Saved By the Boss by Olivia Hayle
Summer
Ace trods by my side to work the next day, close at heel, one of the few things he’s kept from his guide dog training.
“Look at that,” I tell him as we pass a for sale sign on the door to Charlotte’s Coffee Corner. For years, it’s been one of my New York staples, a familiar part of the route I take to and from work.
I should have bought more coffee there. If only I did, she might not have had to sell. To go out of business. To surrender to someone else’s demands.
Anthony Winter and Acture Capital can do whatever they want with Opate now, the clientele, the staff. Vivienne spent weeks pouring over the contract, but even so… I don’t trust it.
I don’t trust him. He’d said not a word to correct my false assumptions yesterday. Vivienne had sent me an apologetic email after he left, the subject line in all caps. I MISTOOK THE DAY!
Ace’s tail wags as we step into the lobby of our office building and I smooth my hand over his silky ears. He’s beautiful, my loyal dog, the one I can always count on. Good thing my aunt agrees with me. She likes to say having an animal in the office gives it soul, and I’m grateful for that, because I can’t imagine leaving him with my parents.
“Ready to meet the others?”
Ace looks up at me with alert, chocolate eyes. Yes, they say.
“There’ll be someone else here today. Someone we have to be nice to, even if we don’t want to. No biting.” I’m smiling even as I say it, and his tail wags harder. So fearsome.
I open the door to Opate and he makes a beeline for Suzy at reception. She grins when she sees him and puts down her lip gloss. “Hi, buddy,” she says, burying her hands in his fur in greeting.
The door to Vivienne’s office is open and voices emanate from within. I step closer and my aunt looks up from her desk, golden reading glasses perched on the edge of her nose.
“Ah, Summer! Come in, come in. I was just talking to Mr. Winter here and his associate, Ryan…”
“Walker,” a young man supplies.
“Walker, yes. They will be here often in the coming weeks to pick our brains on the company and to learn how it works.”
Ah, I think. They’re scouting it out before they make any changes, which means we have to be on our best behavior during this time.
And I’m already off to a bad start with Mr. Winter.
He’s sitting in one of Vivi’s chairs, arms draped along the armrests. The gaze he shoots me is as dark and inscrutable as yesterday. No hint he even remembers our exchange.
I give him a bright smile. “We’ll do our best to make you feel at home then, gentlemen,” I say. “When I don’t have client meetings, my door is always open to answer questions about the business and our practices.”
Both men’s gazes drop to my knees and a second later I feel the solid weight of a golden retriever pushing past me in the doorway.
“Our favorite employee,” Vivienne says. “This is Ace, my niece’s dog.”
The dog in question is busy scouting out the two men. He receives a pat on the head from Ryan, but he’s ignored entirely by Anthony, who only looks from the dog to me. I’ll have to apologize when I get the chance. Try to smooth things over from yesterday.
Oh, the things I’d said to him. Asking our new owner if he had a partner, or if he preferred women or men. Heat rises to my cheeks.
“Miss Davis was helpful yesterday,” Mr. Winter says. “I know she’ll continue to be so in the future.”
I give them both my sunniest, brightest smile. “Whatever you need,” I say and pat my leg. Ace returns to my side and we head into my office.
I’ve survived the first, shameful encounter. Whether I survive the second remains to be seen.
I’m sorting through our ever-shrinking pile of client applications when a single knock on my door sounds. Anthony Winter, hands by his sides, suit jacket unbuttoned. He’s nearly tall enough to graze his head on the doorway.
I turn away from my computer screen. “Mr Winter. Come on in.”
He stops a solid few feet away from my desk. Says nothing.
I clear my throat. “I’d like to apologize about yesterday. About mistaking you for a client. I realize that wasn’t what you’d expected, and well… I’m sorry.”
He pulls out the chair opposite my desk and sits down. Stretches out long legs in front of him. “I’m not,” he says.
“You’re not?”
“Like I said, it was enlightening,” he says and lets his gaze travel from mine to the pictures on the walls. My triumphs, my successes.
I open my mouth. Close it again. And then: “I’m sorry to ask, but why did you buy Opate Match?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why did I buy your aunt’s company?”
“Yes. Judging from yesterday… you don’t believe in our services.”
“No. But I believe in your ability to generate profit.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose.”
