Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(41)

“The first dozen are ‘I’m sorry’ flowers, yeah.”

I give him a look over my shoulder. “And the second?”

He comes around to my side, the heels of his hands braced on my kitchen counter as he watches me arrange the roses. “‘Favor’ flowers,” he says finally.

“Ah,” I say, stepping back and tilting my head to make sure my arrangement is even, before taking it to my kitchen table. “‘Favor’ flowers, also known as ‘buttering up’ flowers. Generally preceding a highly unpleasant request.”

“You have no idea,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair.

There’s something in his tone, a touch of vulnerability I’m not used to hearing from a man who usually has boundless energy and charm.

“What’s up?” I ask, sensing I need to be just a little bit careful with him.

He sucks in his cheeks for a moment, thinking. “Got anything to drink?”

“Of course.” I motion to the bar cart. “Or I have white wine in the fridge, red on the rack.”

He goes to the bar cart, selecting a bottle of Grey Goose. “You don’t keep this in the freezer?”

“I like the vodka to melt the ice just a little. I think the martini tastes better slightly diluted.”

He’s distracted, barely seems to hear me. “You want one?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got an open bottle of white in the fridge.”

He pours me a glass of wine first before going about the process of making himself a drink. Strange, how normal the sight of Matt Cannon fixing a martini in my apartment is starting to feel.

I wait until he’s dropped his lemon twist in the cocktail glass before nudging him again. “So . . . the favor?”

“Right.”

He takes a sip of the drink, his attention shifting to my phone, which is starting to buzz on the counter right next to him.

He glances at it when I don’t make a move to pick it up. “A Rochelle is calling. Are we answering?”

“We’re ignoring.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Are we talking about it?”

“We are not.”

He gives a faint smile, but I get the feeling my answer disappoints him. As though he was hoping I’d share more details.

I want to tell him that my hesitancy isn’t about him—that I don’t talk about my mother with anyone—but that’ll only derail the conversation from whatever it is he’s reluctant to talk about.

I wait.

“So, I’m hoping I can talk you into coming to a dinner with me on Saturday.”

“Um, sure?” I say, taking a drink of my wine. “That’s the deal, right? Up until the gala, I show up wherever you need me. And you’re well within the twenty-four-hour advance-notice requirement.” I smile. “You could have saved yourself the second dozen flowers.”

He doesn’t smile back. “You haven’t heard all of it yet.”

“Cannon, I once took tango classes with a known mobster as a favor to the NYPD. I think I can handle whatever you throw at me.”

“The dinner on Saturday is with my parents. At their house in Connecticut.”

“Whoa.” I take a large swallow of wine.

“Yeah,” he says in a tired tone. “You know your girl Georgie, the one who put our ‘relationship’ on the gossip circuit? My mother is on that circuit. There’s not a single item of Manhattan gossip she isn’t privy to, and she’s insisted I bring my ‘girlfriend’ to dinner.”

“Meting the parents is one tall order. But if it’ll help sell the story—”

“That’s the thing,” he interrupts. “My dad use to be plugged into the Wall Street scene, and by extension, so was my mother. But he retired last year, and mostly they’re wrapped up in their Connecticut social scene with other retirees. Golf, book clubs, that sort of thing.”

“So, us having dinner with them won’t do anything to help salvage your professional reputation?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I mean, in theory, my dad could mention it to someone important during his daily round of golf, but . . . no, not really.”

“So why not just tell them the truth?”

He winces. “They’re not really those kind of parents. Also, full disclosure, my motives are . . . selfish. After years of trying to be younger than she is, my mom’s realized she’s the only one of her friends without grandbaby pictures to show off.”

“Oh no.”

He nods. “Yeah. She’s been trying to set me up with every single woman in the Northeast, from her hairdresser to the remaining single daughters of their friends.”

“Having a girlfriend gets her off your back,” I conclude.

“Bingo.”

I blow out a long breath as I consider this. I should be freaking out by the very suggestion, but instead I find myself intrigued. The chance to find out more about where Matt came from, what shaped him . . . it’s appealing.

“No hard feelings if you say no,” Matt says. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you as a . . . friend.”

The way he hesitates over the last word does something funny to my stomach, as though he wants to be friends but isn’t sure it’s possible.