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“Yes, I believe so.”
“That makes sense. You’re smart.”
“So I’ve been told on occasion.”
The Town Car pulls up to a smooth stop outside my building and I can just make out the neon sign of a single slice of pepperoni further down the street. My body has an itch only melted cheese can fix.
Anthony clears his throat. Straightens his shoulders as if he’s retreating inwards.
“Don’t you want pizza too?” I ask him. “You can have a slice or a pie. My treat. As thanks for the evening, not to mention the dresses. You like pizza, don’t you?”
“Yes.” He’s silent for a moment. Then he puts a hand on the front seat and leans forward. “Todd, feel free to take off for the night.”
“Yes, sir.”
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.
