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

My plan was to ensure I got a table by the door, so that if and when The Sams arrived, I’d be positioned in a very cozy, very visible, romantic brunch with my “girlfriend.”

But . . . this can work, too. Or at least, I’m determined to make it work.

I check in with the hostess, knowing full well that since I’m early, my table won’t be ready yet. She assures me that my table should be available “closer to my reservation time” if I want to wait at the bar. Which I absolutely do.

The Sams and Adam are sipping mimosas, likely waiting for their own table, and haven’t seen me yet.

I approach, clamping my hand on Sam’s shoulder, confident smile already in place. “Mr. Wolfe?”

“Matt!” Sam turns toward me, his expression torn between surprise and wariness. Once again, I feel the intense urge to pummel the jackass who wrote that article and turned my once golden name into the wild card that embarrasses the bosses. “What are you doing here?”

I grin. “It’s Rosemary’s. I’m doing what everyone does. Getting a damn good brunch.”

“Their bread alone is to die for,” Samantha agrees, her voice warmer than her husband’s, though her expression is no less leery. “Matt, do you know Mr. Feinstein?” She gestures to the other man, who’s been more interested in his phone than our conversation about the bread.

Adam Feinstein looks up, shoving his round glasses farther up his nose as he gives me a bland, indifferent smile.

I extend a hand. “Mr. Feinstein, a pleasure. I’m Matt Cannon. I work for Wolfe Investments.”

“I know who you are,” the other man says, turning his attention back to his phone. “The kid from the Journal.” He shakes his silver head without bothering to look up. “In my day, people were more careful with their money and reputation. And more respectful of other people’s money and their company’s reputation.”

I tense, and Samantha closes her eyes briefly in dismay.

Shit. Shit!

As I’m trying to find a respectful rejoinder to Feinstein’s clear disdain, I hear a feminine voice saying my name. “Matt?”

Oh thank God. Sabrina has shown up early, bless her.

I turn toward the voice, only I realize too late that the voice is too high to be Sabrina’s, and find not one but two blonde women grinning at me.

I’ve slept with them. Both of them. Not at the same time, but I’m guessing that distinction is going to do little to save my ass at this point.

“Hi . . .” My brain searches for their names. Either of their names. I’ve got nothing. In my defense, it’s been years. And though my hazy memory tells me I met them at the same bar, I had no idea that they knew each other, much less were brunch buddies.

They’re both looking at me expectantly, and the alarm bells in my head are in full siren mode now, especially when I hear Feinstein sniff behind me, all the judgment in the world infused into the tiny sound.

I hear Sam sigh, and one of the blondes takes pity on me, though not in a way that’s remotely helpful.

“It’s Kara, silly!” she says, stepping toward me and wrapping an arm around my neck.

My options aren’t good. I can let my arms dangle . . . awkward. I can push her away . . . rude. I can hug her back . . .

I go with this one, my arm sliding around her waist and giving what I hope is a friendly, platonic squeeze in greeting. “Of course.”

I start to pull back, or at least try to, but she clings, turning toward my bosses and Adam Feinstein and, in a scene right out of my nightmares, keeps speaking.

“How do you guys know Matt?”

Samantha’s smile is tight. “We work together.”

“They’re my bosses,” I’m quick to add, hoping it’ll cue Kara in to shutting her mouth or at least filtering what she says next.

No such luck.

“Oh, how cool!” Kara gushes. “Matt and I use to party together. Oh my gosh, I’m being so rude.” Kara pulls back, belatedly remembering her companion. “Guys, this is my friend Robin.”

Robin’s smile is as tight as Samantha’s. “Matt and I have met.”

Kara looks at her friend in surprise, then up at me, her expression visibly cooling as she puts the pieces together.

Come on, ladies. It’s been years, and we slept together once. Surely neither of them has been holding on to the delusion that we were exclusive . . .

I resist the urge to tug at the collar of my shirt as it suddenly occurs to me that my reputation is in so much more need of rehab than I ever realized.

I try to pull my arm away from Kara under the guise of looking at my watch. “You know, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m actually meeting someone—”

“There you are!”

I never thought Sabrina Cross’s sultry voice could cause anything other than agitation and arousal, but today, the sound of her low alto brings something else:

Relief.

I turn toward her, but before I can figure out how to explain the mess I’ve gotten myself into and subtly beg for help, she’s taken control of the situation.

With a friendly smile, she touches Robin’s arm. “Hi, are you Kara?”

“No, she is,” Robin says with a stiff nod toward her friend.

“Ah, well, the hostess has been looking for you,” Sabrina says. Then she lowers her voice. “I’d get on it if I were you. I’ve found this place will only hold your reservations for a hot minute before clearing you off the list for walk-ins.”