New York Billionaires Series

“Carter, I’m sorry.”

He rises from the chair, stretching to his full height. “One of the perks of being the boss,” he says. “Don’t think about it.”

I grip the edge of my comforter. Why am I still in my jacket? The thought comes and goes, slippery, my mind unable to hold on to too many things at once. But one thing is important.

The most important.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “I don’t know what I would have done without you today.”

His lips twist into a half-smile, and I lose myself in his steady eyes, looking down at me. “My pleasure, kid.”

I reach for his hand. He realizes what I want and captures mine with his. Warm fingers twine with my own. My pulse thunders through the simple contact and up through my head.

It’s not the first time we’ve touched, but it feels like it. “I’ve thought about it,” I say.

Carter goes still. “Ah. About what I asked you?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’d very, very much like it if you asked me out, I mean.”This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

His thumb moves in a slow arc over mine. “I’d be happier about this if you weren’t drugged. When we spoke on the phone you were drunk, too.”

I don’t smile-I’ve learned my lesson-but I want to. “This isn’t the anaesthesia speaking.”

He looks down at my hand in his, but there’s no hiding the brilliant smile spreading across his face. “I’ll ask you tomorrow, then. When I’m sure you’re not under the influence.”

My heart stutters in my chest. “I’ll say yes.”

It wasn’t a dream. That’s the first thing I realize the next day, when I wake up clear-headed. The second thing is that my mouth really, really, hurts. I take care of the second thing right away by way of aspirin and orange juice. He’d bought the fancy, organic kind.

Carter had been here. In my apartment.

I look at my jacket, thrown on the floor. My shoes spilling out from the too-small closet. There’s a grim-looking avocado that’s, inexplicably, resting on an old copy of the Globe like a sad paperweight.

He’d been here. I smile down at my orange juice, ignoring the tug in my cheeks. He’d showed up to my dentist appointment. He’d called me when he was out of town. And somehow, some way, I’m not nervous about going on a date with him.

Correction-I’m nervous as hell. But it’s the excited kind, the one that makes me feel so alive it’s like my soul is abuzz. I spend most of the day working lazily from bed and watching old re-runs at the same time. Try as I may, concentrating is difficult, and the double dose of painkillers knocks me out every so often.

He texts me after lunch to ask how I’m feeling. The conversation is quick as usual, texts that make me smile down at my phone.

Until it includes the thing we’d spoken about.

Carter: Is your head clear today?

Audrey: Yes. Clear enough to know that I meant what I said yesterday. Before you left.

He calls me a few seconds after I send my answering text.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey. Sleep well?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I guess being knocked out does that to you.”

“Hurting today?”

“A bit. Feeling significantly less wise, too,” I say.

Carter’s voice warms. “Listen to you, joking. You’re in a good mood.”

“I am, yeah.”

“A definitely clear-headed one?”

“Exceedingly so. I’ve never been more in my right mind than I am right now, this very second.”

“That’s good,” he says. “Exactly what I want to hear.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. So. Will you let me take you out this weekend?”

Hearing the words makes it real, and that reality is terrifyingly exciting. “Yes, I will.”

“Well,” Carter says. And then nothing else.

I smile. “No quip about that? No joke?”

“I’m searching for one,” he says. “Give me a few minutes.”

“Speechless. That’s a first.”

“Are you free this Friday?”

“I am, yeah. Hopefully the swelling will have gone down by then,” I say, biting my lower lip. A date. I have a date, and for the first time in months, it’s one I’m truly excited about.

“If anyone would look good with swelling, it’s you,” he says. “I’ll have to figure out a way to impress you. What about-”

There are muffled voices on the other end, and then I hear the distinct words of Mr. Kingsley. He’s working. Of course he is, I’m the one taking a day off.

When his voice is back, it’s professional in tone. “I’m afraid I have to go. Sorry to cut this short.”

“Were you in a meeting when you called me?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Just stepped out. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay. Well… good luck at work today, honey,” I say, my voice teasing.

He gives a surprised laugh. “Spitfire,” he says fondly, before hanging up.