Victor’s quiet for a beat. “You mean Miss Myers?”
“Yes, Miss Myers,” Tristan says dryly. “Your assistant, previously mine.”
“She does good work, I suppose.”
I roll my neck, catching a crick. Last night had been another one with barely any sleep.
Tristan bumps my elbow with his. “Tell us how the matchmaking company is doing. Have you found your ideal woman yet?”
I shake my head. “I still can’t believe I’m the one who got this assignment. Should have never lost that poker game.”
“Well, it’s not like you’re too busy with anything else, are you?” Victor asks, answering emails on his phone. His words are spoken matter-of-factly.
Because it is a fact. I don’t do much else these days, not when I can handle my business from my home office.
“We’re turning it into an app,” I say. “Should have the company turn green in a matter of months.”
“Gutting staff?”
Summer’s face flits through my mind. “No. They have expertise, and they’re a small operation already.”
Tristan nods, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “We’re going global with it, right?”
“Yes.”
“There could be something there. Hosting elite singles parties worldwide.”
“Like the Gilded Room?” I ask.
Tristan frowns at me. He doesn’t like it when I mention his past habits, despite the fact that I’d once accompanied him to one of those parties. Especially not in public. Iknowhe doesn’t like it, yet here I am, needling him.
When did I start wanting to watch the world burn?
“In a way,” Tristan says, lowering his voice. “But more… respectable. An app launch with a purpose.”
“Could work.”
Victor clears his throat. “Are you bringing any family members tonight, Anthony? Your brother?”
I stare at him long enough that he looks up from his phone. Ice-blue eyes are cold as they stare into mine. “That’s a no,” he assumes.
“That’s a no,” I repeat.
He shrugs, returning to his phone. “A shame. Your connections could help us.”
Tristan and I watch in silence as he strides off to the event coordinators. They stand straight as pins when he instructs them on what is doubtless minutiae.
“Remind me,” I say, “why we tolerate him again?”
Tristan sighs. “He brings in a shit-ton of money.”
“It’s almost not worth it.”
“Almost not,” he agrees, and turns so he’s standing by my side. We look out over the ballroom. “I’m glad you’re coming tonight.”
I make a noncommittal sound. Hate that he, too, has started to walk on eggshells around me. It’s bad enough whenever I speak to my parents. Bad because I know it’s not my impending blindness they’re careful not to bruise themselves against, not when they have no idea the thorn is there. It’s my temper they’re wary of.
“Glad you don’t have to spend those fifteen minutes alone, you mean.”