Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(22)

“Oh, okay. Thanks,” Robin says, looking at the hostess, then at her friend. “Kara. Let’s go.”

Kara reluctantly releases my arm, and the second she does, Sabrina’s there, somehow nudging the other woman aside without actually touching her. After a last backward glance my way, Kara follows her friend to the waiting hostess.

Just like that, the first of my problems is handled.

“So sorry I’m late,” Sabrina says, running an arm intimately over my biceps, then lifting to brush her lips over mine. “I couldn’t get a cab for the life of me—” Sabrina breaks off, as though just registering we’re not alone. “Oh my gosh! Samantha. Sam. How are you guys?”

She moves past me, doing a smooth air-kiss exchange with Samantha, smiling broadly at Sam.

“I haven’t seen you since . . . Oh, what fund-raiser was that? Well, it doesn’t matter. So wonderful to see you both.”

She keeps chatting on, somehow managing to be captivating not annoying, and I practically see the ice melt off the higher-ups, their shoulders relaxing.

“Thanks so much for that book recommendation,” Samantha is telling Sabrina. “My book club deemed it the best one we’ve read all year and absolutely insisted you consider joining our group.”

The thought of Sabrina and my boss’s boss in a book club together is mildly terrifying, but I’m too relieved to be anything but grateful at the ease with which Sabrina’s handled The Sams.

Adam Feinstein is probably a lost cause, but . . .

Sabrina lets out a little gasp of pleasure. “Mr. Feinstein, is that you?” She taps her hand against the man’s knee as he sits on the barstool, the gesture playful and familiar.

I brace, expecting him to glower at her, but instead he’s grinning broadly.

“Look at you, sitting all quiet in the corner,” she says, leaning in to peck his cheek. “Does Geraldine know you’re brunching without her?”

Geraldine? Who the hell is Geraldine?

Feinstein adjusts his glasses with a smile. “She’s visiting her sister in Fort Lauderdale this weekend. The Sams were kind enough to let me be a third wheel.”

“And Amy?” Sabrina asks. “How’s she liking Harvard?”

“Nothing but happy phone calls these first few weeks,” Mr. Feinstein says proudly. “We couldn’t be prouder, and also, more grateful. Without you making that phone call . . .”

“Oh stop,” Sabrina says with a wave of her hand. “Amy’s brilliant. I’m sure she’d have gotten into Harvard without my help.”

My head is spinning. Sabrina knows Adam Feinstein? And his wife?

And helped his daughter get into Harvard?

“You’re here with, ah—” Adam looks at me, as though he either can’t remember my name or doesn’t want to remember it.

“You’ve met Matt, right? Matt Cannon?” She moves back to my side and makes a big show of rolling her eyes. “I can’t say I’m loving how well everyone knows his name these days. Bachelor parties—every woman’s worst nightmare, right?”

She gives a playful wink at Samantha, and the CEO doesn’t miss a beat. “Let’s just say I’m grateful Sam’s bachelor party days are behind him. I don’t have to worry about him getting into too much trouble anymore.”

Sam clamps my shoulder with fatherlike affection and leans in. “Had myself a lap dance or two in my day. Is it just me, or are those women persistent? Never could figure out how to get out of the situation without being rude.”

The hostess appears with three menus. “Wolfe, party of three? Your table is ready. I apologize for the wait. The party at your table decided to order dessert at the last minute.”

“A decision I can get behind,” Mr. Feinstein says, standing and picking up the fedora he left on the bar. “I might go for some dessert myself. Sabrina, sweetheart, it was so good to see you. Geraldine will be upset she missed you.”

Sabrina pats his hand with a smile. “We’ll have to get together when she gets back from Florida. Cocktails?”

“That’d be great.” Mr. Feinstein’s gaze is less fatherly when he looks at me but a good deal friendlier than before. “Mr. Cannon, good to meet you. You’d best stay out of trouble if you’re going to be worthy of this one.” He hitches a thumb at Sabrina.

“Absolutely, sir. Lesson learned.”

The man smiles and pats my arm with a nod.

The Wolfes give me a meaningful look that says we’ll talk later before we all say our goodbyes, the three of them following the hostess toward the back of the restaurant.

Sabrina takes the barstool vacated by Feinstein and, catching the bartender’s eye, orders two mimosas before crossing her legs and turning to face me with a triumphant smile. No doubt about it, she knows that she skillfully unfucked my entire morning and did it well.

Damn it. There’ll be no living with her now.





10

MATT

Sunday Brunch, September 24

“Why aren’t you gloating?”

Sabrina sips her mimosa. “Why would I gloat?”

“Because you know full well that you saved my ass.”

She shrugs. “That’s what you’re paying me for. I don’t need to gloat. I already know I’m good at what I do.”