Page 8 of The Neighbor Wager

“Like a woman who can command a hundred million dollars?”

“Exactly.” She takes a deep breath and lets out a steady exhale, then squeezes my hand and leads me into the room.

Willa Wilder is standing at the other end of the long conference table on her own. No assistant. No partners. No man sitting next to her to prove she’s a real investor (a time-honored technique many women entrepreneurs use to make sure men take them seriously). But Willa is past that because Willa is the one with the money. Willa is the one who makes things happen.

Okay, maybe Willa is a role model of sorts.

She runs a firm that has forty billion dollars’ worth of investments. And she always looks great doing it. Not the way Lexi looks great—in a pink dress, with her long blonde hair and her blue eyes screaming California Girl.

Willa does it in a Boss Babe,I control this place and I could control the universe, if I wantedsort of way.

Willa Wilder is exactly who I want to be in twenty years. She radiates power simply by standing tall in her black suit. She dresses without an especially feminine flair—short hair, flat shoes—but still pulls off a skirt-suit with silver earrings.

She’s the picture of a successful woman. And she doesn’t hide her sex appeal, either. She’s all business, yeah, in amaybe I will have a martini with a twist after thissort of way.

How does that feel, to have people flock to the power you radiate? Someday I will know that feeling.

Willa smiles as she nodshelloto us. She’s a friend of our father’s. We’ve seen her at his parties, a few times, but we’ve never met as colleagues. She studies Lexi with an expression of quiet competence, noting the pink dress, the nude pumps, the silver necklace that saysstylish businesswoman. “You always wear pink.”

She moves all the way around the table to offer her hand.

Lexi shakes it. “My power color.” She smiles and holds Willa’s gaze. “Not all of us can rock neutrals the way you do.”

Willa softens. She understands power, and she responds to flattery. Everyone responds to Lexi’s flattery.

Outside the frosted glass walls of the conference room, the office buzzes around us. From in here, it’s all silhouettes and murmurs of conversation. Are people running numbers on MeetCute? Talking to competitors? Preparing to lowball us?

Deep breath. Utmost confidence. I’m not here to consider anyone else’s motivations. I’m here to finalize this deal. “It’s nice to see you again, Ms. Wilder.”

She smiles. “Please, Deanna, call me Willa.”

I swallow hard. I’m tongue-tied. Which is silly. I don’t get tongue-tied around people.

But then maybe it’s not silly. She has our company’s future in her hands.

At this point, it’s all decided. That’s how these meetings go. I hate not knowing what’s already been determined.

Is it a yes or a no?

Do I need to spend the weekend prepping pitches, or can I relax for the first time in two years?

Willa motions for us to sit.

Lexi takes the spot on the right. I take the spot on the left.

Slowly, Willa lowers herself into her leather chair. “The pitch impressed me.”

Under the table, Lexi offers her hand.

I squeeze.

“MeetCute is exactly what we need in the dating app space. You’re bringing feminine fun into the market. And even better, you’re bringing inclusive femme fun,” Willa says. “Pink and flowers and champagne and the ability to find someone who appreciates the real you, the you who loves romantic comedies and ice cream.”

“Exactly,” I say. “The algo matches users who truly relate to each other.”

“It’s genius,” she says. “I’ve played around with it myself and I love the setup.” With the press of a single button, she pulls up our slide deck on the giant TV behind her.

The home screen of the app is a picture of Lexi and me, smiling, with a lot of pink text.

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