Chapter 8
The windows of L’ultima Goccia glow in shades of red and yellow, the flicker of candlelight a stark contrast to the bright
tubular fluorescent fixtures and sharp green spotlights of the auditorium. It looks cozy, the comforting bursts of laughter
and song spilling onto the street, easing the tension in my chest within seconds.
I just want to sit in silence and have a drink, maybe some meat and cheese.
The creaking wooden door is barely audible over the raucous noise filling every corner and crack of the battered brick walls.
My eyes snag on a couple of empty seats at the edge of the bar. I take the farthest one on the right-hand side, where the
bar top starts to curve along the edge.
Pretending to respond to emails on my phone, I watch red baskets lined with yesterday’s newspaper appear from the swinging
kitchen door, fried calamari piled high. As a plate of burrata, carpaccio, and grilled eggplant makes its way to a table,
a tall figure fills my periphery.
“You made it.” His low timbre coats the seething anxiety flowing through my veins.
I turn my chair on the swivel, laying my phone face down on the bar and cocking my head to the side. “Disappointed?”
Oliver stifles a smile, chin lowering to meet my eyeline. “Far from it, I was hoping you’d show.” His fingers pinch the sides
of a sweating glass.
I balance on an elbow, glancing at the drink. “So you can throw a beer on me and finish the job?”
“How about I just buy you one instead?” He gestures to the empty seat beside me, and I nod, rolling my eyes and crossing my
legs. He doesn’t hold himself with the same buzzing energy most in this room do, like they are desperate to impress their
bosses and one another. He has a commanding presence, a mixture of laid-back and authoritative that I can’t quite get a handle
on.
He settles into the chair and leans his forearms onto the bar, his shoulder muscles tensing under the crisp white shirt. I
feel a quiet thrill in his company, like an echo of adrenaline.
His chin shifts to me, the tea lights in red jars on the bar casting his cheekbones in a devilish glow. “What made you decide
to come?”
I shrug, glancing awkwardly from him to the shelf of bottles with brightly colored Italian labels. “I was having a mental
breakdown in the area so thought it would be rude not to.”
He huffs a laugh, hazel eyes twinkling. “Bad day?” The words roll off his tongue so smoothly that I imagine he was a cigarette-lighting
bartender in another life.
I contemplate lying, but something about him is making me want to tell him the truth, to drop the pretenses. I lean my elbow
on the bar, resting my chin in my palm. “Bad year.”
He whistles, almost impressed. “We better make it a double then.” He gestures to the bartender with two fingers.
I shake my head, the background noise returning to the room with a pop as I come out of the minor trance. “You don’t need
to buy me a drink.”
He shoots me a fake-appalled look. “Listen, I’m just trying my best to charm you over from the actively disliking me camp
to a more neutral zone. I owe you at least one.” He holds up a shiny black credit card. “Besides, this is my boss’s card.”
He hits me with another winning smile.
“Oh, well, in that case, I’ll have a Negroni.” I sit back, relaxing into the chair. “How come your boss lets you run amok
with his credit card?”
He taps the short edge of the plastic on the wooden bar. “Because I’m the only one who knows how to get his coffee order right,
and knowledge is power.”
“The keys to the caffeinated castle,” I add with a nod.
He points at me with the shiny card. “Exactly.”
“If only you could deliver them in one piece,” I add, brow arched.
“Well, then I’d be running the whole company, and nobody wants that.” He turns to the bartender as they approach. “Due Negroni, per favore.”
“He knows coffee and Italian?”
Oliver lets out a breathy laugh before running a hand through his hair and lowering his eyes. “Exclusively fluent in food
and drinks.”
“Negroni, margherita, risotto, pasta alla vodka, gelato!” I count on my fingers before shifting into jazz hands.
“Fast learner!” He gives me a light applause as I bow my head cartoonishly.
A blond man with navy suit trousers and a light blue shirt half undone approaches us and slaps him on the back. “Hey, man.
Has he gone to dinner?” Another American, this one with more of a Southern twang.
“Yeah, I’m off for the night. This is . . .” He squints at me curiously. “You actually never told me your name.”
“I’m Je”—fuck—“uuust Violet,” I stutter. “Just Violet.” Shit. Violet, Violet, Violet.
“Hello, Violet, I’m just David.” The man holds out his right hand for me to shake.
“I’m guessing you already read my note but . . . Oliver.” My drinking buddy holds out his left hand. I use my free hand to
meet his, a jolt shooting up my arm as his fingers grip firm but soft against my palm.
