Saved By the Boss by Olivia Hayle
Summer
When I come home, there’s a delivery man waiting outside my apartment building, shifting from foot to foot like he’s waiting for the chance to bolt.
“Do you live here?” he asks, hoisting up three garment bags on his arm.
“I do, yes. And I—”
“Do you know who Summer Davis is?”
“That’s me, actually.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank God. This place doesn’t have a doorman or a concierge.”
“No, it doesn’t. Oh, all right. Thanks?” I accept the parcels, and as I recognize one of the designer names on a box, my stomach nearly drops out beneath me. Apparently this is just what Anthony Winter does when he invites a woman to an event.
Par for the course.
“I can’t sign,” I tell him. “My hands aren’t free.”
The delivery guy chuckles and takes them from me again. “I should have realized. Wait, let’s do it this way… here. Sign this.”
A few minutes later he takes off down the street, hurrying to where a delivery car is double-parked.
I shake my head and head upstairs. Greet Ace who has been home all day, his tail wagging so hard it nearly knocks a glass of water off the sofa table.
“I know, buddy. I couldn’t bring you in today.” I take him for a walk to the nearby dog park before finally allowing myself to open the parcels spread out on my bed. A glance at my watch tells me I only have a few hours before Anthony will be here to pick me up.
Nobody has ever picked me up in New York before. For a dazzling, daydreamy moment, I feel like I’m one of the women I regularly take on as clients. They date men like Anthony Winter. Men who run this city, or at least know the ones who do.
But I’m not one of those women.
I sit behind a desk and help them find love instead.
Tugging on the delicate wrapping paper, I open the first box. Run my fingers over the red, satin fabric beneath as if in a daze.
A certainty settles in my bones. He hasn’t picked these out personally. Can’t have, if this is something he does regularly for women.
The realization bolsters me. I open the others and pull out the three options. A red, spaghetti strap one. A black sheath that falls to my knees. And a dark green option with only one shoulder, narrow at the waist before it flares out.
My hands shake as I read the designer label.
Vivienne would absolutely adore this. It’s exactly the kind of grand, over-the-top gesture she’d love.
Would she love that it’s our new owner who sent them to me?
I flip the question over in my mind as I shower and straighten my hair, re-doing my makeup. Dark brown eyeliner, soft against my light coloring, and a touch of red lipstick. I stare at the three dress options on my bed.
Slipping into the dark green, one-shouldered dress, I find that it fits.
“Wish me luck,” I ask Ace. He rubs his head against my hand, the soft, silky fur sliding through my fingers. “You know how long it’s been since I went out with a man.”
His tail wags.
“Thanks for being here with me, too, by the way. I know Mom has a giant yard you could play in.”
He licks the back of my hand.
“You too, buddy,” I say. “You too.”
My phone chimes and I give him a farewell pat. The text is simple. I’m outside.
A dark Town Car idles by the curb and one of the passenger doors opens as I step outside. Nerves flutter in my stomach. Professional favor or not, he’s not an easy man to be around. It doesn’t help that I’m not even close to figuring him out.
But I paint a wide smile on my face as I get into the car. Anthony’s waiting in the backseat. The dark tux he’s wearing blends in with the dark leather seat. Dark hair. Dark clothes.
“Hello,” I say.
He inclines his head. “You live close to the Halycon Hotel. Both are in Soho.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” I fasten my seat belt. “Was it still okay for you to pick me up? I hope it didn’t delay you.”
“Of course not.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I’m not used to this. Blurt something out about the dress. The car. The night.
“You wore the black,” he comments.
I glance down at the dark green fabric. In the dim lighting, I suppose it looks almost black. “The green one, actually. Thank you. Or should I thank a personal shopper?”
He turns away from me, jaw working. “You’re welcome.”
The ride to the hotel is quiet. I open and close my clutch twice to double-check I brought my phone, just to have something to do other than glancing over at Anthony.
Long fingers drum against his thigh when the car pulls up outside the hotel. Is he nervous? I am.
“We’re here,” I say.
He nods and gets out of the car, his jaw working again when he comes to my side and finds me already on the curb. He buttons his dinner jacket and extends an arm to me. “Let’s get this over with.”
