She answered on the first ring. “Hey! Long time no see.”
“I know.” A smile tugged at me. “Are you free? I’ve got an open block, and I need—well—just… time with you.”
“Hmm… let me check my very full schedule.” A dramatic rustle—suspiciously like magazine pages. “Great news—I’m free.”
I grabbed my purse and headed for the elevators, grateful for the excuse to step outside the building and out of my own head.
The New York streets felt brighter as I walked—still busy, but not in the overwhelming, mugger-in-the-shadows way. The deli’s sign came into view minutes later, a newer spot Candace had been evangelizing for weeks.
The door chimed as I stepped inside. Heat wrapped around me, thick with the scent of pastrami, rye, dill pickles, mustard.
I scanned the room for Candace—
Only to realize every single person was focused on something… or someone.
“Oh, god,” I muttered.
“Hey, everyone! I’m here today with Steinberg’s Jewish Deli on 4th!” Candace’s voice rang out—bright, polished, influencer mode fully activated.
I slipped through the crowd until I found her standing with the owner, an older man with silver hair and warm eyes. His name tag read Mr.Steinberg.
“Mr.Steinberg,” Candace chirped into her phone camera, “I keep hearing your pastrami is the best in New York. Is that true?” Her tone had that perfectly curated lilt she used when she wanted people to trust her with their wallets.
“The best in town,” he declared proudly into the lens.
She lit up like a Broadway marquee.
I dropped into a corner booth with a clear view of the chaos, silently thanking the universe for my extended lunch hour.
My phone buzzed.
Damien: Did you make it?
Me: Yeah. Got a booth. Candace is in full influencer mode.
Damien: My condolences.
I smiled, tucking my phone away.
About thirty minutes later, she slid into the seat across from me, glowing and winded, dabbing her forehead like she’d just filmed an aerobics video instead of a deli promo. “Sorry about that,” she huffed.
“It’s fine. I knew what I was signing up for.”
“Listen,” she said, lifting a finger, “Steinberg’s owner begged me for a collab—what was I supposed to do? Let a small business suffer?”
“You literally filmed him praising his own pastrami.”
“That’s called marketing, sweetheart.” She grabbed a menu. “Also, he gave me a free cannoli.”
“That explains everything.”
She grinned—then narrowed her eyes at me, sharp and playful. “So,” she said slowly, “you look… glowy.”
Here we go.
“You’re imagining things.” I flipped open my menu like it could shield me.
“Oh, please.” She waved me off. “You disappear for four days and come back looking like you’ve been well”—she wiggled her brows—”hydrated.”
