Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(43)

“You look nice,” I say, turning down the radio as I take the exit ramp off the freeway.

“He says, an hour and a half after picking me up,” she teases.

“I was too busy trying to figure out if that dress is one I bought for you.”

She smiles enigmatically. “It might be.”

We stop at a red light, and I turn to her more fully, my gaze appreciating the way the slim-fitting dark-purple dress hugs her curves. “You think of me when you put it on?”

Her eyes narrow slightly, as though sensing the question I really want to ask: Will you think of me when you take it off?

Or better yet, Can I take it off?

She tilts her head to the stoplight. “Light’s green, Lothario.”

Her voice is a little bit huskier than before, and I grin, betting I’m not the only one who’s been suffering from her no-hookups rule.

There’s no time to dwell—or fantasize—about that, though. A couple of minutes later, I roll down the window and enter the key code that opens the gate to my parents’ cul-de-sac.

Sabrina whistles as we pass the first enormous house. “Very Stepford.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a reason that’s set that in Connecticut,” I grumble, lifting a hand in greeting toward one of my parents’ neighbors, who gives us a wave that’s both friendly and nosy as hell.

“Is it really?” she asks, looking over at me.

“Yup.”

“Huh,” she says thoughtfully. “I have to say, I sort of thought this lifestyle only existed in movies.”

I pull into my parents’ driveway. “In a few minutes, you’re going to wish it did.”

She laughs lightly. “It can’t be that bad.”

I nod at the Lexus that’s pulled into the driveway just ahead of us as a woman steps out of the driver’s side. “See her?”

“Yeah. That your mom?” Sabrina asks, her hand lifting to smooth her hair.

I’d grin at the atypically nervous gesture if my stomach wasn’t so knotted in dread. Sabrina’s about to see what my story’s really about, and it isn’t pretty.

“That’s my dad’s former assistant.”

“Oh.” Sabrina’s hand drops, and she undoes her seat belt. “She looks nice.”

I lift my hand to wave at the woman in tight jeans and a low-cut white sweater. “She’s also my father’s mistress.”

“What?” Sabrina’s head whips toward me, but I’m already pushing open the car door and stepping out.

“Matt, sweetie. It’s been too long.” She grins and beckons me forward, arms spread for a hug.

“Felicia, good to see you,” I say, kissing her cheek and embracing her.

Felicia’s hands find my shoulders, and she pulls back to study me. Then she smiles wider. “You look happy. Well, your shoulders are a bit tense, but your eyes are happy.”

Felicia’s gaze shifts to Sabrina, who’s stepped out of the car, looking composed instead of shell-shocked, God bless her.

“And this must be Sabrina. I’ve heard so much about you.”

I introduce the two women. “Felicia Levin, this is my girlfriend, Sabrina Cross.”

Sabrina extends a hand, but Felicia ignores it and goes in for a hug. “I’m so glad Matt’s found someone to help him settle down. We were all so tired of him moving from woman to woman with less care than he did swapping out his cuff links.”

It’s a bold accusation from someone who’s been having an affair with a married man for a couple dozen years, but Sabrina’s smile never wavers.

A tinny version of Beyoncé’s “Halo” interrupts the moment, and Felicia looks toward her still-open car door. “Oh, that’s my daughter calling. She’s getting married next month, and she’s a basket case. You guys go on inside, tell your parents I’ll be along shortly.” She trots back to her car in her platform sandals and leans in to grab her cell phone. “Bridget, honey. I’ve told you, we can always let the dress out a bit if we need to . . . No, you are not fat . . .”

I set an arm to Sabrina’s back, propelling her toward my parents’ front door. The sooner we get this started, the sooner we can leave.

“Does your mom know?”

“Yup.”

“Does she care?”

“If she does, she’d be a hypocrite. She carried on with my Little League coach for years before switching to my history tutor. Then it was one of my dad’s golf buddies, and I’m pretty sure there was a pool boy in there somewhere.”

Sabrina looks up at me as I ring the doorbell, and I stand very still, very tense, bracing for the questions, the judgment, the horror at the salacious shallowness I grew up in.

“Cannon.”

I don’t look at her. I can’t. “Yeah?”

She leans toward me slightly and whispers, “You had a history tutor?”

I let out a startled laugh. Her response is so unexpected and so fucking perfect that I do the only thing I can do.

I bend my head to hers and kiss her.





20

SABRINA

Saturday Evening, September 30

Matt’s mouth is warm and firm on mine, and any thought I have to remind him we’re no longer hooking up goes out the window when his hand gently cups the back of my head, pulling me closer.