I take his arm and make it my personal mission to get one smile out of him tonight. Just one.
“A charity auction,” I say. “Will guests be bidding on luxury items?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have your eye on anything in particular? Oh, look, they have a brochure.”
His voice is dry as he hands me a glossy pamphlet. “I suppose I have to buy something, but I haven’t looked.”
“You have to buy something?”
“As one of the partners of Acture, I’m technically a co-owner of Exciteur.”
I swallow. “Right. The consulting firm throwing this party.”
“Yes.” Anthony steers us through the open double-doors and into a bustling ballroom. A string quartet plays from a podium, soft music permeating the air. Anthony’s tux blends right in, and thankfully, so does my dress. I’m glad I didn’t go for the red one.
“So?” I ask him. “What’s the charitable cause they’re raising money for?”
He’s quiet for a beat. “I don’t remember.”
Unable to help myself, I laugh. “You were really involved with the planning for this, weren’t you?”
“I had my hands full with all of your dates,” he says.
“Two measly dates took up that much of your time?”
“There was a lot of prep work,” he says. “Takes me hours to get ready for a date.”
My eyebrows rise and then I burst out laughing. His rough, scowling handsomeness is entirely natural. I wondered if he even runs a brush through that thick, dark hair of his. Not that he needs to.
Anthony looks away, but not before I catch a faint tug at his lips. Almost. “Let me get you something to drink. Champagne?”
“Yes, please.”
A few minutes later, the two of us lean against the bar in the corner of the ballroom. He’d opted for a brandy and has a crystal tumbler in hand.
I look out over the crowd of people. Fancy dress. A string quartet. Waiters carrying trays with champagne. Anthony takes a drag of his brandy.
“Not a fan of mingling?” I ask.
He shakes his head. At his height, and so close, the cut of his jaw is sharp. “I can’t stand small talk.”
I grimace. “God, neither can I.”
The sound he makes is skeptical.
“What?” I ask. “You disagree?”
“You’re the definition of someone who loves small talk,” he says. “What do you do with all of your clients? Small talk.”
“Oh, that’s different.”
He turns his torso my way, his dark gaze landing on me. “Is it?”
“Yes. I have a purpose. It’s all about finding out more about the person, never about just making idle chitchat. People reveal a lot when they think they’re saying very little.”
“So you’re a good judge of character.”
“I like to think I am. In my line of work, you certainly have to be. We’re all about the personal touch at Opate.”
Anthony narrows his eyes. “And yet you thought I’d hit it off with that model. Ciara.”
“It was a possibility,” I say, taking a sip of my champagne. “Tell me I’m wrong, though, and that men like you would never enter a dating situation like that.”
He looks at me over the edge of his brandy glass. Something burns in his eyes, but then he relents. “I know men who would have taken the bait,” he admits.
I beam at him in victory. “Right. Before I suggested Ciara, I had no way of knowing which camp you belonged to. And now I do.”
“So it was a reconnaissance date? Your tactics are more refined than I’d expected, Miss Davis.”
“Oh, I have a ton of tricks up my sleeve.”
His gaze drops to my lips, lingering for a second before it falls to the brochure in my hand. “Rainforest conservation,” he says. “That’s the charitable cause.”
“Oh!” I set my now-empty champagne glass down on the bar and open the brochure. “I like that.”
“It’s inoffensive,” he says. “The perfect non-political choice. I’m surprised they didn’t choose orphans or cancer research.”
“Are you always so cynical?”
“Are you never?”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling and open the first page, scanning through the list of items and experiences up for auction. My eyes widen at the starting prices. “You’re really going to bid on these, are you?”
“I’ll have to buy something.”
“It’s all for show?”
“Something like that,” he says, staring out at the crowd again. “We’re four co-owners, and we all should, really. Buying will look good in the papers, not to mention encourage others here to bid, buy and donate.”
“Hmm.” I look through the list, the small print, the images.
“Find anything good?”
“The starting bids are very high,” I say. “I mean, significantly higher than what these things might retail for.”
“The markup is what makes it charity.”
“Well, I suppose so. Oh, I don’t—thank you. Okay,” I say to the waiter, accepting another flute of champagne.
