Page 5 of Man of the Year

“At the very least!” he says excitedly, as if we have just witnessed a miracle. “Freaking drivers here. Insane, huh? I guess I need a new coffee,” he says as he checks his empty to-go cup, walking with me shoulder to shoulder. “I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” I murmur.

But a coffee sounds good. I don’t have a job. I can’t splurge, or I won’t have money for rent.

“Nick.” Without stopping, the handsome stranger offers his hand for a shake.

“Natalie,” I say as I shake it.

He nods toward a Starbucks. “Come on. Please, let me buy you a coffee.”

He quickly checks his watch, and I have a feeling that this is not an invitation for a date, just a courtesy. But why not?

“There is better coffee than that,” I say. He might not be a native New Yorker after all. I nod toward the PapaBean street stall. “Best coffee around. Ethiopian. Light roast.”

He grins at me. “Oh, yeah?” His blue eyes seem even more vibrant as they catch the sunlight. “Whatever you say, boss. Come on.” He beelines through the crowded street toward the kiosk. “I’ll have whatever she does,” he tells the middle-aged man with a mustache and an apron, and I place the order. “So, Natalie, what are you doing on this fine day? Besides saving lives and trashing my coffee taste?” he says in a smooth voice that could melt chocolate.

That grin of his is contagious, and I smile back. “Actually, I just left a job interview. I’m better at saving lives than keeping a job.”

Nick laughs, the sound of it making my smile grow, even though by any definition, this is a crappy day for me. Not to mention my best friend has been in a coma for three days now.

“What kind of job are you looking for?” Nick asks.

I shrug. “At this point? Anything. Degree, no degree. Qualifications, no qualifications.”

I gave up pursuing jobs for my business degree several years ago. Turns out, bartending at upscale places pays better. That is, if you can keep the job.

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

It’s my own fault that I lost my previous gig at a tapas place for being too abrasive and rude—get that—to the rude Wall Street assholes who made sexist comments. On top of that, Cara hasn’t shown any improvement. She is lucky, the doctor said, though she still hasn’t come to.

Looks like I have to pay rent all on my own this month.

At the thought, my smile falters. I absently study the magazine stand on the side of the coffee kiosk, trying to stay away from negative thoughts.

That’s when I seehim.

There are plenty of red-haired men in New York. Forgettable, sure. Just not this face, with the peculiar tick of his right eyebrow, his green eyes staring at me from the cover of the magazine.

I swallow hard, frozen to the spot—itishim.

“Your coffee, young lady,” Nick says next to me.

But my eyes are glued to the magazine, and I slowly pick it up from the stand.

There’s no mistake—the face on the cover of theTech Weeklymagazine belongs to the guy Cara went home with after the club. He has a name—Geoffrey Rosenberg.

MAN OF THE YEAR.

THE CEO OF IXRESEARCH.

THE CRYPTO KING.

AND THE NEWEST ADDITION TO THE

FORBES: WORLD’S TOP 40 UNDER 40.

---