“I know you borrowed that dress and you’re worried about wrinkling it,” I say slowly. “I know you take the subway because you can’t afford not to, butyou still chose the expensive champagne at the open bar instead of the cheap wine.”
She purses her lips. “What does that say about me?”
“That you refuse to apologize for having good taste even when you can’t afford it.” I lean slightly closer. “That you’d rather have one perfect thing than a dozen mediocre ones.”
She’s staring at me now, her lips slightly parted.
“That’s a lot of extrapolation from a dress and a drink order,” she says finally.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s charged. Anticipatory. Like we’re both waiting to see who breaks first.
We’re pulling onto her street now. Quiet residential blocks with pre-war walk-ups. The kind of neighborhood where people actually know their neighbors.
I tap at the privacy screen, and Indira lowers it.
“Indira, Bree is going to guide you in,” I tell her.
“Here,” Bree says after a moment. “The one with the blue door.”
Indira pulls to the curb. Callahan’s already scanning the street.
I should let her go. Thank her for the interesting evening. Drive back to my empty penthouse and forget this ever happened.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Can I use your bathroom?”
She turns to stare at me. “Use thebathroom?”
“I really need to take a leak,” I insist.
Her eyes narrow. “That’s your play? The bathroom excuse?”
“It’s not an excuse. I’ve had three whiskeys and we’ve been in the car for forty minutes.” All true. Also completely beside the point. “But if you’re more comfortable saying no, I can find a Starbucks.”
She studies me for a long moment. I can see her weighing options. Stranger danger versus the fact that Callahan and Indira are right here as witnesses, if need be. My employees, true, but witnesses nonetheless, if she needs them.
Which she won’t.
“Just the bathroom,” she says finally.
“Just the bathroom,” I agree, exiting the vehicle.
Behind me, I catch Indira and Callahan exchanging one of those looks. The kind that says they’ve worked for me long enough to know exactly how this night is going to end, and it’s not with me emerging from that building in the next five minutes to request a ride back to Tribeca.
They’re probably already calculating overtime and wondering which one of them drew the short straw for the all-night vehicle babysitting shift.
A tiny voice in the back of my head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Larissa from legal, suggests I should probably call said legal counsel right now and have her courier over one of those consent forms. The kind that says “I acknowledge this billionaire is not coercing me into sexual activity and I promise not to sue him or leak stories to the press or write a tell-all memoir titled ‘The Night I Regretted Getting Into a Mercedes.’”
That would be the smart play.
Except it would also be the fastest way to ensure absolutely nothing happens tonight except Bree pepper-spraying me in the face and calling the cops.
So... fuck it.
It’s okay to live dangerously once in a while.
I follow her up the front steps. The outer door tothe vestibule is propped open with a phone book, which seems like a security flaw someone should address. She unlocks the inner door and we’re in a narrow hallway that smells like old radiators and someone’s cooking.
“Fourth floor,” she warns. “No elevator.”