“Read it to me,” Anthony says.
“The brochure?”
“Yes.”
I clear my throat and start from the top. Detailing paintings, jewelry and vacations. A twenty-year-old diamond Cartier watch.
“Christ, they’re asking… I can’t tell you how much they’re asking for this.”
“Try me,” Anthony says.
“Eighty-five thousand dollars.”
“Is it pretty, at least?”
“Yes, it is,” I say, smoothing my finger over the picture. It’s something my aunt would wear, gifted to her by a lover from one of her travels. I’ve never met a more hopeless romantic than my aunt, but she combines it with a shrewd sense of business. I had the one, and was trying to foster the other. “But not eighty-five-thousand-dollar pretty.”
“Think about the rainforest,” he says.
“All those cute monkeys.”
“Exactly.”
“I hope I’m not expected to bid on anything? Oh, there’s a china set here that I could… no. Definitely not.”
Anthony takes a sip of brandy. Is it to hide a tug of his lips?
“Not to mention I wouldn’t dare use it if I paid this much for it,” I say. “Oh God. It has pheasants on it.”
“You’re not a fan of pheasants?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever given them much thought.”
“Tell me,” Anthony says, turning toward me, “what is your favorite fowl, Miss Davis?”
The dry humor in his tone makes me laugh. I hadn’t expected him to have so much of it. “Are you using my own tactic against me? I should add that to the list of prompts we ask potential clients.”
“It would be original.”
“It sure would,” I agree. “You told me to call you Anthony. Doesn’t that mean I’m Summer?”
He leans against the bar beside me, crossing his arms over his chest. Looking back out over the crowd. “Summer,” he agrees.
“Good.” I take another sip of my flute, only to find it near empty. I should slow down. “Are there canapés around here somewhere?”
“They should start serving them soon.”
“Good.”
His voice drops. “Oh, joy.”
I follow the turn of his head to the two approaching men. Similar in height, but one has brown hair, the other light auburn. Both in tuxes. Both coming straight here.
“Friends of yours?” I ask.
“Business parters,” he says, and then, murmured beneath his breath, “and friends.”
I smooth a hand over the dark green silk of my dress. “That’s exciting.”
Anthony has time to shoot a dry look my way before his business partners are upon us.
“Have you seen what’s on offer?” the auburn-haired one says by way of introduction, an arm against the bar. The quick smile on his face makes up for a crooked nose… had it been broken once? “What the hell am I supposed to bid on here? A sixteenth-century French futon?”
“It would liven up your bachelor pad,” the dark-haired one says. His eyes find mine and I can tell he clocks how close Anthony and I are standing.
“Yes, but a futon?”
I clear my throat. “There’s a lovely set of china,” I say. “With a pheasant pattern.”
Anthony snorts at my side, reaching for his glass of brandy. The crystal hides the twitch of his lips.
“China,” the auburn-haired one repeats. “Victor has lost his mind about this whole thing.”
“I’m guessing he has no idea what’s actually being auctioned here tonight. Anthony, why don’t you introduce us to your date?”
He puts down his drink. “Gentlemen, this is Summer Davis. Summer, this is Carter and Tristan. We work together at Acture Capital.”
I shake their hands. Neither of them tries to hide the looks they shoot Anthony. Is it surprise? Shock? Regardless, I give them my widest smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I say. “I’ve heard a lot about the work Acture Capital does.”
“A china expert and a venture capitalist fan?” Carter asks. “Anthony, where did you meet this woman, and can you point me in the same direction?”
“Much like a sixteenth-century French futon,” Anthony says, “Summer is one of a kind.”
I have to smile at that. He’d sidestepped the issue of me working at Opate, hiding it in the guise of a compliment.
“But unlike a sixteenth-century futon, I’m not usually sold at auction,” I add.
All three of them chuckle. “What a shame,” Carter says, putting down his glass. “Should we… oh. It’s showtime.”
A hush settles over the gathered guests as the MC takes the stage, tapping the mic a few times. He introduces the CEO of Exciteur to polite applause and a tall, dark blond man strides across the stage. The illusive fourth partner of Acture Capital. A glance at the brochure gives me his name.
