New York Billionaires Series

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?”Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

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?

Suzy leans against her desk, arms moving as she describes her weekend. It was filled to the brim with excitement, just as usual, and a complete contrast to mine.

“Ivory wasn’t packed at all this time,” she says. “Are you sure you don’t want to come along this weekend? There are a ton of great guys there.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “Last time was enough.”

She shakes her head. “It’s a great place to meet guys. That’s where Chase and I met.”

“The DJ, right?”

She brightens. “The very one!”

Truthfully, Suzy dates more than I can keep track of. She moved here two years ago and threw herself into crafting her dream New York life with enviable enthusiasm. Her social media is full of cocktails on rooftops.

She looks down at Ace, his head in her lap. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Of course you can.”