His gaze returns to mine. “Tell me more about your business structure, Miss Davis. I’d like to hear it from you.”
From me?
But I clear my throat and dive into an explanation of Opate Match, detailing clauses and structures he’s doubtlessly already aware of. Things he knows, or he wouldn’t have bought the business.
But Anthony just listens, occasionally tapping his fingers along the edge of his armrest. “At the moment, Opate is limited to the East Coast. New York specifically, even if you get a fair amount of clients who are just traveling through. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel about expanding internationally?”
My eyebrows rise. “Internationally?”
“People paying this amount of money for prestige matchmaking services like the idea of exclusivity. Traveling around the world for a date with a similarly-minded person… well, that might only add to the appeal.”
“Yes, well, it might not make for lasting relationships.”
The look in his eyes tells me he doesn’t see that as a problem. “Ryan is a coder and programmer.”
“Oh.”
“He’ll start working on a prototype app.”
My hands drop into my lap. He sees it, another eyebrow rising. Almost as if he’s intrigued against his best wishes. “You don’t approve?”
“I can’t say I do, no.”
“Why not?”
“Our strength is our personal service,” I say. “We provide something you can’t get anywhere else. We know the people who come to us, so we can actually set them up with people they have a chance of succeeding with. If we let people decide that themselves on the basis of self-generated profiles, all that swiping… Our success rates would plummet.”
“It would allow you to expand.”
“But at what cost?” I shake my head, but soften the gesture with a sunny smile. “If you’re asking for my opinion, that’s it. The personal touch makes Opate Match.”
He taps his fingers against the armrest again. “Right.”
“‘I know you don’t believe in it. Our services, I mean, or that people come here with good intentions.” I shrug. “Judging from our conversation yesterday, I mean. You’re very cynical, Mr. Winter.”
Both of his eyebrows rise at that. If there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes, it’s there and gone so fast I can’t register it. “Cynical, Miss Davis?”
“I know the majority of our clients believe in love. They’re here filled with hope, and nerves, ready to try something new. The ones who open themselves up to the process are usually the ones most likely to succeed.”
“Right.” There’s a world of skepticism in that single word. It fills my office, multiplying and expanding.
A determined dog shoves the half-closed door open. Ace trots in and sits down on his haunches next to Anthony, his gaze fixed on the man’s face.
Anthony looks from me to the dog. “You have pets here.”
“That’s Ace. He’s great at getting clients to relax, actually. More than one nervous person has sat in here with their hand in his fur as they tell me about themselves.”
Anthony’s gaze turns from me to my dog, as if he’s doubting this. Ace keeps looking at him.
I can’t help but smile. “He’s waiting for a hello.”
“Hello,” Anthony says. But then he relents, reaching out and resting a large hand on the top of Ace’s head. His fingers sink into the golden fur and the telltale sound of Ace’s tail against the floor picks up. You brilliant traitor, I think. He has always had a knack for figuring out when someone needs a bit of canine distraction or comfort, another of the skills he’d kept from his guide dog training days.
Anthony’s gaze holds resignation. “You really are a hopeless romantic, then.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A hopeless romantic,” he repeats. “You believe in the core values of this business. You believe in love.” He says the last word like it has sharp edges.
“Yes,” I say, leaning forward. He might be our new owner, but isn’t it in the best interest of the business if he learns what we’re truly about? If he understands what makes us successful?
“If only you could see how well this process really works,” I say, “you’d become a hopeless romantic too.”
“I doubt that, Miss. Davis.”
It’s a crazy idea. One of my wilder ones. And perhaps I’m overstepping my boundaries, but… I already did that yesterday.
“Well,” I say. “Let us set you up on a date.”
His eyes settle on mine with an intensity that makes my mouth dry. “Pardon me?”
“If you want to see how this business truly works, I’m happy to show you. Three dates,” I say, improvising. “I’ll make the arrangements for you. If you still think there’s no merit after you’ve been on all three, and if none of the women are people you’d consider having a second date with… I’ll admit defeat.”
“Defeat?” he asks.
“Yes. I’ll admit I was wrong, and Opate Match isn’t for everyone.” It’s a gamble, and my heart pounds in my chest with the audacity of what I’m proposing. Vivienne would have my head if she knew. Or she’d laugh at the sheer nerve.
There’s never any knowing with her.
Anthony narrows his eyes. “And if I deem one of the dates good enough to warrant another?”
