"Like when you confuse the forwarding and reply button on the email interface?"
A cheap shot, Mr. Conway. I push my hair back from my face and blow out a breath. "Perhaps that was a calculated move," I say, the whiskey I'd had speaking for me. "Perhaps I wanted to make an impact. Leave my mark. Most trainees are forgettable, you know. I don't want to be one of them."
The silence is brief and surprised. Then he chuckles darkly and I close my eyes as the sound washes over me. I picture him beside me on the couch at the Gilded Room, his features marked by shadow and desire.
"You're not forgettable, Freddie," he vows. "If avoiding that fate was your mission, consider it accomplished."
"I didn't expect to achieve success quite so soon."
"And yet you did." Another pause. "Where did you go out tonight?"
"A bar close to work."
"Did you take a cab home?"
"I walked," I say, digging my fingers into the thick comforter beneath me. How am I lying here, having this conversation with him?
"You walked? Do you live near the bar, then?"
"Yes, Upper West Side. We went to the bar next to work."
"Walking isn't necessarily safe."
"This neighborhood is one of the safest in the city. Besides, there were people out. Do you walk home alone?"
"Freddie…"
"Mr. Conway."
There's reluctant amusement in his voice. "I hope you find your co-workers to your satisfaction."
"They're lovely people," I say. "You said this was work-related, sir?"
"I did. You know, it's not necessary for you to call me sir."
"Your other employees do."
He sighs. "You're right. This is why I called you, by the way."
"To discuss what I should call you? I believe we've had that conversation before." The words are risky, reminding us both of the night we're not to speak of.
Tristan's voice darkens. "So we have," he says. "I don't believe we settled on anything then, either."
"You're difficult to pin down."
"Impossible," he says. "I've never let anyone try."
I take a deep breath. "Why did you call me sir?"
"Believe it or not, it is work-related."
"So you've said, yes."
"It's also sensitive."
"Classified information?"
"Of a sort. Tell me, Freddie, where do you see yourself at the end of this internship?"
"My ambition is the classified information?"
"Funny," he says, but the deep baritone of his voice sounds like he's smiling. "No. Do you see yourself with a permanent job here?"
"Potentially," I say. "I don't discount the possibility, and if I were offered, I'd most likely say yes."
"That's good to know."
"Where is this conversation headed?"
"I have a proposition for you," he says.
My brain short-circuits.
He can't be saying what I think he's saying, can he? I press a hand to my breastbone as the words flow out. "Tristan, I can't do that. You can't ask that of me. I'm not the type to-"
"Christ, Freddie, I'm not asking you for that. No."
I relax back onto the bed, my heart racing in my chest. "Okay."
"I should have worded it differently." A frustrated sound, and I can see him in front of me, running a hand through his thick hair. "No, I wouldn't ask that. This is about the Strategy Department."
"It is?"
"I believe we have a mole."
I frown. "Someone who leaks information?"
"Yes. Our competitors are learning about the business strategies we're proposing for our clients, and it's not just happened once, either."
"How do you know?"
"I have my sources," he says.
"And you're sure it's coming from Strategy?"
"I've eliminated the other possibilities. Strategy and management are the only people who deal with this information, and I know it's not management."
I turn over on my side. "You want me to keep my eyes and ears open?"