Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(56)

Much in the way I imagine writers always have a little part of their attention tapped into their next story, a little part of me seems to be sorting and re-sorting numbers, just because they’re there.

But they’re not here now. There’s nothing but afternoon sunshine, a brisk breeze, sand, water . . . a beautiful woman.

My woman.

It’s past time I do something about that.

Hell if I know what. Or how.

I go back into the kitchen and open the fridge, this time to survey the food situation. Not only did The Sams have a whole arsenal of gourmet groceries delivered by some fancy white-glove service, they’d been planning on a party of six for the entire weekend.

The food options are endless. My cooking skills? Not so much.

I pull out a couple of varieties of expensive cheese and an enormous New York strip steak. This I can handle. Probably. I also find a couple of baking potatoes and crackers from the pantry and a serving dish to put the cheese on.

A few minutes later, I’ve got a decent-looking cheese plate happening, potatoes in the oven, and red wine decanting on the counter. My steak-seasoning skills are limited to salt and pepper, but gauging from the price tag on the steak, I don’t think it’ll matter so long as I don’t burn the hell out of it.

I’ve just turned on the grill on the back porch when I hear Juno’s bark, followed by the dog’s awkward scampering up the stairs. A moment later, Sabrina appears.

She freezes when she sees me, and I freeze, too, not in surprise, but because of how beautiful she looks. The wind and sea air have made her hair wilder and wavier than usual, and her cheeks are flushed pink, not from any expensive compact but from the wind, and because I know her . . . probably from a little anger. At me.

Her gaze flits from my face to the grill lid that’s still open, then down at the dog, who must have some sort of sixth sense that meat is on the horizon because she’s panting happily, her tail wagging like crazy.

I clear my throat. “Figured it was a waste to go back tonight. After we drove all the way here.”

She leans against one of the pillars of the porch, crossing her arms. “It’s a big house to have all to ourselves.”

Juno barks in objection at being left out, but we both ignore her.

I slowly walk toward Sabrina. “I’m doing it for you, you know. As good as your professional skills are, your domestic persona’s a little rusty.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Is that so?”

“Don’t get me wrong, you do sushi restaurants and cocktail parties really well. And museum fund-raisers, and dinner parties, and dresses and heels.”

“Why do I get the sense I’m being insulted somehow?”

“Because it’s me,” I say, reaching out and capturing an errant curl, just because I can. “And because it’s you. And because over the years you’ve built up so many damn walls where I’m concerned, you won’t hear a damn thing I say without first filtering it for an insult.”

“Maybe that’s because that’s how you started out this whole thing.”

“Or maybe,” I say quietly, “it’s because even then you were primed to be suspicious.”

Her nostrils flare in irritation. “Just like a man, putting the blame on me. Poor you, wrongfully accused—”

“No, rightly accused,” I interrupt. “I don’t deny that I was an idiot. But maybe you got my motivations wrong.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I have walls, too. And back on that first night, I think I was terrified that, for the first time in my adult life, someone might scale them. That you might scale them.”

Her lips part in surprise, but for once, she has no sassy retort. Instead she studies me for a long moment. “If we stay, I’m not helping cook.”

“Well thank God for that,” I say, playing along with her need to lighten the mood.

Sabrina smiles, then reaches out and grabs the beer from my hand, taking a sip. Then she makes a face. “I hate beer.”

“Wine’s open in the kitchen.”

“Much better,” she says. “You fetch that while I take Juno around to the hose on the side of the house. Though I’m not sure wet dog will be that much better than sandy dog.”

She heads back down the steps, whistling for Juno to follow, and I allow myself a small smile. I know that I’ve just lost a prime opportunity to spend time wooing a richer-than-shit dream client.

But I’m not the least bit upset by it.

Because instead, I get an entire weekend to go about wooing my dream woman.





26

SABRINA

Friday Night, October 6

After the sun set, the weather went quickly from being “brisk and refreshing” to downright cold, but neither Matt nor I seemed to care. Instead we pulled on every layer we brought with us, helped ourselves to the stack of fleece blankets rolled neatly in a basket by the back door, and curled up on the enormous padded chaise longue overlooking the water.

Juno’s sprawled out at our feet, finally tired from her endless laps on the beach, and even with the zap of bugs against the porch light and the occasional rowdy laughter from a group of teens farther up the beach, the night’s the most peaceful I’ve experienced in a long time.

“More wine?” Matt asks, glancing down to where I have my wineglass propped up on his knee, my head on his shoulder.