New York Billionaires Series

“No, I suppose we don’t.”

“Then why not give love a chance? Don’t tell me you don’t believe in it anymore, Summer.” His gaze is daring, but there’s a tiredness beneath it. Like he’s forcing himself to banter.

“I do believe in love,” I say. “But…”

“But what? Is a man working as a delivery guy below your usual standards?”

“No, not at all.”

“So?” He’s taunting me now, an edge in his voice.

“Fine,” I say.This is property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

“Fine?”

“Yes, fine. I’ll ask him out for coffee when he drops by. You’re right.”

Anthony’s gaze widens, but then it crystallizes into his usual aloof hardness. “Great.”

“What of my third and final date?”

“I’ll find you someone for this weekend.”

Anthony leans back in his chair, fingers drumming along the armrest. “Well, look at that. You’ll go out with the delivery guy, and I’ll have my third date, and we’ll see who has the most luck.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He stands. Buttons his suit jacket. “I’m looking forward to the end of our bet.”

“Looking forward to shooting down my third candidate, you mean.”

His eyes flash. “I’ll give her a chance, Summer. I told you I would.”

I don’t for a second think he will. It’s there in his eyes, in his demeanor, so much more abrasive today than it had been last weekend. Had I imagined the friendship between us? Or had he come to the conclusion that it was just as inappropriate as I had?

But it’s no excuse for rudeness. My voice turns to icy professionalism.

“I’ll text you with the details, Mr. Winter.”

“Thank you, Miss Davis.”

Ace’s ears are pulled back as he watches Anthony leave my office. I can only imagine that mine would do the same, if they could.

I don’t know why I pick up the phone that Friday, seeing who’s on the caller ID. Not when the headache pounds behind my eyes and bitterness tastes like ash on my tongue.

“Anthony,” my mother says on the other line. I close my eyes at the censure in her tone.

“Hello,” I say. The obligatory small talk we’re forced to exchange is bothersome, but nothing like the irritation that flares up inside me when she starts on the one subject my family can’t help but discuss.

“Did you receive a Save the Date for Isaac and Cordelia?”

“Yes, I did.”

“It was very well put together, I think. They could have made their names slightly larger, but overall, it was a good card.”

“It was,” I say.

She hears the reluctance in my voice, of course. I haven’t kept my dislike of my brother’s fiancée particularly well hidden, but then again, my moods have lived right beneath my skin ever since the diagnosis.

“You are coming to the wedding, Anthony,” my mother says. It’s not a question. “I know Isaac hasn’t spoken to you about the best man position, but I-”

“He’ll give it to one of his friends. I’m aware.”

A pause. “Well, I know he thinks… as do we all, Anthony, that we’re not quite sure where you are at the moment.”

It’s a delicate way of phrasing my mood swings. My hand tightens around my coffee cup like a drowning man’s around a rope. I know I’m not treating any of them the way they deserve. Not my brother, not my parents. Perhaps not even myself.

“You know I’ll be there, Mom.”

“At the wedding?” Her voice lightens. “Oh, I never doubted you would.”

The well-meaning lie almost makes me smile. As if that isn’t the reason both she and my brother have been contacting me about the wedding.

“That reminds me, Anthony. I saw the Winthorpe girl the other day. Shelby.”

My hand spasms around the coffee cup. “Yeah.”

“She’s engaged now, I heard. To one of Farnham’s boys.”

Ah, yes. It doesn’t surprise me. The lack of pain in my chest at the words does, however. Good for her. She deserves someone who is whole and has a full life ahead of him.

“Wasn’t she lovely? I’m not sure I understand why you let her go.”

She’d been the one to break it off, a month after we learned about my eyesight. And this, right here, is why elite matchmaking is all about prestige. People like my parents, or Shelby’s parents or Cordelia’s or the Farnhams, expect a certain caliber in their children’s partners. The plans are dynastic, the breeding stock carefully vetted.

“We weren’t right for each other,” I say. “Look, I have to go, Mom.”

“Okay. Whatever you need.” She pauses, like she’s not sure she should say what comes next. “We’re having dinner with Isaac and Cordelia tonight at the Montauk house. Would you like to come? You can make it if you drive up now.”

So I’d stopped being invited, too. Once, I’d been included in that sort of thing in the family text group. They probably have a new text group now. One without me.

“Thank you,” I say. “But I have plans tonight.”

For once, it’s not a lie.

“All right, Anthony. Take care.”

“You too. Say hello to Dad for me.”