My nerves are so frazzled that I curse out loud when my phone rings twenty minutes later. The cleaning lady before me in the hotel corridor jumps and I mutter a muffled "sorry" as I pass by. Pick up my phone to turn it off.
And see the name on the screen.
"Oh, hi? Mr. Winter? I hope I'm not calling at a bad time," Summer says.
I force myself to take the edge off my voice. It's not her fault that I'm about to put myself through a charity event in a ballroom filled with strangers.
Despite what I'd said to Victor, it's not impossible that one of my family members will be here. Isaac Winter is the king of schmoozing when he thinks it will benefit my family's hotel empire.
"It's not a bad time. Do you have a date set up for me tonight?" I hope she doesn't. My energy feels strained enough as it is.
"Unfortunately, I don't. I'm so sorry, but I haven't been able to find someone I believe would be a good match. I know I waited too long to let you know, but I had hopes for one last client… but no. I apologize, Mr. Winter."
"Well, stop," I say. It comes out rougher than I'd meant it. "It's all right."
She breathes a sigh of relief and I feel like an asshole. An asshole for going through this charade when she won't win the bet.
But then her voice slips into a teasing note, soft through the phone. "Trying to strike the right balance between serious and silly with you is difficult."
"I imagine I'm not the easiest client you've ever had."
Summer laughs on the other line. "No, I can't say you are. But you're not the most difficult either."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Well," she admits, "you're among them, but not the worst, no."
"Yet."
"Yet," she agrees. "Are you really sure you'll be all right without a date to your event tonight?"
A wicked idea takes form. One I shouldn't speak out loud. But the interaction with Tristan has put me on edge, on a day where I'm already dancing with my demons. Why not add one more? "I'm not sure, Miss Davis. You did promise me a date, and so I haven't set up one on my own. But there is a way you could make it up to me."
"You could take her place tonight."
Complete silence on the other line.
"Mr. Winter, I'm not sure if that would… I mean. Huh." A cleared throat. "What is this event?"
"It's a charity auction, hosted by Exciteur Consulting at the Halycon Hotel. There will be canapés. An open bar."
Her chuckle sounds nervous. "An open bar?"
"Is that a key selling point?"
"No. If I go, Mr. Winter…"
"Anthony."
"Anthony," she repeats, her voice soft. "It wouldn't absolve either of us from the bet. I'd still be looking for a third perfect date for you."
"I wouldn't expect anything less from you."
Her voice strengthens. "Okay, then. I'll go. It'll be professional, right?"
Her fears make sense, and I curse myself for being another form of asshole, too. Three for three. It really isn't my day, and it's not even noon yet.
"Yes. You work at Opate Match, Summer. I'm not asking anything more than some company at a function."
"I'll be there," she says. "Will you text me the address?"
"I'll pick you up," I say, my strides lengthening as I head through the lobby. Back out to the beckoning New York streets, the place I'd grown up, and the city that would one day become a deadly obstacle course for me.
"You don't have to-"
"I'm the one asking you for a favor," I say. The words flow easily, following a script I'd once known intimately. "Let me send a couple of dresses over to your apartment."
"Mr. Winter, I can't possibly accept that."
"I'm the one who asked you," I say. For someone who worked at a matchmaking company priding itself on catering to the elite, she seems unaware of its trappings. "I'd do the same for any woman I'd personally invited to a function."
"Okay then," she murmurs. "I'll text you my address."
"And your dress size."
"Um, yes. Okay."
We click off the call and I find my feet steering me in the opposite direction of my apartment, toward Bergdorf Goodman. I'd meant to make a phone call. Tell them to pick out three dresses.
The way I'd often done for Shelby, once. She'd always liked it when I did that.
But I'd never set foot in the store myself. Savoring the light of the New York summer sun on my face, illuminating the world to a brilliance that makes my eyesight feel normal again, I wonder why I hadn't.
Picking out the colors and shapes that would look good on Summer doesn't seem like a nuisance at all.
When I come home, there's a delivery man waiting outside my apartment building, shifting from foot to foot like he's waiting for the chance to bolt.
"Do you live here?" he asks, hoisting up three garment bags on his arm.
"I do, yes. And I-"
"Do you know who Summer Davis is?"
"That's me, actually."
He breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank God. This place doesn't have a doorman or a concierge."
"No, it doesn't. Oh, all right. Thanks?" I accept the parcels, and as I recognize one of the designer names on a box, my stomach nearly drops out beneath me. Apparently this is just what Anthony Winter does when he invites a woman to an event.