Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(39)

I know Ian’s. I don’t know hers.

I only know that whatever shit the two of them went through together, it bonded them. Until Lara, Sabrina always came first with Ian.

And Ian’s always come first with Sabrina.

Until . . . now?

I turn back to see Ian frown in confusion. “But—”

“This is between Matt and me. I’m handling it.”

He sighs. “Fine. Don’t kill each other.”

“No promises,” she says with a small smile. “Give Lara my apologies?”

“Sure,” he says, smiling back.

His smile disappears when he looks at me. I don’t blame him. Sabrina’s putting on a good show, but there’s a fragility about her right now that I’ve never seen before. From the worried look on his face, I don’t think he has, either.

We both wait until Ian’s moved out of earshot before continuing our conversation.

I turn back to her. “Sabrina, can we please—”

“How much longer?”

“What?” I ask, not following.

“Our contract. Me pretending to be in love with you.” Her voice is tired. “The contract says until the gala. Is that still the case? Because if not, I’d be happy to give you a prorated rate.”

I feel the sudden urge to punch the brick wall beside me. I’m trying to talk to the damn woman, and all she cares about are contracts and prorated costs.

“Yes,” I snap. “I need you until the gala.”

I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t even know what I need or want anymore, but I know letting her out of this contract now, when things are like this between us, would be a mistake.

“Fine,” she says coolly, taking a step back. “You’ll let me know when my next scheduled appearance is?”

“Sabrina. Come on.”

She moves toward the curb and lifts her hand to hail an approaching cab. “I’d appreciate it if you stick with the twenty-four-hours’ notice going forward. I think today proved that last-minute arrangements are hardly working in your favor.”

The cab stops, and out of habit, I go to open the door for her, but she beats me to it. “Seventy-second and Park, please,” she tells the driver.

“Sabrina, I really am sorr—”

She shuts the door on the rest of my apology.

Frustrated as hell, I watch the taillights of her cab until they disappear from sight, taking her back to her apartment uptown.

And even then, I stay still a bit longer, replaying Kennedy’s words from earlier over in my head.

Everything you’ve ever wanted . . .

I’m not sure about that.

I’m not sure about that at all.





18

SABRINA

Thursday Evening, September 28

My iPhone continues its relentless buzz from the counter, and Juno gives the phone a baleful look before giving me one that’s a bit . . . scolding.

I scrape my hair into a messy bun atop my head as I give the dog a look right back. “I’m not answering it.”

Juno sits. At least put the phone on “Do Not Disturb.”

I shake my head. “I fed the beast. I have to live with the consequences. It’ll remind me to be smarter next year.”

Juno slumps to the floor with a sigh, resting her snout on her paw as she avoids eye contact.

She’s disappointed in me, and that’s just fine. I’m disappointed in me, too.

Honestly, will I never learn?

Today is my mother’s birthday. Yeah. As in the mother who I have almost nothing to do with. The one who was a mother by biological contribution only.

Every year as September 28 approaches, I tell myself that this year I’ll let the day come and go without doing a damn thing.

But some stupid part of me, the part that’s still nine and hoping the homemade birdhouse or carefully constructed bead necklace will win her over, sends a gift.

I’ve moved beyond the homemade stuff. She’s not worth the effort. I know that much, at least. And while the online shopping process is infinitely easier . . . it has created a whole other monster.

It never fails. The first text message or voice mail is a thank-you (mind you, it’s the only time I hear from her all year).

The second message comes an hour later and is the guilt trip: You know, the more I think about it, the purse is just too extravagant. I appreciate the offer, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll think I’ll sell it. I could use the cash for more practical things.

Now, don’t applaud her just yet. The tone shifts in the third message: Call me back already. Things have been tough around here lately, and I could use some help.

The fourth message is where things get really nasty: I don’t know how I raised someone so selfish. You can afford a fancy leather purse, but you can’t be bothered to make sure I have basic necessities?

Now, let’s get a few things straight. First, she didn’t raise anyone. I raised myself.

Second, she has basic necessities. How do I know? Because I paid off her mortgage. I pay for a twice-weekly grocery service that delivers everything she needs to make easy, healthy meals for herself.

That’s right, I put a roof over her head and food on the table.

The first one is repayment for the little that she did do for me and my half brothers back in the day. The second is a bonus.