Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(36)

“You were so into your ranting, I didn’t have the chance to tell you that Lara and Sabrina were meeting here for a drink. I just got a text from Lara that she’s running late, but it looks like Sabrina found someone to keep her company while she waits.” He nods his chin toward the bar.

My head whips around, and hot possession rips through me.

Sabrina’s at the bar, all right, still wearing the sexy blue dress from earlier. Her head tilts back as she laughs at something the man next to her said.

A man who’s none other than Jarod Lanham.





16

SABRINA

Tuesday Evening, September 26

So, billionaires can be genuinely charming. Who knew?

Jarod Lanham uses his elbow to indicate my nearly empty drink. “Another?”

I hesitate for a second, and he immediately picks up on it. “I’m being pushy. Forgive me.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . convenient that you’re at the same bar as me, on the same day I met you. I can admire a man with a plan. Just wish I knew your angle.”

“No angle. All I want is to buy you another drink.” When I narrow my eyes, he gives a sheepish grin. “I suppose that sounded a touch desperate.”

I laugh at that. “I don’t think anyone could ever describe you as desperate.”

He grins and leans forward on the bar. “I confess, the money does help people overlook the flaws.”

“Yeah?” I sip the last of my drink. “And what would the flaws be?”

The second the words are out, I blink a little in surprise. Oh hell. Was that flirting?

I mean, not that I’m any stranger to flirting—I’ve practically built a career out of being good at it. But usually it’s with an agenda. This had just . . . slipped out.

The bartender comes over, and Jarod gestures for another round for both of us with an assertive spin of his finger.

Instead of using the barstool I’d been saving for Lara, Jarod’s leaning against the bar, and he shifts now so he’s fully facing me, elbow on the counter.

“My flaws,” he says with a smile. “You sure you’re ready for them? We’ve just met.”

I make a bring-it gesture with my fingers.

He leans forward slightly. “I can be alarmingly single-minded. When there’s something I want . . .” He shrugs. “I get it.”

He holds my gaze as he says it, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s saying. Or rather, what he’s not saying. Not out loud, anyway.

Still, the guy’s perceptive enough to know I was at lunch with Matt, so his forwardness, while flattering, is also a bit off-putting.

“Question,” he says, crossing his feet at the ankle. “Your services. You ever help people sort out their personal life?”

I take my time before answering. Normally I’d play coy a bit. Figure out how much he knows about me before confirming exactly what it is I do.

But this is Jarod Lanham. He wouldn’t waste my time. Or his own.

“What did you have in mind?” I ask.

He looks away, and I’m surprised to see there’s a flash of uncertainty there.

“Mr. Lanham. Anything between my clients and me—and that includes potential clients—stays between us.”

He fiddles with the cocktail napkin, just for a moment. “I’m, ah—” He clears his throat. “Sort of looking for a . . . matchmaker.”

I’m careful to hide my surprise. It’s not an uncommon request. I get people asking all the time to fix them up with someone compatible when they don’t have the time or inclination to try dating apps or no longer hope to meet someone the old-fashioned way.

But Jarod Lanham is a billionaire. And a good-looking one.

Unless he’s got really creepy skeletons in his closet, he can have pretty much any woman he wants.

Jarod apparently reads my thoughts, because he gives a derisive laugh. “I know. It sounds ridiculous.”

“No. Surprising, maybe, but not ridiculous. Have you been dating long?”

He shrugs. “I’ve had girlfriends. Some of them serious, but none I can see myself sharing a life with.”

“You’re looking for a wife,” I say, deciding to cut straight to it.

He nods. “Yes. I’m not in a hurry, but I’m also not getting any younger. I’ve never wanted to be a bachelor forever.”

“Understood. I’d be happy to make some time for us to go over what you’re looking for.”

“I already know exactly what I’m looking for.”

I laugh. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

“I don’t want someone fluttery. I’m not looking for some grand love or any of that bullshit. I just want someone to . . . be with.”

I swallow, a little alarmed by how closely his sentiments echo what I told Matt at brunch on Sunday. “I see. So you’re not looking for a love match.”

He shrugs. “I want someone I can trust. Care about. But I don’t expect to feel butterflies, nor do I want someone who expects to be swept off her feet.” His smile is rueful. “You’re probably thinking I sound like an unromantic asshole.”

I smile into my drink. “I’ve heard worse.”

“You and Cannon,” he says curiously. “You’ve got the whole thing? The butterflies, the sweeping?”