Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
She’s exactly four minutes late, and somehow the anticipation makes it better. The elevator opens and Andie emerges—a vision who could be on a billboard in Times Square. Golden locks down, barely any makeup, a black wrap dress that could be H&M or could be Valentino, I don’t care. Sky-high heels and a blue raincoat, which she shucks the moment the hostess offers to take it. For a second, she stands at the entrance, scanning the room with a look I recognize: get the lay of the land, decide which wolves are worth worrying about.
She sees me, and her face does a quick micro-expression I can’t decipher—maybe nerves, maybe surprise at seeing me in my natural habitat. Then she walks over, legs long and unhurried, and I swear half the men in the place break their necks to follow her progress.
I rise as she approaches, because that’s what you do in a place like this, but also because I want her to see that I’ve noticed her, that the game is still on. Her smile is genuine and unsure at the same time.
“Hi,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Hi,” I echo. My voice is lower than I intend. I pull out her chair, and she hesitates, then sits, folding herself in with the kind of poise that you either have or you don’t. Obviously, Andie’s a natural.
There’s a beat of awkwardness as I retake my seat. She fiddles with the napkin, then glances out at the city, like she needs to check that it’s still there.
“I’ve never been here,” she says. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I like the view,” I say. “Makes everything below look manageable.”
She smiles sweetly at that, and I catch the glint of mischief that first hooked me. The waiter returns with a wine list and the sort of greeting that could double as an obituary notice. I hand the list to her. “Red or white?”
“White,” she says, not hesitating. “But I’ll let you pick.”
I do, and we order—her, a wild mushroom risotto; me, the rarest ribeye they have, because sometimes the stereotypes are earned. The waiter bows himself away, and we are left in the little bubble of candlelight and cold city noise leaking through the glass.
For a minute, we don’t say anything. I study her, and she studies me back, neither of us willing to cede the initiative.
“You dress different than I expected,” she says finally.
“Should I have worn a suit?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s just—I thought maybe you’d look like a CEO. This is…” She gestures at my open shirt, the blazer, the jeans. “You look like you belong here, like this is home, not like you’re trying to impress anyone.”
“That’s because I’m not,” I say, and it’s true. “Impressing people is a young man’s game.”
She tilts her head, as if weighing that, then leans in just a little. “So what do older men want?”
I smile, slow, and let the silence stretch. “Older men want what they can’t have,” I say, and I don’t look away. The connection between us is electric.
The wine arrives, breaking the moment, and the waiter pours just enough to fog the bottom of her glass. I taste mine, nod, and let him finish the job. Andie sips, then nods, approving. “That’s really good,” she says.
I run my thumb around the rim of my glass, watching her over the edge. “Do you want to ask me how this all started? The board seats, the money, the rest?”
She shrugs, but her eyes are sharp now, alert. “I assume you weren’t born in a suit. Did you always want to be wealthy, or did it just happen to you?”
I laugh, not expecting that. “Neither, really. I wanted to be in control. Money is just a way to keep score.”
She drinks, then props her chin on her hand. “So how did it begin?”
“Fan Day,” I say, and watch for her reaction.
She blinks. “The betting site? That’s you?”
“That’s me,” I say. “I started it in a Century College dorm room, except it wasn’t a prediction site back then. I was failing out of my science requirement, but I could code, so I made a site that was like an on-line poker room for a bunch of my friends. Then, I morphed it to let my friends bet on Vikings games without going to jail. By my junior year, I was running a book for the entire conference. So I was lucky - I got into electronic sports betting from the very beginning.”
She whistles, low. “And now you’re buying Super Bowl commercials? With that movie star?”
I snort. “That’s the actor they hired, but yeah. I wrote every line in those scripts. They kept most of the jokes.”
She grins, and I feel the line between us get shorter, like a drawbridge lowering.
“Don’t get me wrong because it hasn’t been easy. My company was nothing for the first ten years. I worked three jobs—waiter, temp data entry, overnight shifts at a warehouse—just to keep the servers online. But then this angel investor out of Chicago cold-called me, said he liked my ‘moxie’ or something. He flew me out for a meeting, put a check for fifty grand on the table, told me to take it or leave it.”