I crack a wide smile as they both continue to shake my hands and our drinks are placed on the wooden bar in front of us. I
lean down to the bar and take the little red straw in my mouth.
The cool air hits my palms as they release my hands, laughing.
“So are you an assistant too?” David asks.
I take a large sip of my Negroni. “Mmm-hmm.” I nod. If I don’t say anything, it feels slightly less like lying.
“Great, that means she qualifies,” he says to Oliver.
“Qualifies for what?” I ask.
Oliver sighs, reluctant to clarify. “Pong Rumble.”
I give him a look before he retorts, “It’s a working title.”
David takes another sip of his drink before explaining.
“Every year at TechRumble, the assistants and interns have a beer pong tournament on the first night of the competition. But there is limited beer in this place, so it’s usually the cheapest, nastiest aperitif spirits they have behind the bar.
We all put money in the pot and the winning team have their drinks paid for the rest of the competition. ”
My eyes grow wide. “Oh, shit, that’s a good prize.”
David continues, even more exuberant now as he slaps Oliver on the shoulder. “And his teammate just went back to the hotel
with a bad case of jet lag, so he’s gonna miss out if he doesn’t find a new partner.”
Oliver wipes his hand over his mouth. “I should have warned you; you don’t have to if you’re just here to chill.”
“But your team will be disqualified if you don’t find a partner in the next . . .” David looks at his watch with the face
of a father whose son is about to miss a qualifying game. “Ten minutes.”
Oliver turns in his chair to David. “She’s had a rough da—”
“No, I’ll do it.” I look between the two of them, my preternatural urge to prove myself useful kicking into high gear.
Five minutes later, we move to a back room of the bar, where more young people are half dressed in business attire. Blazers
are thrown in a pile on a wooden chair, ties shoved into trouser pockets, and shirt collars unbuttoned like the last hour
of a wedding. The space is tight, and we have to shuffle along the walls like cat burglars circumventing laser beams to avoid
knocking into the scuffed Ping-Pong table occupying most of the room’s square footage.
“Have you played before?” Oliver asks as we make it to the end of the table, holding up an old, dusty Ping-Pong ball with
a small dent in the side with two fingers.
Having attended a business school with a high percentage of international students, beer pong was the universal language. If the students have never played it, they’ve at least seen it in a movie. Also, the rules are pretty easy to pick up when there’s just two: throw ball, drink.
I pluck the ball from his hand and throw it across the table. It’s a slam dunk into the middle of a cup, and the chorus of
cheers urges our opponent to down their drink.
Oliver coughs out a laugh as I smile sweetly. “I think the more pertinent question is can you keep up?”
He stares me down. “So you’re . . . good?”
Our competitor, an Italian man whose baby face is so prominent he could be two children in a trench coat, throws his ball
toward our cups, missing every single one.
I look up at Oliver, trying to hold in a satisfied smile as I place the ball back in his hand. “And competitive, don’t let
me down.”
He grins, briefly glancing at my mouth, then back to my serious stare. “Yes, ma’am.”
His neck muscles shift as he limbers up, eyes darkening as he locks onto his target of the central cup. The crowd cheers again,
and I awkwardly high-five him as a wave of relief visibly washes over him. Is he scared of not impressing me?
I’m too busy catching his eye to notice the competitor’s ball slamming into one of our cups so hard it wobbles in place. As
I go to pick up the cup, Oliver’s hand meets me there and pulls it toward his mouth. His eyes glimmer as he knocks it back
and winces. I can’t help but laugh at his face cringing at the sharp liquor as he says, “Thank me later.”
It comes out as a joke, just a phrase you say after doing someone a favor, but the way my body reacts, you’d think he just told me he wants to push me up against the dusty wall behind us.
It dawns on me that for once I’m not thinking about Wyst. Not thinking about my past or money or the people relying on me to keep it together.
All I’m thinking about is getting a ball in a cup and the humming in my blood as Oliver’s hand playfully squeezes my shoulders and he whispers tactics in my ear like a coach hyping up an athlete.
We play for another two rounds before we’re defeated in the semifinals and pour back into the main room of the bar. I’m greeted
by spectators and invited to join a group of Italians and Brits. We sit in a bundle in the corner, talking, laughing, and
sharing stories of horrible bosses. But the majority of my brain cells are taken up by monitoring where my doubles partner’s
attention lies. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but it seems like he’s slowly gravitating toward me. Why am I even focusing on