New York Billionaires Series

He raises the third beer to me. I raise mine in response, feeling the pleasant buzz of alcohol in my head. “To friends,” he says.

“To friends,” I agree. Keep my eyes on his as we both drink. My stomach flips once, twice. “That reminds me, actually. Is it odd to be friends with your boss?”

“I’m not technically your boss,” he says, voice deepening. “Your aunt is.”

“That’s true. I haven’t told her, by the way. Not about our initial bet and not that I was your date. Perhaps we shouldn’t be spending time together like this, but…” I shrug and look up at him. Give him a smile.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Summer.”

“I don’t?”

“No. I’m not out to ruin your aunt’s business. I won’t say a word to her about the bet, or that we apparently go to beer tastings together. And I will only give you chocolate in hermetically sealed bags.”

I laugh at that, and his mouth softens. Curls up into a half-smile.

“Will you tell me something?” I ask.

“I know better than to indulge you.”

“I won’t ask you about your first kiss or where you’d like to get married. No prompts this time.”

“Thank God.”

“But I am curious. Why do you want to be friends with me?” I hold up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely terrific. But it does seem like someone with your connections could walk into any room and be welcome.”

“I could say the same of you,” he says. “You smile at absolutely everyone, Summer. Have you noticed that?”

My fingers tighten around the pint of lager in front of me. “I hadn’t, no.”

“I gave you no reason to, but you still wanted to get to know me.” Anthony looks from me to the crowded bar, watching the waiter weave between parties. His jaw works once. “So I’m the one who should ask you that question. Why you want to be friends with me.”

“You’re funny,” I tell him. “Perhaps you don’t think you are, but that’s the truth. You’re very difficult to predict, too.”

His gaze returns to me. Eyes narrowed, but not in anger. In thought. I’ve learned to recognize the signs now. “You have no expectations of me,” he says.

“Very few, if so. Or if you do, they’re different. All those people in the hypothetical room you mentioned? They would expect me to be one thing or the other. They all did, when we were at the charity auction.”

“And I don’t.” Slowly, a smile stretches across my face.

“And you don’t,” he says. Tugs at the collar of his sweater. “No need to look smug about it.”

My grin widens.

“Drink your beer,” he mutters, but he’s smiling down at the table. “We’ll be getting our last one soon.”

“Mmm. You know, it’s dangerous to have a beer tasting without offering us any food. Nothing, not even a little bowl of pretzels or a tray of olives.”

“A tray of olives?”

“A pitcher, then.”

“You’re losing it,” he says.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“A trough,” I suggest.

“A cylinder,” he adds, but then shakes his head. “We’ve lost it.”

I feel like I’m breaking inside, but in the best possible way, like a layer of ice shattering and thawing. “That’s why we should have had food with this. We would have been so much better with words if we had.”

“You’re tipsy again.”

“You’re not?” I ask, looking at him over the rim of my beer glass. “I get that you have a higher tolerance than me, but come on.”

“I’m not tipsy,” he says. “I have at least a foot of height on you, not to mention I drink more often.”

“Hey, you don’t know what I do in my spare time.”

“I know enough to be sure it’s not downing beers like there’s no tomorrow. Careful there, shorty. I’ll finish the last of your final beer.”

“How self-sacrificing,” I say.

“That’s me. Noble to the core.”

Anthony, the sneaky bastard, pays while I’m in the ladies’ room. He listens to my protests with half a smile, shoving his wallet into the pocket of his dark slacks. “You have to be quicker around me, Summer.”

“Next time,” I warn him.

“I’ll be on alert.” He opens the front door and I step into the mid-summer warmth. The air is humid, but the heat of the day has softened, pleasant now.

“We forgot our scorecards!”

He chuckles. “How will we be possibly go on in life?”

“But I liked that second beer. The one from the little brewery in Montana. What was it called?”

“Green Eagle Ale.”

“That’s it,” I say, snapping my fingers. “I’m going to have to get a keg of that.”

“A keg? Summer, how much beer do you usually drink?”

“Honestly?”

“I’d prefer it, yes.”

I laugh and he slips a hand down my back, steering me around a streetlamp that suddenly, and quite rudely, appears in my way. “I don’t drink a lot of beer at all. It’s not really my favorite.”

He’s silent for what feels like forever as we walk down the street to my apartment.