Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(25)

“Brunch was fine.”

“Looked a bit better than fine. You were feeding her, Matthew.”

Only to shut her up.

“She’s gorgeous,” my mom gushes. “Sabrina, was it?”

I give a grim smile. “Like you haven’t already googled everything about her.”

“There’s not much,” my mom says with a touch of sulkiness. “Her social media accounts are private, and though she’s connected to plenty of powerful people, I couldn’t find any information about her.”

Exactly as Sabrina likes it.

“She’s private.”

“Well. Whatever. You looked happy.”

I grimace. “How many pictures were there?”

“Just a couple. But I could tell by the way you looked at her that you’re crazy about her.”

I roll my eyes.

“Is she the one?” my mom asks with the slightly desperate tone of a woman who, by her estimation, is long past due for grandchildren.

The fact that my mom thinks there’s ever going to be “the one” is laughable. Though I wouldn’t hurt her by telling her outright, she and my father are pretty much solely responsible for my skepticism on all things monogamy and happy relationships. A lifetime of seeing just how jacked up marriage is will cure a guy of any happily-ever-after delusions pretty quickly.

“We’re just dating, Mom.” And not even for real.

“How’d you meet?” she asks.

“She’s a friend of Ian’s. They grew up together.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

I grunt in response, and she sighs. “I can see I’m not going to learn any more from you than I did from the internet.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think grown men typically give their mothers details on their love life.”

“I know that,” she says pragmatically. “Which is why I need to get the details from her.”

I’ve just put my feet up on my desk, but they drop back to the floor. “What?”

“This woman. Sabrina. I want to meet her.”

“No,” I say automatically.

“Why not?” she says in a pouty voice.

“Because we’ve just started dating. I’m not going to freak her out by bringing her to my parents’ house.”

Not that I can ever imagine Sabrina freaking out about anything, but then, she doesn’t know the debacle that is my home life. A glittery, white-fence facade hiding a rotten core.

“Dinner. This weekend,” she pushes.

“I’ll come to dinner,” I agree, knowing I’m past due for a visit. “But I’m not bringing Sabrina.”

She huffs. “Matthew.”

“Mother.”

“Think about it?”

I hear a knock at the door, and I look up in relief when I see Ian standing there, eyebrows lifted in question. I gesture him in.

“Mom, I gotta go. I have a meeting.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll see you next week with Sabrina. I love you!”

“I’ll see you next week. No Sabrina. Love you, too.” I hang up to end the debate and toss the phone on my desk.

“No Sabrina where?” Ian asks.

“My mother heard we’re ‘dating’ and wants me to bring her to dinner.”

Ian snorts. “Now that, I’d love to see. Sabrina playing your doting girlfriend at your perfect parents’ house.”

I look away, a little stab of guilt kicking in that I hide the truth about my parents even from my best friends.

“How’s the Sabrina thing been going?” Ian asks.

I run a hand over my face. “I’m exhausted.”

“It’s only been two days.”

“Yeah, well . . . let’s just say if being her fake boyfriend is this exhausting, I pity the guy who will take on the role for real someday.”

Pity and hate.

“Not happening,” Ian says emphatically.

I drop my hand. “No?”

Ian shrugs. “Sabrina’s more relationship averse than you.”

Huh. Interesting. Interesting that Sabrina’s never mentioned her unique thoughts on marriage to her best friend.

Still, it’s not my place to spill her secrets. Plus, honestly? A tiny part of me is thrilled that I know something about her that Ian doesn’t. The two of them have always been thick as thieves.

“She is a bit cynical about romance,” I say evasively. “But she’s never said why.”

Ian gives me a look. “Yeah, I’m not walking into that one. If she wants you to know what makes her tick, she’ll tell you herself. And don’t scowl at me. You know I’d protect your privacy just as much if she asked me about you.”

“Does she?”

Ian laughs. “Really? Here. Distract yourself with this.” He shoves forward a fancily wrapped gift that’s just been placed on my desk.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A present.”

“I see that. Why is it on my desk?”

“What’s wrong with you? I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you.’”

“I’m not going to say thank you until I know what it is and what it’s for.”