Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(32)

“Compliments are charming.”

“Sure. Compliments on smiles. Hair. A woman’s ass, not so much. No wonder you’re single.”

He glances down at me. “I’m not single at the moment. I have you.”

I open my mouth, ready to sling back a tart retort, but . . . I don’t have one.

I have you.

I know what he means. He’s hired me to pretend he’s no longer single. But for a moment, the idea that we have each other felt . . . nice.

“Thanks for coming today,” he says quietly. “I didn’t find out about Kate’s plan until after she already called you.”

I feel oddly disappointed that it was Kate’s idea to call and not his.

He puts his lips to my ear. “Say you’re welcome.”

His proximity sends a quick ripple of awareness down my spine, and the way I lean into him, just slightly, isn’t even faked, though I hope like hell he won’t know that.

“Here we are!” the hostess announces, motioning us toward the center of the room.

It’s not a great table, right in the middle of all the foot traffic, but for what we need it for, it’s perfect. It’ll be impossible to miss Matt’s bosses when they come in. Or for them to miss us.

“So what’s our play?” I ask, picking up the menu once we’re seated. “Cocktail with lunch to signal we’re on a midday date or iced tea to show your new responsible side?”

“Cocktail,” he mutters. “Definitely cocktail.”

I look at him more carefully, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I just want a damn drink. And lucky for me, The Sams are of the Mad Men era, three-martini-lunch mind-set,” he says. “They’d be more skeptical if I wasn’t drinking.”

I continue to study him. He looks mostly the same as always. Impeccably styled blond hair. Blue eyes that can go from playful to guarded in the span of a single breath. His suit’s a dark navy today, the slim silver tie keeping the look modern and sharp instead of corporate dowdy.

But there’s a restlessness about him, alongside the weariness. Even as he studies the menu, I can tell his brain’s elsewhere.

“You’re nervous,” I say quietly, so none of the neighboring tables can hear.

His eyes snap up. “What would I be nervous about?”

“You tell me.” Normally I’d call him out on his mood swings, but instinct tells me to tread carefully. “This client. He’s important?”

“Kate didn’t tell you who it is?”

I shake my head. “No. Just said that Matt’s ‘girlfriend’ was needed, that it was important.”

“It’s Jarod Lanham.”

I blink. I don’t get starstruck by name-dropping very often, but even I can appreciate the wow factor of one of the world’s most watched billionaires entering the Wall Street sphere. “Well. Crap. He’s like . . . your spirit animal.”

His smile flashes, and I’m relieved to see that it’s a real one.

“You know him?” Matt asks. “Hell, of course you do.”

“No, actually I don’t,” I admit. “He’s not in New York very often, and though we’ve gotten invited to plenty of the same events, both here and in Europe, our paths have never crossed.”

Plus, he’s never needed my services, which is how I make most of my acquaintances.

Our server comes over to ramble about today’s raw bar and take our drink order.

“A glass of the Chardonnay, please,” I say, following Matt’s lead on the boozy lunch.

“Make it a bottle,” Matt says, handing over the cocktail menu.

“You hate Chardonnay,” I say as the server moves away.

“I don’t hate it. I like vodka better, but splitting a bottle of wine’s romantic.” He looks at me in question. “Isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” I muse. “Truth be told, I spend a lot of time faking romantic evenings, not a lot of time actually enjoying them.”

Matt leans across the table toward me. “I seem to remember an evening four years ago that was romantic, and there was no faking. I don’t think.”

“That wasn’t romantic so much as . . . sexual.”

His eyes narrow slightly in challenge, and I get the sense he’s calling me a liar.

He’d be right.

That night when Matt and I first met had been romantic. And sexual. Hell, it’d been magical.

In the span of hours, he’d made me feel like no man had in my entire life. Butterflies, breathlessness, the whole bit.

And even though we’ve let the horrific aftermath of the whole thing determine our current relationship, the truth is, the good stuff is always there, lurking in my subconscious like a cherished memory, perfectly protected.

Matt sets an elbow on the table, palm out, and beckons with his fingers for me to put my hand in his.

I do. We’re playing the part of smitten, after all.

And though I know it’s pretend, my stomach tightens the second our palms touch. Even more so when he maneuvers so that my hand is cradled in his, his other hand coming up to rest fingers against the center of my palm.

The knot in my stomach tightens. Want. And a little bit of fear.