Luke drains the last of his wine, putting it down decisively on the table in front of us. He leans in close enough that I can smell his aftershave. "We should head to that bar soon."
I make a noncommittal sound. Damn Toby for grinning beside me, for knowing about our date and for finding it hilarious.
My eyes search for a possible out. But they lock on a pair across the crowded room, a pair that blaze with intensity. The burn scalds.
Tristan's here.
His gaze travels from me to Luke, standing closer than he should. There's none of the professional civility of the last couple of days. Despite the distance, I can read his face perfectly. He's burning, he's angry, and he's not as indifferent as he pretends.
My hand trembles as I put my wineglass down.
Tristan turns, parting the mingling crowd like the Red Sea as he strides toward the elevators.
I force my gaze away. "I'll be right back," I tell Luke and Toby. If they reply, I don't catch it, hurrying through the packed crowd.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, I know I shouldn't, but I can't resist.
He's gone when I reach the elevators. Only one is still in motion, and as I watch, it stops at floor twenty-six.
The top floor.
Putting steel in my spine, I step into a free elevator and press the same button. The doors close behind me and I focus on breathing, in and out, in and out, my gaze on every floor that passes. Elevators have been harder than ever since the one in my building stalled. I've avoided them whenever I can, but here and now, there's no way around it.
I can do this.
Nothing is going to happen.
Don't think of the possible drop.
The elevator gives a cheery sound when it reaches the top floor and I breathe a shaky sigh of relief, emerging in a narrow corridor. A sign points to the right with the words Rooftop Terrace emblazoned in gold letters.
Balconies and rooftops are my kryptonite. I hedge toward the glass door. It's dark outside, it's December, it's cold.
Why had he gone up here?
Wrapping an arm around my midsection, I pull open the glass door and immediately regret it. Goose bumps race over my bare arms at the chill in the air.
One step out onto the terrace.
Another step.
I'm far away from the ledge, but I can still see it, fenced and menacing in the distance. A dark figure is standing with his hands on the railing and head bowed against the chilly wind.
I brave another step forward. "Tristan?"
He turns his head. "Freddie?"
"Yeah."
Releasing the railing, he runs a hand through his hair. Wind whips at his suit jacket. "Christ, you followed me up here?"
"Yes. Ta-da."
His mouth quirks, but it's brief. Then he's shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping it around me. It's warm from his body heat and I drown in it. "Thank you," I murmur, my fingers curling around the fabric. "Why are you up here?"
He shakes his head, looking away from me to the soft Bostonian skyline. It's less crowded than New York's. "You'll catch a cold," he says.
"You looked like something was on your mind."
His mouth twists in a not-smile. "Someone was."
My stomach feels like it might give out. "Oh."
"You, in fact." His jaw clenches, working tight. "I saw you and the other trainee, and the jealousy hit me like a fucking freight train."
"It's not… Tristan-"
"I know," he says. "I have no right, Freddie. You told me you can't go there with me. Not to mention the two of you were just talking. I know the jealousy is irrational, but it lives inside of me nonetheless."
"I don't want him."
He closes his eyes. "All those people down there, all of them wanting to talk to me. Not for me, but for what I represent. And the only person I wanted to talk to was you, but approaching you was unthinkable. I was jealous of that, too. They could talk and laugh with you and I couldn't."
"I'm here now."
"Why are you?" he asks. "Why follow me up here?"
"We're friends."
"Friends, yes. Friends. And yet I think about you all the time. How you felt in my arms, the taste of you, the sounds you made. I want you so fucking much, Freddie, and I can't have you, and it's driving me up the walls."
My breath hitches, every word of his a blow against my resolve. "I didn't tell you I wanted to be friends because I don't want that either, Tristan. I go to bed hoping you'll call me and ask me to meet you at the deli. I walk the corridors at work hoping to bump into you. I think about you all the time."
His eyes are focused and sharp on mine. "I used to be in control before you," he accuses.
"So was I. You've ruined all of that for me."
"I can't say I'm sorry."
"Neither can I," I breathe.
He closes the distance between us and fits a large hand to my cheek. Tilts my head up, until he blocks out the city lights around us. "Be with me tonight," he says. "Just the two of us in my hotel room. We can just be us. Frederica and Tristan, and not who we are at work."
The raw note of need in his voice sparks the same chord in me, beckoning me to join in the symphony. And oh, how I want to. "Yes," I murmur.
His hand slides down to grip mine. He leads the way, opening the glass door and bringing us both back into the warmth. Tristan pauses by the elevator. "You didn't take the stairs?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "I didn't want to risk missing you."