It’s late—nine o’clock on Thursday—and we’ve had our monthly board meeting. The figures are finally turning around. I don’t have to let anyone go this month, and I think we’re actually going to be okay.
“I’ll see you next month?” I ask.
“For sure. Bye.”
“See you. Do you need a lift?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks anyway.”
I always stay in a hotel here in New York on the nights we have a meeting. By the time I got home, I’d have to turn around and come straight back. It’s not worth the two-hour drive.
My phone rings, and the name Gabriel lights up the screen.
“Hi, just finished,” I answer.
“I’m across the street in Luciano’s.”
“Fancy finding Gabriel Ferrara in an Italian restaurant,” I tease.
“Shocking, isn’t it,” he mutters dryly. “I’m coming out now.”
“On my way.” I cross the street and begin making my way down to my trusty friend. Gabriel always meets me for drinks on the nights I stay in New York.
We don’t paint the town red or anything like that, but we have a good time just the same.
I see him walking down toward me, and I smile and kiss his cheek. “Hello, Bella.” He smiles.
“Hello.”
He holds his arm out, and I link it with mine. “The usual?”
“Uh-huh, sounds good.”
We walk the two blocks to our favorite bar. “Oh, did I tell you that Fletcher started an internship?”
“No, you called and told me he wanted to, but I haven’t seen you since.”
“Oh.” I roll my eyes. “In the end, I couldn’t talk him out of it.”
“You know, I think it will be good for him,” he says as we walk arm in arm down the street.
“Hmm, yes, I think so too. Time will tell. I still think he’s too young to be in an office environment.”
“He’s eighteen, Claire.”
“I know he is. I guess he will always be a baby to me.”
He rolls his eyes as we continue walking. He doesn’t know my children personally—only through what I tell him. I purposely haven’t told Gabriel where Fletch is working. It’s no secret how much he hates Miles Media. Ferrara Media an
d Miles Media are archenemies, and their power struggle is played out in the media.
If he knew that I spent that week with Tristan, he would lose his living shit.
Oh well . . . it doesn’t matter anyway, I guess.
We walk into the bar. It’s busy and bustling with people in suits who have come straight from work. “You grab a table, and I’ll get some drinks,” Gabriel says. “The usual?”
“Yes, please.”