Victor St. Clair.
“Let’s have a seat,” Anthony murmurs by my side. A moment later a large hand rests on the small of my back.
We find seats at the back of the room. His business partners sit two rows ahead, giving us privacy. I wonder if we should have made it clear that it’s not like that between Anthony and me.
The bidding kicks off with an abstract painting no bigger than my hand, by renowned-artist-I’ve-never-heard-of and at a price-too-high-to-comprehend. I sit in awed silence as items and trips are auctioned off at hair-raising prices.
Anthony doesn’t bid on a single one of them.
I lean toward him. His aftershave is pleasant, a hint of pine and musk. “Which one are you waiting for?”
He’s close enough that I can follow the raised arch of his eyebrow. “I’m going to get you your china, of course.”
I grin at the obvious joke. His gaze drops to my lips for a second before returning toward the stage.
“Now time for item number fourteen…” the auctioneer says. “A twenty-four-karat diamond watch from Cartier in the classic Panthéredesign.”
Anthony raises his hand.
I look at him, but he keeps his eyes on the rapidly speaking auctioneer. Two others bid as well, but Anthony’s arm rises another time. Then a third.
By the fourth time, he’s the only one still with his arm up. The price is north of a hundred thousand dollars.
“Sold to Mr. Anthony Winter!” the auctioneer calls to the sound of applause. I just stare at him.
Anthony turns to me. “Well, you recommended it.”
I just blink at him. “It’s a woman’s watch.”
“So it’ll make an excellent gift,” he says, lowering his voice. “Think about the monkeys, Summer.”
“Right. You’re very generous.”
“That’s exactly it,” he says. “And now they’ll all remember it.”
We stroll around the room after the auction, and he supplies me with another glass of champagne. I finally get my hands on some canapés, even if they’re no bigger than a bite. Several guests approach Anthony, and he speaks to them in low, authoritative tones. No small talk and no jokes of the sort he’d exchanged with his business partners.
I drink my champagne and nod and smile to each of them. Toast to rainforest conservation. Drink. Toast to a lovely event. Drink. Toast to the summer weather. Drink.
Anthony’s voice is dry when he finally steers us back toward the bar. “I’m done.”
“You don’t want to network some more?”
“I never want to network again.”
That makes me chuckle. My heel catches in an uneven patch of carpeting and I sway slightly in response.
Anthony’s hand locks around my elbow. “You okay?”
“Yes. That was the carpet.”
“I believe you.”
“But just in case, I don’t think I should have any more champagne.”
“A wise decision.”
We make our way to the exit, his hand on my low back, as he calls his driver to bring the car around. My head swims in the most delicious way. I’m just the perfect amount of tipsy. I’m also hungry.
As soon as we get into the car, I inform Anthony.
He gives a half-amused sigh. He does that a lot, I’ve realized. Rare are the laughs. “You should have had more canapés.”
“Well, I would have, if there were more to go around,” I say.
“Disappointed with them?”
“Yes. Don’t get me wrong, they were tasty. Flavors well-balanced, and I liked the presentation—”
“The caterer is not here to overhear you,” he says.
“—but they were too small. I can’t survive on that alone.”
“What are you getting to eat, then?”
“There’s a place down my street that sells pizza by the slice, or by the… whole? By the pizza? I don’t know what you call an entire pizza. A wheel of pizza?”
The corners of his lips tug in earnest now. “A pie. It’s called a pie of pizza.”
“Oh, that’s a New York expression.”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“That makes sense. You’re smart.”
“So I’ve been told on occasion.”
The Town Car pulls up to a smooth stop outside my building and I can just make out the neon sign of a single slice of pepperoni further down the street. My body has an itch only melted cheese can fix.
Anthony clears his throat. Straightens his shoulders as if he’s retreating inwards.
“Don’t you want pizza too?” I ask him. “You can have a slice or a pie. My treat. As thanks for the evening, not to mention the dresses. You like pizza, don’t you?”
“Yes.” He’s silent for a moment. Then he puts a hand on the front seat and leans forward. “Todd, feel free to take off for the night.”
“Yes, sir.”