"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.
I sink down onto the couch opposite her. Pop open my own pizza box. As I chew, my gaze travels around her living room. I make out an elephant lamp in the corner. A heap of books un-organized on a shelf. A homemade throw in varying colors.
"You're inspecting," she tells me. "I can see it."
"Inspecting?"
"Oh, yes. Making judgements, too, I'm guessing."
I raise a pizza slice her way. "It's not like you to be suspicious."
She laughs. "I'm just realistic."
"You don't need to worry. I'm not an interior designer."
"No, you're a venture capitalist. Which means you're a little of everything, aren't you? You wear a lot of hats." Summer props up a pillow behind her head and leans back. She looks like a mischievous goddess, a model divine, in her silk dress and gleaming eyes. The blonde hair is a tumble of curls around her shoulders. "Actually, have you ever worn a hat? I think you'd look good in one."
I shake my head. "You've had a lot more champagne than I realized."
"I'm not drunk."
"Sure you're not."
"I'm just… elevated by the juice of the grape."
I raise my eyebrows and she laughs. "I read that in an article once. Isn't it a great way to say drunk?"
"Sure. It's also six words too long."
Summer laughs. "You have a lot more humor than I thought the first time I met you."
"Well, I'm glad I can surprise you."
She smiles and grabs another slice of pizza. I take a bite of my own and breathe in the comfortable silence. It's been a long time since I sat like this with anyone. Despite the charity auction, despite the meaningless fucking small talk I'd had to engage in, the pressure behind my eyes is absent.
A good day, in the middle of a bad year.
"So," Summer says.
I raise an eyebrow. "So?"
"This wasn't your official third date or anything. The bet is still on. But if it were, how did I do?"
"You want a performance review?"
Her smile flashes again. "Yes. A debrief, like we've done before. What did you think of the client I fixed you up with tonight?"
I turn my face to the windows and the darkness beyond. The pathway to effortless conversation feels rusty. "She was serious when she needed to be. Silly when she could."
"A good mix of the two?"
"Yes, I'd say so."
Summer gives a low whoop of victory, startling Ace, lying beside her on the couch.
I roll my eyes at her. "I'm not that difficult to please."
"Sure you're not," she says, but she's smiling. "What else?"
"Is this a debrief, or are you fishing for compliments?"
"A debrief. I only have one date left to convince you that Opate Match, a business you believed in enough to buy, by the way, is based on a sound business idea."
"Oh," I say, "I know your business idea is sound. I just don't think it's the same one as you do."
"Right, because I think it's to help people find love, and you think it's… remind me again?" She stretches her legs out on the couch, long and elegant. "Arranged marriages for the elite?"
I snort. "I know that's what it's for. People who want to find a partner for status or prestige, rather than an actual relationship. Can you honestly tell me you don't have clients like that? Ones who'd decline to go on a date with anyone who earned less than a six-figure income?"
Summer takes another bite and looks at her dog, burying her fingers in his fur. "They exist, sure. But on the whole… I don't see it that way at all. These people come with their own set of difficulties. Some can't even date in public-we've had a few famous people as clients, actually. Others are older and wealthy and want to meet an equal, but it's harder to trust when money comes in the way. It's true that some come to us with a shopping list of criteria. But…" Summer's face softens, her voice growing warm.
"All that melts away when two clients like each other, when we've found a good match. Those are the best debriefs. I'll talk to both of them after their first couple of dates and it's there in their voice. The excitement, the nerves, and suddenly the preferences they thought were important don't matter anymore. The only thing they can see is the person in front of them. It's beautiful."
Her gaze returns to mine, and the joy in her eyes is real. "Anyway, I love my job. You're free to consider me a hopeless romantic."
"I do," I say, looking away from her. The old rancor burns in my chest. It's been a long time since I believed in anything like that. I doubt I ever truly have.
"I have a question for you," she says.
I force my voice to lighten. "I'm not answering any more of those prompts."
"It's not a prompt, I swear."
"I don't believe you."
"It's something completely different."
I lean back on the couch and drink her in with my gaze. The teasing smile. The warm eyes. "Fine. What is it?"
"Why don't you believe in true love?"
I groan, staring up at the ceiling.
"It wasn't a prompt!"
"It might as well be."