New York Billionaires Series

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Her voice is interesting. Deep and soft, but with a distinct bubbliness to it.

“I hope you’ve found someone better this time,” I tell her.

“I won’t respond to that,” she says primly. “Isabelle is terrific, as are all of our clients. Some people simply don’t work together.”

And some people don’t work together with anyone. “Right.”

“Are you free Thursday for lunch?” she asks. “I think this one will be good.”

Why am I putting myself through this charade? I should say no, but the sound of her voice and this inane scheme is something, anything, to soothe my restlessness.

“Yes, I’ll meet your candidate.”

“Her name is Ciara,” she says. “Do you want to go into this blind, or with a bit of information?”

I grit my teeth. “Not blind, if I can help it.”

“All righty. She’s twenty-three and a model. Originally from Georgia, but has been in New York for the past few years.”

“Twenty-three?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No, I suppose it’s not.”

“She suggested a Japanese place for lunch. Is that acceptable?”

It had been a long time since I’d rotated Japanese food into my takeout schedule. “Yes.”

She breathes a sigh of relief, as if she’d expected me to be prickly about that. “Okay, good.”

“I suppose you’ll want me to come to the office afterwards,” I say. “For the debrief?”

Summer’s voice is pleased. “That’s right. It’s such an important part of the process for us.”

Meeting with this model would be… well. It’d be quick. And then I’d get to see Summer flustered again, her hopeless romantic idea of this job fighting against the facts she saw sitting right in front of her.

Me.

“I’ll see you then,” she says. “I’ll email you the restaurant details. And Anthony?”

My eyes drift closed at the sound of my name. “Yes?”

“I don’t want you to self-sabotage again.”

Here, where she can’t see me, I smile at her pointless optimism. “I won’t.”

As if anything I do could make my life worse.

I keep my promise not to self-sabotage.

I can’t, however, say the same for Ciara. She sits in front of me like she considers herself a piece of art to be worshipped, a woman who measures her worth in gold. Where Isabelle had been interested in having a conversation, Ciara’s focus is on seduction.

She rests her head in her hands and blinks in slow, deliberate movements that sweeps dark lashes over pale cheeks. It has to be a good day for my vision, then, if I can make out these details. And I’m wasting it by looking at her.

“Anthony Winter,” she says, like she’s testing the flavor of my name. It’s the third time she’s said it. “Why does that sound familiar?”

I put down my chopsticks. The food is good, and the restaurant is well-lit. It’s a shame the company is so poor. “It shouldn’t.”

“And yet it does.” Another slow blink, before her face shifts into a teasing, charming smile. “I’ll figure you out.”

“I doubt it.”

Her smile falters only for a second. In a top that shows off her midriff and a designer bag she insists on keeping on her lap as we eat, she returns to her sashimi. “I love Japanese food.”

“It’s great, yes.”

“I was in Tokyo recently, for Fashion Week. Pretty stressful, but… you know. Comes with the job. I work as a model.” The look in her eye makes it clear this is when I’m to be impressed. That I’m to make an overture of some sort. Fawn, perhaps. Or let my gaze rake down her body like she’d done twice to me already, the second more brazen than the first.

I do neither.

She asks me where I live less than halfway through the date. While she just nods and comments nice when I tell her, there’s a glint in her eyes at the words Upper East Side. Makes several comments about looking for stability, for a man who provides.

I pay the check and leave her without more than a polite take care of yourself, but despite my lukewarm interest, she insists on hugging me. My distaste notches up another level. At her. At myself, too, for putting myself in this position.

I’m not particularly gentle in extricating myself from her arms. Ciara has confirmed every single one of my suspicions about Opate Match and their clientele. Like so often when you market something for the elite, this is what you get. Shallowness and superficiality. Certainly not true love.

This was who Summer Davis thought I’d want?

I’m not set to return to Opate Match until tomorrow, but my feet carry me there regardless, and I open the office door with more force than needed. The lights in the reception are dimmed. Once you start noticing how rarely places are well-lit, it’s all you see. Or in my case, it means you can see even less.

The receptionist looks up at me with wide eyes. “Mr. Winter. If you’re here to see Vivienne, you just missed her. She’s at a client meeting uptown, I’m afraid.”

“Miss Davis?”

“She’s here, and she just finished with a client. Do you want me to… oh.” Her voice trails off as I reach the closed door to Summer’s office. Knock twice.

“Come in!” she calls.

I push the door open. Her drapes are completely pulled back and with that amount of natural light, it’s easy to make out the surprise on her face. The sunshine gilds her blonde hair, falling in waves over her shoulders. Yes, I think. Today really is good day, because I can even make out the shade of blue in her eyes.Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

“Mr. Winter. Back from your date?”

“I see,” she says. “Judging from your expression, I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”

I pull the chair out opposite her and sit down, crossing my arms over my chest. “Oh, I think it went as well as could be expected.”

Her eyes narrow, as if she’s expecting a trap. “How well was that?”