Saved By the Boss by Olivia Hayle

8

Anthony

Buying a pepperoni pizza wasn’t part of the plan for tonight. Neither was following Summer Davis up the stairs to her Soho condo. My body is wired tight, needles beneath my skin from the pointless networking I’d been forced to engage in. But my feet take me forward. Following the gold of her hair up the dimly lit stairwell.

Fuck, this is such a dumb idea. Like putting my hand to the flame or walking out on a tightrope. Challenging the demons to a duel in front of an employee… and it’s Summer, nonetheless.

“This is my place.” Her voice is just as cheerful as usual, made softer around the edges by the champagne. Her hair has slipped over her shoulder, revealing silky skin. “Do you have the pizzas?”

“I haven’t dropped them yet.”

She laughs and pushes open her apartment door. I step in after her into the darkness and stub my toe against a step. Bite down my lip to hide the curse.

“God, they smell good. Let me get the lights… here we go. Oh, hello, buddy.”

I blink at the infusion of warm, beautiful light. Her place is small and cluttered, a frayed oriental rug thrown over hardwood floors. Two large couches take up most of the space, relegating a tiny kitchenette to the corner. An old chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

“Yes, we have a visitor,” Summer is telling her dog. “And he’s in a really nice, really well-fitted tux. So no jumping.”

I glance down at my clothes. Well-fitted? “Where do you want the pizzas?”

“I’ll grab them. Have a seat, why don’t you? I’ll get us something to drink…” Summer tosses her clutch on the tiny kitchen counter and opens her minifridge. “Do you want… water? Or juice?”

I run the back of my hand over my mouth to hide my smile. “Water, thanks.”

“Yes, I suppose that wasn’t much of a decision, was it?” Her voice drops to a soft muttering. “Here I am offering you juice, like we’re twelve and having a sleepover.”

A cold nose bumps against my hand. Two baleful, serious eyes look up at me, a tail wagging softly.

I know, I think. No sleepovers. You don’t have to remind me.

Her dog sinks down onto his haunches and abandons me in favor of his owner. She hands me one of the pizza boxes and curls up on one of her sofas, kicking off her heels. Stretches out her bare legs on the linen.

“There’s nothing like a bit of post-champagne pizza,” she declares and opens the lid. The scent of mozzarella and pepperoni fills the small room. I shouldn’t be here, surrounded by all of her things, her warmth, her life. Basking in her casual ease. Galling her optimism.

“Are you going to eat standing up?” she asks.

“You never let me off the hook, do you?”

“I just want you to feel at home.”

The words are effortless, spoken around a bite of pizza. This is a woman with friends, with a life, and to her there’s nothing unusual about what we’re doing.

I sink down onto the couch opposite her. Pop open my own pizza box. As I chew, my gaze travels around her living room. I make out an elephant lamp in the corner. A heap of books un-organized on a shelf. A homemade throw in varying colors.

“You’re inspecting,” she tells me. “I can see it.”

“Inspecting?”

“Oh, yes. Making judgements, too, I’m guessing.”

I raise a pizza slice her way. “It’s not like you to be suspicious.”

She laughs. “I’m just realistic.”

“You don’t need to worry. I’m not an interior designer.”

“No, you’re a venture capitalist. Which means you’re a little of everything, aren’t you? You wear a lot of hats.” Summer props up a pillow behind her head and leans back. She looks like a mischievous goddess, a model divine, in her silk dress and gleaming eyes. The blonde hair is a tumble of curls around her shoulders. “Actually, have you ever worn a hat? I think you’d look good in one.”

I shake my head. “You’ve had a lot more champagne than I realized.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m just… elevated by the juice of the grape.”

I raise my eyebrows and she laughs. “I read that in an article once. Isn’t it a great way to say drunk?”

“Sure. It’s also six words too long.”

Summer laughs. “You have a lot more humor than I thought the first time I met you.”

“Well, I’m glad I can surprise you.”