“Then you’ll admit you were wrong about this company. Your company, in fact. Either way, you’ll have gained some experience about how our business works.”
His jaw tightens, eyebrows drawing together over dark eyes. He’s coldness itself, and I’m about to freeze.
But then he gives a single nod. “You have yourself a deal.”
My smile is entirely genuine. “Oh, that’s great. You’re really going to enjoy this, I promise.”
“I’d be careful about making that promise.”
A few taps on my keyboard and my computer sings back to life. “That means I’ll create a quick client profile for you. Nothing fancy, but just enough so I can set you up with women I think will be good matches.”
He shifts in the chair. “Ah. Okay.”
I glance over. “It’ll be quick.”
“Take your time, Miss Davis. As I have no intention of losing this bet, I don’t mind it being done thoroughly.”
I have to hide a smile as I open up a new client profile. Perhaps this is the way to crack him, then. Friendly competition and bets. He can’t help but be drawn in by them, intrigued despite himself.
“What age span are you interested in?”
He gives a faint sigh, like he can’t believe he’s sitting here, answering this. “I’ve never considered one before.”
“Well, you’re thirty-three,” I say. “How about we put you down for twenty-five to thirty-five, give or take a few years on either end?”
“Sure.”
“How would you describe your ideal relationship?”
There’s complete silence on the other side of the desk. I look over to see him wearing an expression somewhere between masculine exasperation and pain. It’s clear he’s rethinking this bet.
“We can skip that one,” I say. “Moving on, moving on… I just need enough to set you up with women I think you’d enjoy spending time with.”
“I’m not picky,” he responds. “They need to be able to hold up their side of a conversation. Some humor.”
I’ve never met a single person who said they weren’t picky and actually meant it. People who claim to have no demands inevitably have the most.
But I can’t tell him that.
So I smile and make a note of it in his application. “Humor’s important for you, then. How about I ask you a few easy questions? These are some fun prompts we use to get a sense of a client’s personality.”
He sighs again, like I’m imposing on him. “Sure.”
“What’s your favorite holiday?”
“My favorite holiday?”
“Yes.”
“Michaelmas.”
“Really?”
His lips twitch. “No,” he says. “I shouldn’t mock you.”
“Not if we’re going to do this bet properly.”
“Christmas, then. Put me down for Christmas.”
I write down a great deal more than simply “Christmas.” Sarcastic, dry sense of humor. Dislikes pretense. Needs a patient hand.
“That’s a great choice,” I say.
“Is this the part where you praise me for my responses again?”
I tilt my head in acknowledgement. “Right, you didn’t enjoy that. I’ll refrain. Now, here’s another prompt… What’s the best part of your day?”
He taps his hands along the armrest, gaze turning to Ace. My dog has sprawled out beside Anthony’s chair like he’s never been more relaxed in his life.
“My morning cup of coffee,” he replies.
I note it down, and I know I shouldn’t comment, but… “Yet you didn’t want a coffee when you came here yesterday.”
“I doubt your machine is very good.”
I glance up at him, but there’s a wryness to his features. He knows he’s being provocative.
I give a one-shouldered shrug. “Compared to whatever fancy one you have at home, it’s likely not, no.”
He nods. Looks past me again.
I clear my throat and return to my prompts. They’re fun, easy ways to establish rapport with a client. To tease out things about their personality you’d never get from asking people to describe themselves.
I’ll establish rapport with Anthony Winter, even if I have to be the one doing eighty percent of the work.
“Have you ever broken any bones?”
His eyebrows rise, but he responds. “A collarbone. Left wrist.”
“You’re not left-handed?”
“No, right.”
“How did it happen?”
“I used to climb.” He turns his head back to the pictures of the wall, breaking eye contact. “It doesn’t always go as planned.”
An accident, then. Not that getting information out of him is easy.
“That sounds thrilling, climbing,” I comment, noting adventurous on his client profile. “I’ve only tried on one of those indoor gyms once. God, that was difficult.”
“Hmm,” he says.
“I didn’t plan on going, but it was with a boyfriend, and he insisted. It didn’t last. My interest in climbing, I mean. Well, he didn’t last, either.”
I never ramble on like this with a client. But here I am, filling up the silence. Perhaps he’ll feel more comfortable if I make a fool of myself.
