New York Billionaires Series

“Have you spoken to Danielle since the Thanksgiving fair?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, sitting down cross-legged by his latest Lego set. He’s graduated to more complex builds and the pieces for each now number in the thousands.

“And?”

“She thought it was cool that we had the amusement fair to ourselves. She asked if it was your amusement fair,” he says, laughing. “I told her no.”

“I’m glad the two of you enjoyed yourselves.”

He lies back on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling. “She said I was one of her favorite people in class the other day.”

“Did she? Joshua, that’s awesome.”

“Yes,” he says, kicking one of his legs up in the air. “But she also said Maria was one of her favorites. And Turner and Dexter.”

I put my hand in front of my mouth to hide my grin. “Mhm.”

“So I’m not the only one.” He screws his eyes shut. “Dad, we can’t talk about this right now. I have to prepare for my test.”

“All right, all right. I was just curious.”

“You’re always curious,” he accuses me, and now I have to laugh. That’s what I’ve told him for years, right after he’s asked me a string of fifteen increasingly impossible-to-answer questions.

“I’ll leave you alone.”

“Thank you,” he says. “We’ll talk at dinner.”

It’s such a teenage thing to say that I’m still chuckling to myself when I return to the living room. The smell of Marianne’s lasagna drifts from the kitchen, meat and tomatoes and cheese.

My hand goes to my pocket. My phone. My musings. Without Joshua to distract me, my mind finds its way back to Freddie and the wound of last night. I know there’s only one way to quell the jealousy simmering inside of me.

I shouldn’t, of course. I could write a book about all the reasons why interacting with Frederica Bilson won’t end well. Not only is she a trainee, but she’s a hungry one, with her eyes set on forging a career of her own. And I’m not the young man I was before Jenny and Michael’s accident, when relationships were easy and fun.

And yet, the jealousy burns on.

When Joshua has gone to bed, I dial the now familiar number.

She picks up after four eternity-long signals. “Hello.”

“I don’t have any more information on the mole in the Strategy Department,” she informs me.

I blow out a breath, amused despite myself. “No, I didn’t expect you would.”

“All right, then.” The question hangs in the abrasive silence. What are you calling for, Mr. Conway?

“How are you?”

“I’m good,” she says. “I’ve had a relaxing weekend.”

My teeth grit at the word relaxing. “Meet me at the deli down the street?”

“Turns out those sandwiches were some of the best in the city after all. I’m craving one.”

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“I’m hungry,” I say. I’m not.

“Mr. Conway…”

“Meet me, Freddie.”

“I just got back home and I’ve been out all day.”

It’s not a no, but it’s not a yes, either. “Then you must be hungry. If I remember correctly, pastrami is your favorite.”

She sighs. “I’ll be there in five.”

The tiny, reluctant yes soothes the flames in my stomach. I need to look her in the eyes when I ask her about yesterday. When I explain why I couldn’t be there. Grabbing my coat from the rack, I pop my head into the kitchen where Marianne is prepping tomorrow’s breakfast. “I’m heading out for a few hours, just down the street.”

“All right, sir.”

“If Joshua wakes up or needs anything, call me.”

The deli is just as garishly lit by neon lighting as it had been a week ago. I must have walked by it a thousand times and never given it a passing thought, only two blocks from my apartment.

She’d said it was just down the street from her.

So it’s not enough that Freddie infiltrates the club I frequent. It’s not even enough that she starts working at my company. She also lives a ten-minute walk from my home, and now, it seems, she’s occupying space in my mind rent-free.

Which means I’m pretty much doomed.

I’m there first, so I lean against the building and scan the surrounding streets. It doesn’t take long before I see her. She has a beige coat wrapped tightly around her curvy figure, dark hair lifting in the wind. Red lips and sharp eyes that narrow as she sees me.

“You came,” I say.

“You insisted,” she says.

I push the door open to the near-empty deli. “After you.”

She orders nothing but a soda, smiling at the guy behind the counter. He smiles back, smitten.

The expression disappears when it’s my turn to order. “Coffee, if you have it. Black.”

“Coming right up.”

Freddie leads the way to the same table as before, right by the windows and the whirl of snowflakes in the air. I watch as she removes her black leather gloves, slim, long-fingered hands closing around her soda can. The sight brings other images to mind, memories I’d do better not to dwell on. Like her hand closing around me.

“Why did you call me?”