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He’s escorted out by our waiter, another burly man on the other side, his beanie askew.
“Christ,” Anthony mutters when they’re gone.
I lean back in my chair and laugh. Laugh at the idea of him, sitting here in this place, going through the motions.
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.
“I don’t?”
“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.”
“Atrayof olives?”
“A pitcher, then.”