She smiles and grabs another slice of pizza. I take a bite of my own and breathe in the comfortable silence. It’s been a long time since I sat like this with anyone. Despite the charity auction, despite the meaningless fucking small talk I’d had to engage in, the pressure behind my eyes is absent.

A good day, in the middle of a bad year.

“So,” Summer says.

I raise an eyebrow. “So?”

“This wasn’t your official third date or anything. The bet is still on. But if it were, how did I do?”

“You want a performance review?”

Her smile flashes again. “Yes. A debrief, like we’ve done before. What did you think of the client I fixed you up with tonight?”

I turn my face to the windows and the darkness beyond. The pathway to effortless conversation feels rusty. “She was serious when she needed to be. Silly when she could.”

“A good mix of the two?”

“Yes, I’d say so.”

Summer gives a low whoop of victory, startling Ace, lying beside her on the couch.

I roll my eyes at her. “I’m not that difficult to please.”

“Sure you’re not,” she says, but she’s smiling. “What else?”

“Is this a debrief, or are you fishing for compliments?”

“A debrief. I only have one date left to convince you that Opate Match, a business you believed in enough to buy, by the way, is based on a sound business idea.”

“Oh,” I say, “I know your business idea is sound. I just don’t think it’s the same one as you do.”

“Right, because I think it’s to help people find love, and you think it’s… remind me again?” She stretches her legs out on the couch, long and elegant. “Arranged marriages for the elite?”

I snort. “I know that’s what it’s for. People who want to find a partner for status or prestige, rather than an actual relationship. Can you honestly tell me you don’t have clients like that? Ones who’d decline to go on a date with anyone who earned less than a six-figure income?”

Summer takes another bite and looks at her dog, burying her fingers in his fur. “They exist, sure. But on the whole… I don’t see it that way at all. These people come with their own set of difficulties. Some can’t even date in public—we’ve had a few famous people as clients, actually. Others are older and wealthy and want to meet an equal, but it’s harder to trust when money comes in the way. It’s true that some come to us with a shopping list of criteria. But…” Summer’s face softens, her voice growing warm.

“All that melts away when two clients like each other, when we’ve found a good match. Those are the best debriefs. I’ll talk to both of them after their first couple of dates and it’s there in their voice. The excitement, the nerves, and suddenly the preferences they thought were important don’t matter anymore. The only thing they can see is the person in front of them. It’s beautiful.”

Her gaze returns to mine, and the joy in her eyes is real. “Anyway, I love my job. You’re free to consider me a hopeless romantic.”

“I do,” I say, looking away from her. The old rancor burns in my chest. It’s been a long time since I believed in anything like that. I doubt I ever truly have.

“I have a question for you,” she says.

I force my voice to lighten. “I’m not answering any more of those prompts.”

“It’s not a prompt, I swear.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s something completely different.”

I lean back on the couch and drink her in with my gaze. The teasing smile. The warm eyes. “Fine. What is it?”

“Why don’t you believe in true love?”

I groan, staring up at the ceiling.

“It wasn’t a prompt!”

“It might as well be.”

“I don’t mean to pry.”

“Sure you don’t,” I say, but there’s a smile in my voice. Even I can hear it.

A second later and I’m hit squarely in the chest by one of the colorful throw pillows. I look over at Summer. She’s staring back at me with a gaze that’s half shocked, half challenging.

“Sorry,” she says. “That didn’t hurt, did it?”

Hah. My hand curls around the pillow, hurling it back at her.

She dodges it easily and breaks into laughter. Ace gives a single, low bark of surprise beside her.

“Is this how you treat your clients when they won’t respond to your questions?” I ask. “No wonder Opate Match is in dire straits.”

“I don’t have pillows in my office,” she says. Crosses one smooth leg over the other and shoots me a triumphant look. “You’re avoiding the question, which is fine.”

I push away my half-eaten pizza and lean forward. “How can you believe so strongly in it?”

“In true love?”

I nod. It’s almost like we’re in her office, talking about something rational and not here, in her home at midnight, discussing love over pizzas. I should leave.

I don’t.

