New York Billionaires Series

“You know why they had to leave.”

I break away from the magnetism of his eyes, nerves dancing down my spine. “This Thanksgiving Family Day may have started out as punishment,” I say, “but I’d like to thank you. Since you chose the amusement park, this might become the biggest project I get to spearhead during my time here.”

“Punishment?”

“For my first email,” I say. Just the memory of is it is mortifying, but I don’t look away from his gaze. “I realize it was perhaps more forthcoming than you’re used to.”

His eyebrows rise. “You don’t think my staff tells me the truth?”

“Judging from what I saw today, every single one of your employees in the room were surprised when you picked the amusement park option, but only Clive really spoke about his misgivings… and only once.”

“You don’t seem to share their apprehension.”

I blow out a breath. “I really want to work here, Mr. Conway. But I believe I’ve already given you cause to fire me with that initial email… yet you didn’t. I’m hoping you won’t in the future.”

“That’s a big bet,” he comments, but a smile plays across his lips. “For the record, I didn’t give you this project as punishment.”

“No?”

“The Freddie who wrote back to my emails, who still hasn’t apologized, by the way, refused to back down. I wanted to see what that person was capable of when given the opportunity.”

Oh. “I won’t disappoint you.”

Tristan gives a single nod. “I don’t expect you to.”

Our eyes catch and hold, the eye contact anchoring me in place. Like it had at the party, where it cut through the throngs of mingling guests and throbbing music to sear me where I stood. This time, there’s only a conference table between us, and it’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop. My voice is faint when I find it again.

“Was that all, Mr. Conway?”

He clears his throat before responding. “Yes. And if asked, feel free to tell your colleagues the truth.”

“The truth?”

“That I wanted to know who came up with the winning idea.”

I stand, gathering my laptop and notebook, holding them like a shield against my body. “Thank you.”

He taps his fingers against the table, too large for this conference room. It threatens to swallow me up whole. “And Miss Bilson?”Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

“Despite the trouble it’s caused, I’m glad you chose this company.”

“Eleanor is tough,” Toby tells me, “but she’s fair. Her bluntness is usually for the best. It makes it easier to do my job.”

Quentin reaches for his beer. “You should be happy you weren’t here during Conway’s takeover, though.”

“Was she bad then?”

“Everyone was bad back then.” He shakes his head, eyes tracking my hand around the glass of whiskey in front of me. They’d both been surprised when I’d ordered it, as most men are. I love surprising them. As if they have a monopoly on drinks? Please.

“The takeover was that dramatic?” I ask.

Toby raises an eyebrow. “You’ve met Conway. Imagine him in front of the whole company, announcing that three departments would be slashed by the end of the month.”

I grimace. It’s not hard to picture the determined lines of Tristan’s face, the sweep of his arm as he speaks the words without affect or equivocation. Telling people en masse that they’d have to find new employment.

“But it’s made the company stronger,” Quentin admits, running a hand through his overlong hair. “You can’t fault the bastard that.”

I nod, my fingers tightening on my glass. When I’d suggested grabbing drinks after work with my co-workers, I hadn’t expected Tristan Conway to follow us. But here he is, the topic of choice.

Toby’s smile widens. “Not to mention the entertainment factor. There’s never a dull day when he’s in the building. Employees scurrying about.”

“You mean you scurry about,” Quentin says. “I have never scurried in my life.”

“I saw you scurry just last week, when Clive came down to speak to Eleanor.”

Quentin crosses his arms. “You need to get new glasses.”

“I got these just last month, thank you very much.” Toby turns to me, winking. “Designer glasses at half-price.”

“They look great,” I say. The orange rims compliment his smart navy suit and match the colors in his tie. “Toby, did you say you had a date this weekend?”

“Yes. I’m just hoping this guy isn’t as awful as the last one I matched with.”

“Sock puppet guy,” Quentin mutters.

“Sock puppet guy?” I ask.

Toby gives a grave nod. “Sock pocket guy,” he confirms, pouring enough gravitas into the words that I hold up my hands in defeat.

“Say no more.”

“I won’t. Those details would haunt you.”

I give a mock shudder. “Where are you going with the new guy?”

“We’re going to walk the High Line. He’s never been there.”

“He’s new to New York?” Quentin asks.

Toby nods. “Just moved in from out of state. The poor guy doesn’t know his subway lines.”

I take a sip of my whiskey. “Hey, I’m from out of the state. What’s the High Line?”

“Oh dear,” Toby says. Quentin shakes his head and reaches for his beer, the too large sleeve flashing a glimpse of a digital watch.

I hold out placating hands. “It’s that bad, is it?”

“The worst, I’m afraid.” Toby puts a hand on mine. “Will you let me show you around the city? Please?”