She raises a finger my way. "Oh, you would have too, my sarcastic friend. He had a moustache and was at least your height. Plus, they had the same name!"
"He didn't mention the Junior when he introduced himself, did he?"
"Nope," she says. "He very conveniently left it out."
I can imagine the young guy had seen Audrey come into his shop, beautiful and incandescent with curiosity about their struggling bodega, and seized the opportunity.
Couldn't blame the guy, really.
"Did you get what you needed for the story?"
She nods and reaches for the edge of my comforter, letting the fabric run through her fingers. "Yes. I'm going to send it to Booker next week."
"Nervous?"
"Terribly. It'll be my first solo piece for the Globe , one where I've pitched the topic myself." She buries her face against the comforter. "It's good. I know it's good. So why am I so nervous?"
"Because it matters to you. Because you're secretly hoping that Booker will read it, think you're a genius, and promote you to senior reporter instead."
She laughs, the sound muffled. "Yes. How do you know what I'm secretly hoping for?"
"Because we all do it when we're starting out. You think I didn't hope the first company I worked on would join the Fortune 500 listing as a big cap?"
"Did it?"
"It did not," I say with a grin. "It turned a profit, but only barely, and then I sold it on. I was sweating through the whole negotiations. If the other investment firm hadn't taken it on, I had no backup plan. I was several millions of dollars in and had no other buyers."
"Jesus," she says. "How do you handle the pressure?"
"You get used to it. I couldn't imagine interviewing strangers every day for a living."
"Well, that part can be nerve-wracking, I admit. But it's not every day. And most people want to tell their story. All I have to do is get the ball rolling and they supply the rest." She rests her head on her hand, watching me just like I'm watching her. The best evenings are the ones she spends at mine. We still haven't been out much, and I know it's because she's afraid of someone from the paper seeing us. "Would it be a conflict of interest if I ask you to read it?"
"Your article?"
She nods. "Yes, before I send it to Booker. I want another set of eyes on it, you know."
"I'll read it," I say. "Just send it over."
"You're sure?"
I raise an eyebrow at her. "Yes, I'm absolutely sure."
Audrey smiles and shifts closer on the bed. I can see the soft curve of her breasts, her cleavage made deeper by the angle. The stunning view is made even better by her free hand moving over my chest. She traces patterns across the skin. "Thank you," she says.
"Wait to thank me until after you've seen my notes."
"Think you'll have many?"
I pretend to consider that. "Probably none, but I can't let you think I'd go easy on you, so I'll have to manufacture some. Tell you off for not using an Oxford comma or recommend a stronger synonym."
Her fingers play with my chest hair. "You always have notes," she says. "Especially about my place."
"They're entirely justified when it comes to your living situation."
"So bringing a new lock to my place wasn't heavy-handed?"
"It was," I say, entirely without remorse. "But it's to stop heavy-handed people from getting in, you know. Including me. Did you talk to your landlord about installing it on your door?"
"I mentioned it, yeah. I think he pretended not to hear me."
"Tell him we'll handle the installation. I can have a guy there within the hour to put it up on your door."
"You worry too much," she says.
"You worry too little," I say.
She smiles and looks down at my chest. Traces her name on my skin. "Something did happen just yesterday, actually."
"Tell me about it."
"I know what you'll say."
"I promise I'll say something entirely different. I'll surprise you, kid."
She sighs. "I saw a rat in my kitchen."
"In your kitchen," I repeat quietly. "So… by your microwave in the corner."
Her nails dig into my skin. "Be nice. We can't all be multi-millionaires."
"But a rat . Did you tell Pierce?"
"He's not going to do anything about it. But I've bought poison."
I close my eyes. The idea of her in a place like that bothers me more than I'd imagined. It's like needles beneath my skin, knowing that when I say goodbye to her she's going back there. Living in a house with two people who are practically strangers, and she can't even lock her door.
"You're not saying anything," she says. "That's good."
"I'm trying very hard to respect your independence and not sound like a multi-millionaire," I say, eyes still closed.
"Excellent!"
"And I'm also considering how it would look if I singled you out in the newsroom for a massive raise."
Her hand slaps at my chest. "Absolutely not."
"I know. It would be impossible. Think of the HR nightmare." I shake my head sadly and capture her hand. "I'll have to give them all raises."