Anthony’s gaze shifts back to me. “Indoor climbing gyms aren’t fun. He should have taken you somewhere outdoors.”
I clear my throat. “Yes. Well, perhaps one day. Let’s see here… oh, this is a fun one. Give me two truths and a lie about yourself.”
“Two truths and a lie?”
“Yes. I’ll see if I can parcel out the lie.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and glances back at the half-open door to my office. “I’m born in January, my social security number ends in thirty-seven, and this suit is new.”
Oh, this man is frustrating.
I don’t let it show, giving him a smile. “One of them is a lie?”
“Yes.” There’s challenge in his eyes. Clearly, he thinks he’s outsmarted my prompt. His three things are about as personal as asking someone about the weather.
“You’re not born in January,” I guess.
“Wrong. My social security number does not end in thirty-seven.”
I smile, like he’s won a point, and return to the client profile. Enjoys being difficult, I write. Could be devastating if he decides to flirt with a woman in earnest. Doubtful he’ll ever do something he doesn’t want to.
“You learned a lot about me from that response,” he says. “What did you just write?”
I ignore his question. “What are your thoughts on marriage?”
He drums his fingers against the armrest again. A cue that he’s uncomfortable? Or just bored?
“Good for some, bad for others,” he replies.
“And where do you land?”
“I doubt it’s something for me.”
My stomach sinks at that. He really is going into this with a cynical mindset, not just to the matchmaking service, but at the idea of love and relationships in general. I might lose this bet.
But I refuse to admit that until it’s time. And who knows, by then he might have found one of our fellow clients far too attractive to remember this little sparring match.
“Not what you wanted to hear?” he asks.
I shake my head. “The thing that makes Opate Match work is that we don’t set people up based on what they project to the world. We set them up based on who they actually are. So I won’t suggest you to one of our clients who are looking for marriage within the coming years.”
“Good,” he says.
“How about kids? Something you’d like in your future?” It’s a standard question, but it feels invasive asking my new boss this. The man who holds the fate of Opate in one of those large, constantly-armrest-drumming hands of his.
But if I can win him over to respecting our business model… maybe I can protect Opate.
“No kids,” Anthony says.
I note it down, even if it’s a shame. With a comforting strength to him, it’s easy to picture a child riding on his shoulders. I bet he’d soften then, in a way these silly prompts could never accomplish.
“That’s all right,” I tell him. “We have plenty of clients who share your sentiment.”
“Plenty?” he asks.
“Plenty,” I echo. It’s not, strictly speaking, a lie. We have a lot of female clients who are unsure about kids, and a few who have a strict no-kids-ever policy.
“Dogs or cats?”
Anthony looks up at the ceiling, the picture of a man tortured. “Knowing if I have a preference for cats or dogs will help me find everlasting love?”
“Ah, we don’t promise everlasting love, Mr. Winter. We promise healthy relationships with well-adjusted people.”
“How romantic,” he mutters. “Dogs, then. Put me down as a dog person.”
Ace shifts at his feet, letting out a soft canine sigh. Almost like he’s agreeing. I smile as I make a note of it in Anthony’s client profile. He might huff and puff as much as he likes, but my little house won’t blow over. It’s getting sturdier with every thing he says, the contours of his personality emerging little by little.
It wouldn’t be enough with a paying client, but it’ll have to be enough with him, because I doubt he’s going to endure a lot more of this.
“One last question,” I say. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Anthony’s gaze shutters. “Not that one.”
“No?”
“No.”
I nod and smile. “Okay, no problem. We’ll go silly instead, for the last one… What would the title of your autobiography be?”
Anthony’s jaw tenses as he thinks. Looks away from me. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” he says.
I think that might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. He turns back to me, like he’s remembering who I am. He clears his throat. “Is that all you need, Miss Davis?”
“Yes.” It’s not, not by a long shot. “Would you be free for a date a few days from now? I’ll email you with the details. It won’t be a long encounter, likely an hour or two at a café.”
“That’s good,” he says and rises. Ace lifts his head and we both watch Anthony stop by my office door.
“Yes?” I say.
“What we’ve spoken about, it stays between us.”
“It does,” I say. “Anything we discuss as a client to matchmaker is bound by confidentiality.”
He nods in response and steps out of my office, shutting the door behind him. I stare at it for far too long, one question and one only in my head. Who the hell am I going to set this man up with?