Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(18)

She blinks, and for a split second, I swear I see something other than the usual disdain on her face. Something that looks a bit like hurt. Then she lifts her chin and it’s gone.

“Get out. Go back to your dressing room and prepare your credit card for a workout.”

“I don’t get why you’re so pissed about this,” I grumble as she tugs on a pair of pants. “Wasn’t this the plan? To let people think we’re together?”

“The key word there being plan,” she snaps, buttoning the pants. “We’re supposed to plan when people see us together, not get caught acting like teenagers.”

I grin. “You know the reason I think you’re really mad?”

“I’m just about to faint from holding my breath, dying to know.”

“You’re mad that we got interrupted. You’re mad that I only kissed you, that I didn’t put my hands all over you.” To piss her off, I reach out and play with a strand of her hair.

Sabrina lifts a warning finger. “Touch me one more time, and I’ll tear up our contract, leaving you on your own.”

I study her for a moment, debating just how serious she is. Best not to risk it.

My hand drops. “All right. You win this one. Get whatever you’re going to get,” I say, waving a hand at the enormous pile of clothes. “But have Monica send the stuff to your apartment. We’re not carrying the bags around with us.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t want to deal with them when we go to lunch.”

“Oh.” I can tell she hadn’t expected me to want to extend our impromptu day date, but she’d never admit it. “Fine. I have reservations at—”

“Not your place,” I interrupt. I’m done letting her be in control. “I’ll pick the place.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Where are your reservations? Because my place is sure to get us spotted by—”

“Who’s paying the bills here, me or you?”

“You, but you’re paying me to get the job done, and lunch at Fig & Olive will ensure the right people see us.”

“I appreciate your efforts, but I’m not in the mood for fussy food.” I jerk open the door to the dressing room, saying, “Cancel those reservations,” as I step out.

“Only if you tell me where your reservations are. What if—”

I shut the door on her protest and go to my dressing room, where a pile of untouched clothes awaits.

I pull out my phone to make lunch reservations. Yeah, yeah, whatever. I lied about already having them. Trust me, it was necessary. To have any chance of surviving the next month, I need to get the upper hand.

I hear the neighboring door open as Sabrina calls for Monica in a too-sweet voice.

“What’s up?” Monica says, scurrying back into easy speaking distance.

“So somehow I ended up with the sweetest boyfriend on the planet,” Sabrina gushes. “He just offered to pay my entire shopping bill today; can you believe it?”

My head snaps up from the restaurant app on my phone. Uh-oh.

“He’s a keeper!” Monica says, clearly delighted with the turn of events. “So what did we decide on? Let me see the yeses!”

I close my eyes, already knowing what I’m going to end up buying for my “girlfriend.”

“You better get us some more champagne,” Sabrina says. “Matt’s told me to go ahead and buy all of it.”

I shake my head as I make reservations for two at a restaurant where the food is mediocre but the drinks are big and strong.

I know, I know, drinking before noon.

But you’ve met the woman. Can you blame me?





8

SABRINA

Saturday Lunch, September 23

I frown and look up at the sign as Matt holds open the restaurant door for me. “Isn’t this a chain?”

“It is.”

“But—”

He plants a hand on my back and gently pushes me forward.

I’m fully braced for garish decor, horrible lighting, and the smell of old onion rings. Braced for everything that reminds me of my childhood, of my mom’s occasional stints working at dirty, tired restaurants until she’d be inevitably fired . . .

I’m pleasantly surprised.

The lighting’s flatteringly dim, and the restaurant seems to be made up of tall black-leathered booths, no red vinyl or paper napkin dispensers in sight. Nothing to trigger my Philly flashbacks.

Matt steers me toward the bar. I let him, mainly because sitting side by side on barstools somehow seems less intimate than sitting across from each other in a booth.

“You know, nobody’s going to see us here,” I say, sitting down next to him and putting my purse on the stool beside me. The shopping bags—all dozen of them—are being delivered to my apartment, as planned. “It’s just tourists on weekends and corporate drones during the week at chain restaurants.”

“I know,” he grumbles.

“So why are we here?”

“Because I like it,” he says.

“Okay, fine, why am I here?”

He sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know. I didn’t think it through. What I do know is that I just spent an obscene amount of money buying you clothes with plenty of witnesses. You got your girl to pump our names into the gossip circuit. Tomorrow, we’ll suffer through a stuffy brunch with tiny plates of shit like escarole and free-range turkey sausage. So right now, all I want is to sit in relative silence and get an enormous French Dip sandwich, with an even more enormous martini. Okay?”