Think Outside the Boss - Olivia Hayle Page 0,32

a far more well-stocked fridge than me.

“All right,” he says. “Text me the address.”

“I will.”

“See you soon,” he says, hanging up.

I stare at my phone in half-horror, half-wonder. Tristan Conway is meeting me at the small, wildly unsophisticated deli on my street.

At nine p.m. on a Thursday.

I race into the bathroom and wipe at the faint mascara smudges beneath my eyes from a full day of wear. A quick pinch of blush, a brush through my dark hair… it’ll have to do.

I’m halfway to the door when I realize I forgot mints. Finally ready to go. Nope, forgot perfume. It takes me a few minutes before I finally feel presentable enough to venture out.

He’s waiting outside the deli when I arrive. Leaning against the brick wall, his hands in the pockets of his navy coat.

I swallow at the sight. There’s no way he can possibly be here, waiting for me. But he is.

He nods when he sees me. “Freddie.”

“Tristan.”

“So this is your go-to place?”

I give him a crooked smile and push open the door to the deli. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

He holds up a hand in surrender, a smile playing in his eyes. “I won’t.”

We order a pastrami sandwich each and a plate of fries to share. The familiar cashier with a beanie gives me a wide smile.

“Back again, eh?” he asks.

“I can’t seem to stay away,” I admit. “You guys save me most evenings.”

“Well, it’s our pleasure.” He shoots Tristan a glance. “Glad to see you’re bringing friends, too. Boosts our business.”

“Anytime, Kyle.”

Tristan and I have a seat in the plastic chairs by the shop window. There’s a smile in the corners of his lips, one I remember from the teasing at the Gilded Room.

“What?” I ask.

The smile breaks into a grin. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Oh?”

“No. You’re usually so… Proper. Self-contained.” He raises an eyebrow. “Strait-laced. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be a regular at a place like this."

“So a reformed goody two-shoes can’t go to a hole-in-the-wall for food?” I shake my head at him and reach for a French fry. “Didn’t expect someone who frequents… well, the places you frequent, to be so narrow-minded.”

“Narrow-minded.” Tristan reaches for a fry of his own, his fingers brushing mine. The small contact sends electricity racing up my arm. “I’m offended, Frederica.”

“Frederica?”

“Your name is beautiful. I don’t know why you insist on being called Freddie.”

“I like Freddie.”

He nods, leaning back. The plastic chair creaks ominously beneath his six-foot-two frame. “I do too, when it’s not deceiving me into thinking you’re a man.”

“The deception was unintentional.” I tear back the paper wrapping around my pastrami. “This, right here, is the best sandwich New York has to offer.”

A glance up reveals Tristan, arms crossed over his chest, staring at me.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“How long did you say you’d lived in New York?”

“Um, a month and a half. No, almost two now.”

“Then you’re in no position to judge the city’s best sandwich.” He reaches for his own. “There’s nearly as many restaurants as people in this city, and there’s a shit ton of people, so that’s saying a lot.”

I take a bite of sandwich and flavors erupt in my mouth. Pastrami. Reuben dressing. Rye bread. Wiping at my mouth with my napkin, I shake my head at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of the snobby New Yorkers.”

“Snobby New Yorkers?”

“Yes,” I say. “Who disdain everything a tourist would like.”

He takes a bite of his sandwich, his gaze not leaving mine. I wait as he chews. “Good, right?”

“It’s good,” he admits. “Not the best the city has to offer, though. And for the record, I don’t disdain everything a tourist likes. I just… disdain that they are there too.”

I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “That might be the most New York sentiment ever. Despite the money they bring the city, you’d rather will them away.”

“Tourists and pigeons,” he mutters, reaching for another French fry. “The bane of every big-city dweller.”

I shake my head. “So you’re cynical, too. You must have lived in the city for a long time?”

“All my life.”

“Wow. A native New Yorker.”

“Manhattanite,” he corrects, but he’s grinning as he says it. “We’re very protective of the status.”

“Oh, of course. My bad. I didn’t mean to include the outer boroughs in my initial statement.”

“I can overlook the mistake.”

“Thank you, Mr. Conway. Very kind of you.”

He puts down his sandwich. “Mr. Conway. A couple of days ago, I was Tristan.”

I look away from the heaviness of his gaze, back down to