Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(12)

“I don’t want anything from you,” she says again, and my stomach twists in resignation. “But . . . I can find you someone perfect for the job. Someone more perfect than me. You have to trust me on this. This is what I do, Matt. Not only do I fix things, I know how to fix them. And I know plenty of single women who are perfect marriage material. They’ll—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I don’t want marriage material.”

On this, I’m very, very clear. As someone with no intentions of ever getting married, I refuse to lead on any woman who does want that.

“I’m confused,” she says, pressing a finger between her eyebrows and studying me. “You want people to think you’re settling down with a woman, but you don’t want a woman who intends to settle down? How will that work?”

“I want a woman who will pretend to want to settle down.”

“Okay. I have those connections, too.”

“I don’t want your damn connections, Sabrina, I want you!”

I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. She’s controlling the situation, and it pisses me off. My first instinct is to flip the tables on her, because it’s what we do—battle for control, even if it means taking the other person out at the knees, so to speak.

But, much as it pains me, I need her help more than I need to get the upper hand, so I clench a fist and force myself to answer patiently. Honestly. “You make me crazy, but I trust you. Only you.”

I hold my breath, willing her not to flay me into pieces for putting that out there.

There’s a long pause as she watches me with an unreadable expression.

“Then trust me to find someone else,” she finally replies.

I let out the breath I was holding. Shit.

Though . . . I narrow my eyes, because there’s something just beyond the usual stubborn determinedness in her eyes. Something . . .

She starts to move away, and I grab her arm as I realize what that something is. “You’re scared.”

Sabrina scoffs. “Of what?”

I have no idea, but I do know her well enough to know what’ll spur her into action—the action I want.

I lean forward slightly. “You’re terrified that you can’t do it. That you can’t pretend we’re a couple without wanting it for real.”

This time I get a snort. “Reverse psychology? Really?”

I give her a slow, taunting smile. “Prove it. Prove that you’re not completely terrified you’ll fall in love with me.”

“Oh my God,” she says on a laugh, tugging her arm free. “That’s so not going to work on me.”

I shrug, letting my expression go deliberately skeptical as I sip my drink.

The silence stretches on, and she lets out an indignant huff. “You’re not that irresistible, you know. This whole I can’t break the little lady’s heart routine is a bit nauseating.”

I ignore this and go to her fridge, even though I’m not hungry. “Got anything to eat?”

Exactly as I expect, Sabrina stomps toward me, slaps her palm against the fridge door, and glares up at me. “You’re the last person I’d ever fall in love with.”

“Have you ever been in love?” I ask, a little curious.

“Of course not,” she says.

“You don’t believe in it?”

She bites her lip, as though unsure of her response. “Not lasting romantic love like you see in the movies, no.”

“Excellent.”

“Why is that excellent?”

“Because it means there should be no problem with you posing as my girlfriend.”

She laughs a little and rests the side of her head against the fridge. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re stubborn. Seriously, though . . . What are you so afraid of?” I ask it quietly.

For a moment, her expression’s unreadable. Then she gives a slow smile and leans in slightly. “You know, for someone so decidedly anti-relationship, you’re pretty obsessed with the idea of my falling for you.”

She’s clearly not going to answer my question, and I shove aside my disappointment. Figuring out what the hell makes Sabrina tick was never going to be easy. I’ve always known that.

“What can I say, the apocalypse fascinates me.” I lean a shoulder against the fridge, mirroring her posture.

“At least you acknowledge that it’ll be the end of the world before I feel anything other than tolerant loathing for you.”

“Or I you,” I say, lifting my glass in a toast.

She clinks her glass to mine, even as she frowns, a tiny line appearing between her dark eyebrows. “You really think I can’t do it? Spend a month as your companion without falling all over myself?”

I push away from the refrigerator and go to the counter, setting aside my drink. “Doesn’t matter what I think.”

She follows me, touching my arm. “Could you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Spend an entire month in my company without falling for my charms.” She says it mockingly, but the question is clearly a challenge.

I’ve never been good at backing down from a challenge, and one issued by her? Forget it.

“I think I’d manage.”