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I hang up and go back to my report, wishing it were Friday and I didn’t have to worry about Anderson Media and the bills for a few days.
Only four days to go.
Thursday morning, Marley and I power down the street on the way to our meeting. “Why are we meeting here, again?” I ask.
“He wanted to meet somewhere neutral. He has a table booked at Bryant Park Grill.”
“That’s odd—it’s not a date,” I huff.
“It’s probably all part of his grand plan.” She holds her hands up and does an air rainbow. “Neutral ground.” She widens her eyes in jest. “While he tries to fuck us up the ass.”
“With a smile on his face.” I smirk. “I hope it at least feels good.”
Marley giggles and then falls straight back into her coaching. “So remember the strategy,” she instructs me as we walk.
“Yes.”
“Tell me it again . . . so that I remember it,” she replies.
I smile. Marley is an idiot. A funny idiot nonetheless. “Stay calm; don’t let him ruffle my feathers,” I reply. “Don’t say an outright no—just keep him on ice in the background as an insurance policy.”
“Yes, that’s a great plan.”
“It should be—you thought of it.” We arrive at the restaurant and stop around the corner. I take out my compact and reapply my lipstick. My dark hair is twisted up into a loose knot. I’m wearing a navy pantsuit with a cream silk blouse, closed-toe high-heeled patent pumps, and my pearl earrings. Sensible clothes—I want him to take me seriously. “Do I look okay?” I ask.
“You look hot.”
My face falls. “I don’t want to look hot, Marley. I want to look hard.”
She scowls as she falls into character. “Totally hard.” She punches her hand with her fist. “Iron maiden snatch style.”
I grin at my gorgeous friend; her bright-red zany hair is short and punky, and her pink cat-eye glasses are in full splendor She’s wearing a red dress with a bright-yellow shirt underneath with red stockings and shoes. She’s so trendy that she’s actually edgy. Marley is my best friend, my confidante, and the hardest worker in our company. She hasn’t left my side for the last five years; her friendship is a gift, and I have no idea where I would be without her.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
“Yes. We’re twenty minutes early—I wanted to get here first. Get the upper hand.”
Her shoulders slump. “When I ask you if you’re ready, you’re supposed to answer with, ‘I was born ready.’”
I push past her. “Let’s get this over with.”
We drop our shoulders, steel ourselves, and walk into the foyer.
The waiter smiles. “Hello, ladies. How can I help you?”
“Ah.” I glance at Marley. “We are meeting someone here.”
“Tristan Miles?” he asks.
I frown. How did he know that? “Yes . . . actually.”
“He has the private dining room booked upstairs.” He gestures to the stairs.
“Of course he does,” I mutter under my breath.
Marley curls her lip in disgust, and we make our way up. The top floor is empty. We look around, and I see a man out on the balcony on his phone. Perfectly fitted navy suit, crisp white shirt, tall and muscular. His hair is longer on top, dark brown with a curl. He looks like he belongs in a modeling shoot, not the snake pit at all.
“Holy fuck . . . he’s hot,” Marley whispers.
