Behind the Glass

ANYA

The Flatiron at seven sat like an argument between glass and gravity—hard edges softened by a caramel dusk that turned concrete almost gentle. My corner office collected those minutes: floor-to-ceiling windows, a stubborn snake plant in a brass pot, a row of Moleskines labeled by quarter like a militant library. I stood at my sit‑stand desk, slide deck open and polite in its rows of numbers. Numbers were useful; they were facts you could fold into a story. I needed the story.

I wore my white silk blouse because it worked the way a good brief did. Slate trousers did their unfairly competent thing, and my white sneakers were quiet defiance—clean enough to irritate my mother, practical enough to pass investor muster.

The calendar pinged: Founders Dinner — plus-ones encouraged. The words sat on my screen like a dare.

Jo barged in with a hurricane’s energy and a tray of Korean food, steam fogging the window into something domestic. Her eyeliner could cut a contract. She dropped into the chair, peeled the paper off a tteokbokki container, and said, “You need a buffer.”

“A what?”

“Someone cute. Someone who can take ‘Do you even sleep?’ and return it with a grin. You look like a woman who sleeps on spreadsheets; we need optics that say you have a life. A plus‑one makes you look less like a project and more like a package people can buy.”

“I was thinking maybe a Roomba,” I said. “Dependable, obedient, no baggage.”

She snatched my phone and pulled up my daily coffee photo—Camellia Café sunlight, a cortado with a leaf-heart, and across the sleeve in Sharpie: You’re doing great. — Kieran.

Jo’s eyebrows lifted. “This is a start.”

“No,” I said, already losing the argument in my head. “I’m not hiring a barista to be my boyfriend.”

“Temporary theater,” she said. “He looks stable, deflects pity, answers intrusive questions with charm. Hand-holding only. We put it in writing. Contract. Boundaries. Insurance. I’ll vet him—LinkedIn, Insta, one mutual. If he’s clean, we draw up a brief.”

I hated that she was right. “Two minutes,” I said, chopsticks hovering.

She scrolled, stopped, and handed the phone back like a verdict. “Camellia’s corkboard photo. I’ll call the owner if you want.” She read the Sharpie again. The name slid across the room like an invitation.

I typed, half joke, half contingency:

Anya: Hi, it’s Anya from BloomLoop. Random ask — are you free Fri night to play my fake boyfriend for a dinner? There’s pay, a suit, and unlimited dessert.

The reply came fast, my brain assigning him a soft British cadence I’d never heard:

Kieran: That’s one bloody opener 😂 I’m listening.

Jo and I smiled, caffeine and adrenalin doing their jobs.

Anya: $800 for the night + expenses. Safe word: “insolvency.” Also, quick vet, LinkedIn/portfolio check.

Kieran: Romance lives! OK, I’m in. Need backstory, boundaries, suit size.

We ran the vet while the food went cold. LinkedIn: barista, photographer, former analyst. Clean. Jo raised her hands. “Not a sociopath. That’s a win.”

“Not yet,” I said.

She dictated the practical: boundaries, a brief I’d write, PR sign‑off. “You don’t parade a nameless prop in front of a room where people can ruin you. We do a DocuSign. You make it sound boring. Boring is safe.”

I drafted the skeleton: payment, time, suit, hand‑holding only, PG‑13 kisses permitted only if investors press. Pushed the link.

Kieran: Safe word is terrible. I’m in. Medium suit. Boundaries noted. Send the brief. Also, PR check OK?

Anya: Yes, PR check is mandatory. Here’s the link to the Doc

Jo added two more lines like a medic packing gauze: PR reserves the right to ask for removal. No social tags. He accepted. Green check.

“Okay,” I said, the room finally quiet. “We meet at Camellia Friday. Six.”

Jo gathered containers, shot me a grin. “You’re going to be fine. Worst case: the dessert redeems it. If he shows up with a motorcycle or mask, abort.”

I smiled despite myself and went back to the slide deck. The story still needed stitching. The plan was moving. The city shifted from caramel to indigo, the snake plant indifferent in its brass pot. I let myself, for one minute, picture an easier night: someone to laugh at my terrible investor jokes, someone to take the blunt edge off a pointed question.

He might be harmless. He might not.

Either way, Friday 6 p.m. was signed. And this absurd little conjuring—a man with a cortado and neat handwriting—might make the evening bearable.

Or make everything burn.