Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(20)

So now you’re thinking he’s right. That I am a shrew who holds a grudge.

I’ll cop to the first one. I’ve never pretended to be a nice, sweet type of female.

As for the grudge part, it’s not a grudge so much as . . . self-protection. Matt Cannon hurt me that morning in a way I’ve always promised myself I could never be hurt.

I have no intention of letting it happen again. I’d rather be angry than hurt, and though he may not even realize it, I think Matt feels the same.

“Okay, let’s talk business,” I say, popping an olive in my mouth. “Setting the foundation is good, but I can’t imagine The Sams are reading Page Six or clubbing with Georgie and crew. We’re planting seeds to make this whole thing believable, but how do we get to the people who matter?”

“You mean the clients who are threatening to leave because they don’t like how I spend my weekends?” he growls into his martini.

“These people aren’t trusting you with their piggy bank, Cannon. You’re handling millions on a daily basis. They don’t have any insight into what your life looks like, except what they saw in the Wall Street Journal. No one wants to imagine the guy in that picture as the one holding the keys to their retirement.”

“I’m not sure they want the guy who makes his credit card sweat buying clothes for his ‘girlfriend,’ either.”

I pat his arm with a smile. “I’ll take it all back tomorrow if it’s going to break your budget.”

He clinks his glass to mine in a toast. “Don’t worry about it. I can afford it, and it was worth every penny knowing you’ll think of me each time you get dressed. Or undressed.”

My smile slips, and his grows. “Well played,” I mutter.

“I thought so,” he says with a wink. “Okay, so about this gala I’ll need you to accompany me to . . . It’s a big fancy fund-raiser—”

“I’ve been to the Wolfe Gala before, Matt.”

“Sure. As Ian’s date.”

“As Ian’s friend,” I correct, even though I shouldn’t have to. Matt of all people knows that Ian’s and my relationship is, and always has been, completely platonic.

“Well this year, you’ll go with me. As my girlfriend.”

“Fake girlfriend,” I clarify, moving my drink out of the way to make room for the sandwiches the bartender’s setting in front of us.

“Right. If we don’t kill each other before then,” Matt mutters, taking an enormous bite of his French Dip.

Yeah, well. There’s that.

We both lapse into silence, and I’ve got a feeling the train of his thoughts is probably pretty close to my own:

How the hell is this going to work?

How can we pretend to be in love when we can barely stand to be in the same room together? I’d been so sure that the forced proximity would change things between us, but so far, our relationship feels more complicated than ever. God knows my emotions feel . . . jumbled. And I hate that. I hate that it—

“This isn’t going to work,” Matt says, interrupting my thoughts.

My stomach drops at his words, though I don’t know whether it’s the blow to my professional pride or the personal implications. “What do you mean?”

He pushes away his plate, wipes his mouth. “We drive each other crazy.”

“You knew that when you asked me to help you,” I point out.

“Momentary lapse. I forgot how frustrating you can be.”

“Me?! You’re the one who—” I take a breath for patience, determined not to let him get under my skin. “It’s the first day. There were bound to be some hiccups and arguments, given our history.”

Matt gives me a curious look. “I’m giving you an out. Why are you not taking it?”

It’s a good question. I should take the out. I should remove us both from this situation before things go to hell, but . . .

The thought of failure tastes bitter. I’ve built my entire self-worth on my ability to control every situation. To fix every situation.

I won’t let him take that away from me.

“You hired me to do a job,” I say quietly. “Let me do it.”

“So that’s all this is about? Our contract?” he asks, his gaze holding mine.

I hesitate only a split second before nodding, but I can see from the way his eyes narrow that he saw the hesitation. That he suspects this is about more than my job. More than his job.

Still, he merely nods in agreement, not pressing me for answers that neither one of us is ready for.





9

MATT

Sunday Brunch, September 24

You know what’s a pretty fantastic plan?

Scheduling your “see and be seen” brunch at your bosses’ favorite restaurant, in hopes you might bump into them and show off your new “girlfriend.”

The second I walk into Rosemary’s, I know my plan’s about to pay off, because who’s sitting at the bar? Sam and Samantha Wolfe, next to Adam Feinstein, an eccentric billionaire known for being old-school with his money strategy.

Granted, this isn’t exactly how I thought it would go. I’d deliberately booked an earlier-than-usual brunch and then purposefully arrived well ahead of the reservation, before Sabrina.