"That's exactly it," he says. "And now they'll all remember it."
We stroll around the room after the auction, and he supplies me with another glass of champagne. I finally get my hands on some canapés, even if they're no bigger than a bite. Several guests approach Anthony, and he speaks to them in low, authoritative tones. No small talk and no jokes of the sort he'd exchanged with his business partners.
I drink my champagne and nod and smile to each of them. Toast to rainforest conservation. Drink. Toast to a lovely event. Drink. Toast to the summer weather. Drink.
Anthony's voice is dry when he finally steers us back toward the bar. "I'm done."
"You don't want to network some more?"
"I never want to network again."
That makes me chuckle. My heel catches in an uneven patch of carpeting and I sway slightly in response.
Anthony's hand locks around my elbow. "You okay?"
"Yes. That was the carpet."
"I believe you."
"But just in case, I don't think I should have any more champagne."
"A wise decision."
We make our way to the exit, his hand on my low back, as he calls his driver to bring the car around. My head swims in the most delicious way. I'm just the perfect amount of tipsy. I'm also hungry.
As soon as we get into the car, I inform Anthony.
He gives a half-amused sigh. He does that a lot, I've realized. Rare are the laughs. "You should have had more canapés."
"Well, I would have, if there were more to go around," I say.
"Disappointed with them?"
"Yes. Don't get me wrong, they were tasty. Flavors well-balanced, and I liked the presentation-"
"The caterer is not here to overhear you," he says.
"-but they were too small. I can't survive on that alone."
"What are you getting to eat, then?"
"There's a place down my street that sells pizza by the slice, or by the… whole? By the pizza? I don't know what you call an entire pizza. A wheel of pizza?"
The corners of his lips tug in earnest now. "A pie. It's called a pie of pizza."
"Oh, that's a New York expression."
"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."
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?"