The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(53)
Anjalee pointed to the monitor as numbers flew by. “That’s how fast your world is going to change. Buckle up, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”
“I’m just a coder, I solve problems,” Greta said, shaking her head. “Dating has always been such a riddle. I was really just trying to solve it. To improve my anemic track record with fellow humans of the opposite sex, or any sex, really. I guess I didn’t realize I was…”
“Creating a cultural phenomenon?” Anjalee asked. “Positioning us as one of the most desirable start-ups to be acquired in a mega buyout? For someone who doesn’t date, you’ve given Syren a dozen corporate suitors. Also, investment bankers will be lining up around the block for your hand in marriage, or merger, or some combination.”
“I’m… just…,” Greta stammered. “I’m just stunned, I guess.”
Anjalee led her down the hall, which was flanked by floor-to-ceiling portraits of Simone de Beauvoir, Betty Friedan, Angela Davis, and Yoko Ono. They breezed past the programmers’ bullpen, where forty women stood and clapped, then up the stairs to the loft where the executives worked. She pointed toward a corner office. “That’s yours now. We’re setting you up with a publicist and we’ll get you some media training so you’re more comfortable doing on-camera interviews. Oh, and there’s one other thing.”
“There’s more?”
“There’s a handsome young man waiting for you in your office. He came early and has been here all morning.” Anjalee smiled coyly, her eyes seeming to twinkle with mischief. “I’m going back to my corner, but I expect a full report.”
Greta closed her eyes and suppressed a groan as she remembered her meddling, overeager, boundary-oblivious parents fixing her up with a total stranger and how she’d been tempted to go through his file, his résumé, his family history, but in the end, she left it unread. She shook her head as she took the papers out of her messenger bag and tossed them into a recycling bin.
There’s no way I’m falling for this.
Even though the photo of Sam briefly carbonated her hormones, showing up early, hanging around her work, was inappropriate at best and creeptastic at worst.
Greta shook her head as she stood outside of her new office.
She liked the idea of a new space, even though it probably had a sweeping view of Puget Sound, the Olympic Mountains, and her ennui. She chewed her lip as she pictured opening the door, meeting Sam, someone she would be socially awkward with in two languages, two cultures. She readied her pretend smile, preparing to thank him for his interest and graciously show him the way out while saying, “See you later,” when what she actually meant was See you never and I’m going to murder my parents.
Greta gathered her courage and politeness as the silhouette of someone in a dark blue suit, with dark hair, moved behind the frosted glass.
She opened the door and saw the man staring out her new window, appraising the view. She cleared her throat and said, “Hey, I know our parents mean well, but…”
He slowly turned around.
Instead of the man in the photo, it was the man she’d spent the last year avoiding. The silent partner who had been footing the bill for this view, this building, her salary, and all her hard work. Syren’s mysterious angel investor. He looked boyish, with a precocious innocence, something the magazine articles celebrating his success were quick to build upon. He was shorter too.
“You must be Greta. I’m so sorry for intruding like this. I know this is your new office, but considering you haven’t moved in yet, I hoped you wouldn’t mind.” He looked back out the window. “Sometimes sunrises demand to be seen and appreciated. Just like special people.” He turned back to her. “I’m Carter Branson. I’m in your debt for turning my modest endowment into something, well, absolutely spectacular.” He offered his hand, which was warm and soft, holding on for a beat too long as he smiled at her with knowing eyes. “I wanted to meet you so I could personally show my appreciation and pledge my continued support for your incredible…” He cocked his head and squinted as though solving a complicated math equation. “It’s more of a social experiment, isn’t it?”
Greta froze. She heard the rumors. The whisper campaign about Carter’s executive assistant inviting new staffers—young, slender, and fit—to dinners, pool parties, or meetings that involved heels by Christian Louboutin, lingerie by Honey Birdette, and jets by Lear. There was also the hushed speculation about what happened to their CEO, who went on a trip to London with Carter and never came back. The gossip was that she was living in the San Juans, on some luxurious private island, or she was inpatient in Costa Rica, recovering—her silence bought off by lawyers and PR flacks. No one knew for sure, only that she’d been gone a long time.
“It’s human algebra,” Greta said. “People are abstractions.”
They stared at each other as a police siren wailed in the distance, quickly fading.
“I’d like to hear more about your theories—how you think. Would you indulge my curiosity and let me take you to dinner tomorrow night?” He smiled innocently, with a hint of bashfulness, as though he were a nervous schoolboy, afraid of rejection. Instead of a man who had rung the opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange, hired Elton John to play his thirtieth-birthday party, and dined with two presidents.