Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(27)

I smile confidently as I sit back at my desk, because no matter how determined Ian is to bring me down into his lovestruck world, I know I’ll never join him there.

I don’t do love. I don’t do relationships.

And I sure as hell never plan to do marriage. Not the drippy, delusional love version.

And not Sabrina’s way, either.





12

SABRINA

Monday Dinner, September 25

I blink in surprise. “Are you wearing an apron?”

Lara McKenzie points a wooden spoon at me in warning. “Definitely. Wouldn’t you if you were attempting to make dinner wearing a white shirt?”

“Well, see, that’s the difference between us,” I say, stepping into her apartment and shutting the door. “I wouldn’t be making dinner.”

“Yeah, I’m not so good at it myself, but I’m trying. Ooh, but you made dessert!” Lara says, looking down at the apple tart in my hand.

“Nope. Bought it. It’s better this way, trust me.”

“Are you one of those women who keeps shoes in her oven?” Lara asks as I follow her into the kitchen.

“Not anymore. But when I first moved to the city and was living in a four-hundred-square-foot shoebox while trying to get my business off the ground? Damn straight.”

“Now that’s something I’d kill to see,” Lara says, giving the sautéing mushrooms a quick shove with her spoon. “Baby Sabrina.”

“I was nineteen.”

Lara shoots me a smile over her shoulder. “Like I said. Baby.”

I smile back, though I don’t know that I agree. I suppose for some people, nineteen is just another shade of youth. For people like Lara, even Ian, whose paths had involved a four-year university, theirs had held youthful experiences like dorm rooms, study groups, frat parties.

At nineteen, I’d already been putting food on my own table for a decade. I’d learned way more than I should have about the masochistic nature of men, and I sure as hell knew that the only person you could count on—really count on—was yourself.

Even Ian, who’d been my friend and protector since we were kids, had left. I didn’t resent him for following his dreams to Yale. I’d been his biggest cheerleader. But my happiness for him didn’t take away the fact that I’d really, truly been on my own, all before my twentieth birthday.

Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t feel sorry for me. The tough knocks early on gave me my independence, and I’m grateful. Really.

“Can I help?” I ask Lara as she shoves back a strand of hair that’s come loose from her pony and peers at an open recipe book.

Lara’s one of those women who looks as gorgeous polished and badass in her FBI power suits as she does in jeans and a T-shirt.

She looks up and pushes her black-rim glasses higher on her nose. “Pour us some wine?”

“On it.” I go to the fridge. “Ooh, champagne. Nice champagne. What are we celebrating?”

Lara gives me an enigmatic smile. “You’ll find out when Kate gets here.”

I give her a curious look. “Within the past year, you landed your dream job and your dream man. What else could possibly—” My eyes go wide. “Are you pregnant?”

“What?” she squeaks. “No! Would I have bought champagne if I were pregnant? God. Don’t do that. Pour me a glass of the Sauvignon Blanc as punishment for giving me a heart attack.”

I pour us each a glass of wine and continue to study her. “What, then?”

“Nope.” She sips the wine. “I told you, we have to wait for Kate.”

I sigh. “I hate waiting.” Still, I settle onto a barstool with my wine as Lara begins chopping an onion.

I’ve been to this apartment dozens of times over the years, settled on this very barstool, but always as Ian’s place.

Now it’s Ian and Lara’s, and it’s perfect.

I turn in my chair, scanning the room, smiling a little as I see that it’s both the same as I’ve always remembered and yet . . . happier. The furniture’s still classic dude, all black leather and practical coffee table. But there are bits of Lara here and there. A fuzzy blanket on the back of the couch I’ve never seen before. Cheerful yellow flowers on the bar cart. Black stilettos kicked into the corner.

“Soooooo, how was brunch yesterday?” Lara asks me, setting her knife aside and taking another sip of wine.

I spread my arms to the side. “I’m alive, so . . . better than expected.”

“Yes, but is Matt?” Lara asks.

“He’s fine. I went easy on him.”

Lara’s head tilts. “You’re handling this whole thing better than I thought.”

“I know, right?”

She gives me a look. “You think it means something?”

“Do I think what means something?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she says bluntly. “Is there something there?”

“It’s not like we’re holding hands and having a sing-along in the streets. We’re merely tolerating each other.”

“Oh, come on.” She sulks. “Give me something.”

I eye her suspiciously. “Are you going to take whatever I say right back to Ian?”