Chapter 8 - The Interloper in ManhattanI froze.
Rebecca’s hand dropped instantly from my jacket lapel, her professional mask sliding back into place with terrifying speed.
Standing in the doorway of the Apex Financial boardroom in midtown Manhattan, wearing an overly expensive leather jacket and a triumphant grin, was my best friend.
“Surprise!” Derek announced loudly, throwing his hands up in the air.
I stared at him, my brain briefly stalling out. “Derek? What the hell are you doing in New York?”
“I flew in on the red-eye,” he said, strolling casually into the boardroom as if he owned the building. “I figured my favorite sister and my favorite quasi-brother were going to need moral support during the big pitch. Plus, I wanted to see if you guys had managed to kill each other yet.”
Rebecca pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. “Derek... if you don't turn around right now and walk out of this building, I will personally revoke your corporate health insurance.”
“Come on, Becca!” Derek protested, walking over to the conference table. “I heard the pitch went amazing! Apex Financial basically fell at your feet! We should celebrate! I know a fantastic jazz club in Greenwich Village.”
“We are not going to a jazz club with you,” I said, rubbing my temples as a headache began to form behind my eyes. “How did you even know which building we were in?”
Derek tapped the side of his nose. “An executive assistant never reveals his sources. Let’s just say Sarah Jenkins has a very loose definition of confidential flight itineraries.”
Rebecca’s head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed into twin daggers.
“Sarah Jenkins gave you my travel schedule?”
“She may have mentioned it while complaining about how unfair it was that Mason got the New York assignment,” Derek admitted, flashing an unrepentant grin. “Anyway, the point is: we’re in Manhattan! The city that never sleeps! Let’s go get some overpriced drinks!”
Rebecca looked at Derek, then looked at me, and then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.
“You know what?” she said, grabbing her designer handbag off the chair. “Maybe we do need a drink.”
Two hours later, we found ourselves in a dimly lit, smoky jazz club nestled deep in the heart of Greenwich Village. Saxophone notes floated through the air above the clinking of glasses and low conversations.
Derek had miraculously managed to disappear into the crowd to flirt with someone at the bar, leaving Rebecca and me sitting in a corner booth carved out of dark mahogany wood.
The distance between us across the small circular table felt entirely too wide.
Rebecca took a sip of her old-fashioned, her eyes reflecting the warm amber glow of the table candle.
“Your best friend is a menace to society,” she observed quietly.
“I’ve been saying that for a decade,” I replied, leaning my arms on the table. “Yet somehow, he keeps orchestrating these bizarre situations that force us into rooms together.”
Rebecca’s mouth curved into a soft, genuine smile. She reached across the table, her fingers tracing the back of my hand.
“Do you regret it?” she asked softly.
“Regret what?”
“Taking the pitch. Coming to New York. Getting tangled up with your boss’s boss.”
I turned my hand over, interlocking my fingers with hers, feeling the cold metal of her thumb ring pressing against my palm.
“Rebecca,” I said, my voice dropping low enough to be drowned out by the saxophone player’s solo. “I’ve never been less regretful of anything in my life.”
For a second, the executive director of Landon Creative disappeared completely, leaving only the woman who stole mushrooms from my plate and laughed with her whole shoulders.
“Good,” she whispered.
Then, out of nowhere, the floor beneath us seemed to shift.
My phone buzzed violently in my pocket.
I pulled it out, glancing down at the screen. It was a text message from an unknown number—or rather, a number I immediately recognized as Sarah Jenkins' office desk phone, forwarded to her cell.
May you like
Hope you’re enjoying New York, Mason. Just thought you’d want to know—David in HR received an anonymous tip this morning containing photographs of you and Rebecca boarding the plane at O'Hare together. An official inquiry is waiting on your desk when you get back to Chicago.
The blood drained entirely from my face.
