is genuine. Like he understands. “I had a mentor like that once. And when I’d finally spent years building up my fortune, my knowledge and my own investment company, he invited me to join him and his partners. I’ve learned a lot from him.”

“Really? Who was he?”

“Tristan Conway,” he says. “Our host for tonight.”

* * *

We arrive at the beautiful Upper West Side building with little to no time to spare. The traffic had been heavy, and with every slow-moving jam, nerves ratcheted up in my stomach.

Carter says thanks to Michael and gives me his hand. The building’s lobby is all marble and doormen and a smartly dressed receptionist, like we’re here to check into a hotel.

“Through here,” Carter says softly at my side. “And remember, they’re—”

“No interviewing them for an expose on venture capitalists,” I whisper. “I remember.”

He grins at me. “Right.”

“Let’s do this.” I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. His free hand drifts to my hip and pulls me closer. It’s a delicious kiss, comforting and deep, and I don’t want to let go when the elevator doors open.

Someone clears a throat.

Carter lifts his head from mine and chuckles. “Hey, man. Thanks for having us.”

“Glad you’re making yourself comfortable,” a man drawls. He’s standing in a beautifully decorated hallway, navy slacks and a deep-blue shirt on with the shirtsleeves rolled up. He looks a few years older than Carter, with laugh lines fanning out by his eyes.

The elevator opened straight into this man’s apartment… and not in a hallway.

My cheeks flare with heat. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m Tristan.” He extends a hand, a smile softening his features.

“Audrey,” I say, and shake his hand.

“A pleasure. Come in, both of you. Carter, you know where the wine is.”

“I’ll grab a glass for us both,” Carter says. “You’re in the living room?”

“Yes.”

Carter moves through the place like he knows it, pouring us a glass each. The sound of laughter draws us through the space, beneath ceilings with crown molding and art on the walls. The view from the living room stops me in my tracks.

It’s Central Park, and on the other side, the Upper East Side.

It’s breathtaking.

“Nice, huh?” Carter says at my side.

I nod. “Uh-huh.”

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