New York Billionaires Series

He gives me a level look. “I’m a normal person, you know. Even if I am your boss’s boss’s boss.”

“I’m starting to realize that, yeah.”

“I have a question for you,” he says. “Did you always know you wanted to be a journalist? All that work, college, the paper… what put you on this path?”

I chew slowly, drawing out the pause. The real answer is complicated, but I don’t have to give the long one. “I’ve always loved to write,” I say. “But I’ve always been interested in the world around me too. My father, he reads the Globe every day. On Sundays he stretches it out into a half-day event. I’d sit next to him and ask about articles. It seemed like a magical thing. Stories, information, hot takes. It felt like the whole world was contained inside those thin pages.”

I shake my head, smiling. “I know that sounds fanciful. But I grew older, and I learned that stories have power. They can mobilize. They can galvanize, polarize. They can change a person’s life, a person’s business. Some are huge, like the whistleblower stories. Others are smaller. A construction halted because of a petition.”

“Idealistic,” Carter says softly. “And young.”

I smile at him, a bit sheepish. “Yes. There’s more to it, I know. Politics. Advertising. Propaganda. But the best of journalism is about people and change. It’ll always be magic to me.”

“I’m amazed you’re sitting here with me,” he says, “when I’m the one rolling a bowling ball through the newspaper you love.”

I look down at my pizza again. “True, I love it. But it’s struggling. Has been for years, same as all print media. Your changes are hard to swallow sometimes. But I know you’re doing it because you genuinely want to save this paper.”

“I do,” he says levelly. “I have no doubt that you’ll help me do it, too.”

“Right. You said you had some changes planned, right?”

For the rest of the meal we talk about the Globe. Still teasing, because I can’t seem to stop around him, and he makes me laugh more often than I should. But we talk about the future of the newspaper and numbers and a tentative plan to ramp up resources available for the Investigative team.

And the birdwings in my chest beat on.

He insists on paying the bill, and I insist on splitting, until he finally sighs and puts a large hand on mine. He pins my card to the table and extends his own to the machine.

“Next time, then,” I say.

He pretends like he doesn’t hear me.

“Thank you,” Carter says to Fiona when we leave. “Just as good as always.”

Her face shines up in a smile. “Oh, I’m so glad,” she says. “Say hi to your mom for me, will you?”

“Will do.”

We walk in a slow amble toward my apartment. I’m full and warm and happy. I’m nervous, too. Not a lot. Not like a proper date. But it tickles my insides with anticipation.

“You know,” Carter says, voice smooth. “I wish I would have gone to the Reporters’ Ball with you.”

Those little tickles increase. “We ended it together, at least,” I say. “Did you really send your date away?”

“Will you berate me if I say yes?”

I focus on the sidewalk. “I should, perhaps, but… What did you tell her?”

“It was booked weeks in advance,” he says. “I didn’t want to cancel last minute, so we went.”

“Right. That’s nice of you. But what did you tell her, at the ball?”

“She seemed relieved, at any rate. I think she’d expected an event where the median age wasn’t forty-five. Told me thanks.”

We stop outside the stoop to my house. I face him, forced as always to look up and up to meet his eyes. There’s hesitation in them, and something else, a look that sets my stomach ablaze. “What did you tell her?” I ask again.

His mouth quirks into a half-smile. He reaches up and pinches a lock of my hair between his fingers.

I can’t breathe.

“I told her,” he says, “that someone very special had arrived.”

“Oh.”

We’re silent on the sidewalk, staring at one another.

“Thank you for keeping me company tonight,” I murmur. “It was very nice of you to come all the way out here from your dinner.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Were you nervous tonight?”Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“No.” Just now , I think. I’m nervous right now . “Why would I have been?

He smiles again. It’s smaller this time, and something about it makes my heart hurt. “You and I were on a date, spitfire.”

Air feels stuck in my throat. “We were?”

“Yes,” he says. “Had a good time?”

I nod. “Excellent food. Excellent… company.”

Carter’s hand smooths from my hair to my cheek. Long fingers flit across my skin, fitting themselves to my jaw. Tilting my head up.

I didn’t think he liked me like this. I didn’t think…

And then I can’t think at all, because his golden eyes are burning on mine. “Glad you had fun,” he says. “But I’m not going to ask you out again.”

Oh.

“Good?” I whisper.

He smiles. “I know how you feel about dates, so I want you to think about this. Consider if you’ll let me ask you out. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes. Yeah, I mean. I can do that.”

“Great.” Then he bends his head, and I close my eyes, heart pounding. But he only presses his lips to my cheek. The rough feel of his stubble against my skin sends a shiver down my body, all the way to my toes. “And Audrey?” he says. “The guy who cancelled on you is an idiot.”

“Right. Sure.”

Carter straightens to his full height. His smile is cocky, full of himself. Every inch the man I’d met in that bar weeks ago. “I’ll be out of town for a few days. Think about it until I get back,” he repeats. “If you’ll let me take you out for real.”