My laughter is cut short by a black town car pulling up beside us. Carter unbuttons his dinner jacket and opens the door to the back seat for me. "Come on."
I take a deep breath, and then I step into the luxe interior and leather scent. He closes the door behind us and we're instantly in a world apart. Gone is the drizzle and wind. We're alone, side by side in a dark car.
"Your address," Carter says. I give him the details and he relays them to the man in the driver's seat. Absurdly, I thought he'd wear a hat, and then feel stupid when I think it.
And all of a sudden my heart speeds up. Carter's nearby and he's a man and what if he has expectations, too? What if I've misunderstood and despite the fact that he could never, ever date someone like me, he might-
"Tell me something honestly," he says.
"Uh-huh?"
"Think you can be friends with your boss, despite his… business practices?"
I smile. Friends, of course. That's what he wants. I have nothing to worry about. "I'm considering it, yes. Even if it makes no sense and is definitely not advisable."
"Wondering if I should be offended," he says. "Deciding not to be."
I bump his knee with mine. His legs are long, stretched out in the ample space of the town car. "Then tell me something honestly in return."
"Yes, I was born this handsome. My mother has been contacted repeatedly by the press, but there's no real explanation. I'm just a beautiful accident of nature."
"Are you ever serious?"
"Life forces me to be sometimes," he admits, "but I avoid it at all costs."
I chuckle. "Tell me something, then. Someone like you-I don't mean someone as handsome as you, although you are, and you know it. But I mean someone as successful and social… why did you and I end up texting so much? What did you gain from it, you know?"
He arranges the cuff of his jacket and I can't see his eyes. But his voice is the same confident drawl as always. "Is it so crazy to imagine I wanted a friend?"
"You must have a hundred people in this city that are better friends than me."
"No," he says. "I don't. People are intimidated by me, you know. It's the face."
I laugh again. It's hard not to, around him, and even harder when you're drunk off champagne and the best night of your life. "The clothes, perhaps, the expensive watch, the town car, the easy wit…"
Heated gold eyes meet mine. "Compliments?"
"You were fishing for them," I say, but I lean back in my seat.
He smiles slowly, and his eyes drop down to my dress again. "Well, kid, for being a grown woman in her prom dress… you look fucking gorgeous."
My eyebrows climb all the way up to the sunroof of the car. "What?"
"We're exchanging compliments, are we not?"
"Yes, but they have to be believable."
"You don't think you're beautiful," he says skeptically. "Don't play that card. How many damn dates have you been on in the past month?"
I shake my head. "No, no, I'm not trying to be falsely modest. I like how I look. It's not like a supermodel or anything, but I'm happy with it. But I've seen the women you date."
Just not the one you brought tonight. The thought immediately sours my thinking. Was he like this with them too? Like he wants nothing more than to make them laugh?
"That's a comment we'll dissect another day," he says. "You live in Queens."
I nod. Outside the windows, the streets are becoming familiar. We're getting closer. "Yes."
"Rent your own apartment?"
"I rent a room in a house. The owner lives on the first floor."
Carter nods. "Right. I grew up in Queens."
"You did?"
He runs a hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah. So now you know where I grew up."
I recognize a tentative gesture when I see it, and through my drunken haze, I wonder if he'd meant exactly what he'd said earlier. If some of his jokes aren't jokes at all, the self-deprecation hiding things beneath the surface.
"I grew up in Alrich," I say. "It's a town upstate."
His smile is small and crooked. "Nice to meet you, Audrey."
I extend my hand. "You too, Carter."
He takes it in his. It's so much warmer than I expected. His fingers curl a moment longer around mine, long and firm, before he lets it go.
"We're here," he says. "Thanks for tonight."
I rub a hand over my eyes. Despite the sleep I'd gotten last night, better than I had in weeks, I'm bone tired. The Globe 's poor financials are an antidote to any kind of rest.
A man would have to be mad or inspired to take this project on. I'd been inspired when I bought it, but increasingly I'm wondering if I fall in the other category instead. All I need is a hat and I could host myself some tea parties.
Wesley's quiet opposite my desk. He probably knows what's coming, and I know it too, but I have to say it.
"Are you seriously telling me," I say, "that the Deckson ads account for eight percent of our profit margin on the paper?"
"Unfortunately so," he says. "One of the previous board members was close with the Deckson family. Things escalated from there, I suppose."
"I'm sure that was well and good thirty years ago, but the company is a PR nightmare today. We can't have their name plastered across our pages."
Wesley takes off his glasses and rubs them clean on his shirt with meticulous swipes. "It would undermine confidence in our reporting."
"The Investigative team is working on a deep exposé on their industry and the production methods. Undermine? We'd lose any credibility we have left, running that piece on the front cover and having a Deckson ad on the next page."
"You're right," Wesley says.
I stare at the man. He's been nothing but helpful once I got here, quick to engage with my suggestions and even quicker to implement them. But this exposé had been in the works for over a year. He'd been editor-in-chief all that time.