Summer sighs, and it sounds like music. “My parents have the perfect relationship,” she says. “They work together, yet they never argue. Or rather, when they do, it ends in laughter because they both realize how ridiculous they are.” Her hand traces the curve of Ace’s head beside her on the couch. The dog looks like he’s in bliss.

“They’ve gone through a lot, too. They had problems having children, and I was always destined to be an only child, but that only knitted them closer together. My dad bought my mom her dream house a few years back and they spend their weekends renovating. It’s like they’re a newlywed couple.”

“You miss them,” I murmur.

“Yes. I love living in the city, but it’s far away from them,” she says with a smile. Shakes her head. “Anyway, that’s why I believe in true love. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

Such honesty, it makes my chest tight. She’d answered my question without censure or artifice. Like I’m an actual friend.

“Your tactic worked. You avoided the question yourself.”

“That,” I say, raising a hand, “is because I know the way you work, Summer. You’ll use my answers to win the bet.”

“I’m not that clever,” she says. “How was your pizza?”

“Delicious.”

“You got the pepperoni, right?”

“Yes.”

She throws her legs off the couch. “Do you still have any left?”

“Several slices.”

Summer pads across the oriental rug on bare feet and sinks down beside me on the couch. She pushes thick, blonde hair back and opens the pizza carton. “It’s not that I’m unhappy with my choice of only buying two slices,” she says.

“Right.”

“But these just look so good.”

“Have one.”

“If I do, will you tell me I should have gotten more than just two myself?”

“I would never,” I say gravely.

She smiles as she pulls out a slice of pepperoni and takes a big bite. The smooth skin of her shoulder looks golden beneath the lights, her legs are only inches from mine. “That’s deeeelicious.”

There’s a roaring in my head, one that rises to a deafening level when she turns her head toward me.

“How did you describe me to your personal shopper?” she asks. “All three of the dresses fit perfectly.”

The true answer has no business being spoken aloud. That I’d picked them out myself, held the fabric up and pictured her form in them.

“Anthony?” she asks.

I push up from the couch and turn away, looking at the obvious coziness of her apartment. Sitting next to her on a couch is more temptation than I can bear.

Two pieces of paper pinned to one of her walls give me a convenient excuse. I step closer, like I’m examining them. Waiting for the pounding in my blood to abate.

“Oh, that,” Summer says with a sigh. “You’re seeing my whole life’s plan right there. Promise me you won’t judge?”

I can barely make out what the list says in the dim lighting. “I won’t judge.”

“I wrote it about a year ago. I had… well. I’d just gone through a really bad break-up, and it struck me that I had to go after what I wanted, or it wouldn’t happen. Life is short.” The scent of her perfume washes over me and she’s standing right beside me. Soft and warm and light. “So I made a bucket list.”

Fuck my worthless eyes in this lighting, because I can’t make out more than a few letters, it’s printed with such small font. There’s nothing standing in the way of me learning more about Summer, other than my own inadequacy.

Oh, the irony.

“They’re not very big things,” she admits, sounding almost shy. “Try windsurfing. Learn how to horseback ride. But some are, I guess. I’d like to travel to all fifty states.”

I nod, taking a step toward the front door. “It’s good to have goals.”

“It is.” Summer rocks back on her heels, looking up at me. “Hearing some of your bucket list goals would help me, you know. To get to know you better.”

“That’s a much better prompt than asking if I’m a cat or dog person.”

“It’s on the list, too,” she says with a smile. “Won’t you at least give me one teeny, tiny goal?”

“You never give up, do you?”

“Getting to know you better is my life’s mission.”

It’s an exaggeration, a joke at best. So it doesn’t make me panic. If anything, it makes me…

No.

It’s time for me to go now.

“Thank you for tonight,” I tell her. “For accompanying me to the auction.”

“It was my pleasure,” she says, and the softness of her voice makes it seem like she genuinely means it. Like I hadn’t coerced her through the bet.

I reach for the doorknob and speak with my back to her. There’s no reason to say anything more, and I don’t know where I find the words. “Whitewater rafting,” I say. “That’s one of my goals.”