says.
I can think of absolutely nothing to reply. How did he get my number? Why is he calling? We haven’t spoken since the meeting in his office over a week ago.
“I’m calling about work,” he says.
“Is it about the Thanksgiving Family Day? Because everything is in hand for the weekend.”
“No, it’s not about that.” A beat of silence. “Perhaps it’s better to speak about this when you’re not surrounded by Exciteur employees.”
“I’m not surrounded. I stepped outside.”
“Still, I think it’s better we have this conversation when you’re in a place where no one can overhear. Call me when you get home.”
“Call you, Mr. Conway?”
“Yes. This is work-related, Miss Bilson, but I think it’s better we don’t have this conversation in the workplace.”
Curiosity gnaws at my insides. “I’ll call you as soon as I get home. When is too late?”
“I’m up,” is the curt reply. “Talk to you soon, Miss Bilson.”
And then he hangs up.
I stare at my phone for a long few seconds. He can’t be calling to fire me, can he? No. I thought I’d convinced him out of his suggestion of shifting my internship to a different company, too.
Work-related.
But I thought it was best to have the conversation outside of the office.
“Is everything all right?” Toby asks when I return inside. He’s taken off his suit jacket, and it lies innocently between him and Quentin on their side of the booth.
“Absolutely,” I lie.
The sky has darkened to a deep midnight black when I finally get home to my building, nodding hello to the doorman outside. I’m not sure when it will ever stop striking me as surreal that I live in a building with a doorman.
New York is my home now.
Correction, I think, as I unlock the door to my tiny studio on the top floor. This expensive shoebox is my home now. The single window offers a view of the opposite building’s rooftops. Sometimes there’s pigeons on them. It’s riveting.
I sit down onto my bed and take out my phone. It’s just past eleven, but he’d told me he’d be up.
Tristan answers after the first signal. “You were out late.”
I bristle at the clear disapproval in his tone. “It’s not midnight yet, but if I were, it would be my business.”
“You could be performing at less than your usual standard tomorrow at work,” he points out. “That would make it my business.”
“I assure you, I always perform at the peak of my ability.”
“Like when you confuse the forwarding and reply button on the email interface?”
A cheap shot, Mr. Conway. I push my hair back from my face and blow out a breath. “Perhaps that was a calculated move,” I say, the whiskey I’d had speaking for me. “Perhaps I wanted to make an impact. Leave my mark. Most trainees are forgettable, you know. I don’t want to be one of them.”
The silence is brief and surprised. Then he chuckles darkly and I close my eyes as the sound washes over me. I picture him beside me on the couch at the Gilded Room, his features marked by shadow and desire.
“You’re not forgettable, Freddie,” he vows. “If avoiding that fate was your mission, consider it accomplished.”
“I didn’t expect to achieve success quite so soon.”
“And yet you did.” Another pause. “Where did you go out tonight?”
“A bar close to work.”
“Did you take a cab home?”
“I walked,” I say, digging my fingers into the thick comforter beneath me. How am I lying here, having this conversation with him?
“You walked? Do you live near the bar, then?”
“Yes, Upper West Side. We went to the bar next to work.”
“Walking isn’t necessarily safe.”
“This neighborhood is one of the safest in the city. Besides, there were people out. Do you walk home alone?”
“Freddie…”
“Mr. Conway.”
There’s reluctant amusement in his voice. “I hope you find your co-workers to your satisfaction.”
“They’re lovely people,” I say. “You said this was work-related, sir?”
“I did. You know, it’s not necessary for you to call me sir.”
“Your other employees do.”
He sighs. “You’re right. This is why I called you, by the way.”
“To discuss what I should call you? I believe we’ve had that conversation before.” The words are risky, reminding us both of the night we’re not to speak of.
Tristan’s voice darkens. “So we have,” he says. “I don’t believe we settled on anything then, either.”
“You’re difficult to pin down.”
“Impossible,” he says. “I’ve never let anyone try.”
I take a deep breath. “Why did you call me sir?”
“Believe it or not, it is work-related.”
“So you’ve said, yes.”
“It’s also sensitive.”
“Classified information?”
“Of a sort.