New York Billionaires Series

Luke grins at me. “You were completely lost there for a moment. Are you excited for the bar later?”

“Um, yeah. Absolutely.” I tuck my hands into my coat pocket. “I’ll make a lap, make sure everything’s in order. Talk to you guys later.”

I weave my way through the half-empty fair, trying to spot him again. Pass by Toby and Quentin bantering by the ring toss and smile to myself. Tristan’s tall enough to stand out… should be here somewhere.

I turn the corner at a carnival game and there he is.

Tristan Conway, leaning against the counter of a game booth. He has his hand on the shoulder of a dark-haired boy. I blink, but the image doesn’t go away.

“Can I try, Dad?” the boy asks.

Tristan hands him a set of darts. “Keep your elbow steady and aim for the balloons.”

“I know,” the boy says.

A smile flashes across Tristan’s face. “Of course you do.”

His son, because he has a son, takes aim and throws the first dart. That’s when Tristan looks over his shoulder. Our eyes meet.

I’m busted.

“Hello,” he says.

I swallow. “Hi. Didn’t mean to ambush the two of you like this.”

“That’s not a problem.” Tristan glances down at the boy, but he’s deep in concentration. “Good job on the fair.”Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

“Thank you. All I did was book it, though.” I give a crooked smile, my mind still running on overdrive. Tristan Conway is a father.

“Take the credit,” he advises me.

“Okay.”

The boy turns around. “I didn’t hit a single one.”

“Try again,” Tristan says, extending a new set of darts. “Really focus on aiming.”

The boy pushes back a dark curl that’s fallen over his brow. I’d peg him at nine, ten. “I’ll get one this time.”

“Of course you will, kid.” Tristan must see my curiosity, but he doesn’t say anything, just runs a hand over his neck. His jaw is tense.

His son sees me and gives me a little wave, darts clasped in his hand. “Hello.”

“Hi there,” I say.

Tristan gestures at me. “This is Frederica. She works for me.”

“I’m Joshua,” his son says politely. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too. Are you playing darts?”

“Yes. You’re supposed to hit the balloons. If you hit three of them, you win a prize.”

“What’s the prize?”

He turns to the booth. The girl who runs it is off to the side, her eyes glued to her phone. But the ceiling is covered in stuffed animals dangling from ropes. “I’m not sure.”

Tristan points at a sign on the wall. “Three hits and you get to choose any stuffed animal.”

“Which one would you choose?” I ask, stepping up beside him. My hand goes to my wallet, looking for quarters. “I think I want the giant elephant.”

Joshua gives me a smile, tinged with shyness and delight. “You like elephants?”

“They’re one of my favorite animals,” I say.

“I’ve seen them a couple of times,” he offers. “Dad and I went to Thailand last year with Grandma for Christmas. We visited an elephant sanctuary.” He pronounces sanctuary with great care, making me smile.

“That’s amazing.”

“It is.” He pauses, looking back at his dad before returning his gaze to me. “Do you know they have the best memories of any animal?”

“Oh, I know, isn’t that cool?”

“The coolest,” he agrees. “Do you want to play darts too? Dad, can she get some darts?”

Tristan opens his mouth, but I beat him to it, fishing out two quarters from my wallet. “I’ll play.”

“Well, I suppose that means I have to as well,” Tristan says. He waves over the teenager managing the booth. She accepts my quarters, but Tristan hands her a twenty. “Give us a bucket.”

She grins but says nothing. A few seconds later and there’s a near limitless supply of darts between us.

I raise my eyebrow at him. Tristan just shrugs, reaching for one. “This is good target practice.”

Joshua takes aim, tongue clenched between his teeth. He narrowly misses. “Shoot,” he says. “Dad, your turn. What are you going to choose if you win?”

Tristan weighs a dart in hand. My eyes track the strength of his jaw, the faint crow’s-feet at the edges of his eyes. He can’t be more than ten years older than me, and yet he has a son this old. It’s hard to superimpose the image of him here, talking to his kid, with the man I’d met in the Gilded Room.

Tristan Conway, the enigma.

“I don’t know.” He aims, jaw tense, and throws. A balloon pops with a loud smack.

“Nice one!”

“Thanks, kid.”

“If I win, I think I want an elephant too,” Joshua tells me, reaching for a dart. “Although I think whales are cooler.”

“Whales?”