Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(62)

Matt picks up his cell phone, and I do the same. There are a couple dozen new emails. That’s expected.

There are also several voice mails and text messages. That’s not expected. My email address is on my business card—plenty of people have it. My phone number? Only a select few in my inner circle have it. Ian. Kate and Lara.

All three of them have texted me. Multiple times.

Ian: Call me.

Lara: Thank God you’re not the freak-out type. Right? You’re not freaking, are you? Let me know.

Neither of theirs tells me what’s going on. Kate’s is more helpful.

Kate: OMG. What? Read this. Then explain.

A link to a gossip site accompanies her text, and, when I click on it, the headline tells me everything I need to know.

WALL STREET’S MOST NOTORIOUS PLAYBOY PUTS A RING ON IT . . .

The accompanying picture is Matt and me at dinner last night, sharing a bottle of wine and looking, well . . . intimate. Though how the hell someone looked at this and figured engaged is beyond me.

A quick skim of the article, and I have my answer. It’s nothing but a case of good old-fashioned bullshit. A “source close to the couple” claimed that I’d been dress shopping. False.

That we’d been considering Saint John’s as the site of the ceremony. False.

That we’d already booked tickets to New Zealand for our honeymoon. False.

That Matt had been seen in Tiffany & Co., looking at engagement rings. Super false.

I let out a little laugh at the audaciousness of it all. It never ceases to amaze me how much of this stuff is made up. Granted, this time, it works in our favor, but it’s still worthy of an eye roll.

I look up at Matt and can tell from his scowl, he’s gotten similar messages.

I lean forward with a teasing smile. “So. What kind of ring did you get me? I’m sort of partial to the traditional Tiffany cut, but as long as it’s big and shiny . . .”

I break off when he lifts his head and meets my eyes. He doesn’t look amused or even exasperated.

He looks . . .

Well, shoot. I can’t tell.

“Hey,” I say softly, reaching across the counter to touch his hand. “It’s just a crap tabloid thing. People will forget about it.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything.

I smile a little wider, determined to erase the sudden awkwardness that’s descended. And more important, to eradicate the longing in my heart. The desire for it to be real. “Looks like we did our job a little too well, right? I mean, I knew I was good, but even I didn’t know—”

“What if we did it?” he interrupts.

I frown in confusion. “Did what?”

“Got married.”

My mouth drops open, even as my stomach flips. “That’s taking the charade a bit far, don’t you think?”

His jaw tenses, and he looks down at the floor before looking up once more. “What if it wasn’t a charade?”

I put a hand to my still-fluttering stomach. “Matt. You don’t want to get married.”

“Not in the traditional sense, no,” he says. “But I wouldn’t mind trying it your way.”

“My way?”

“You know. Sex. Companionship. None of the emotional, messy stuff.”

I can’t breathe. Somehow this moment feels like my ultimate fantasy and my worst nightmare, all rolled into one confusing, heartbreaking moment. Because now I know I want so much more.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

“Why not?” he says, his voice urgent as he steps closer. “I’ve enjoyed these past few weeks, and I know you have, too. You said yourself, you want someone to come home to at the end of the night, and . . . hell, why can’t that someone be me? We know we’d fight, but we also know the make-up sex would be outstanding. We respect each other, and neither of us would have to pretend that we’re the next great love story—”

“I can’t,” I repeat, more desperately this time.

Matt frowns in concern at my tone, reaching out a hand toward me. “It’s okay; I know it’s sudden. You need time to think, and—”

“No.” I shake my head and close my eyes. “I mean, yes, it is sudden, but that’s not why I’m saying no.”

When I open my eyes again, his expression is shuttered and unreadable. “Why are you saying no?”

I take a deep breath. “Because you don’t love me.”

Matt’s eyes widen slightly in shock. “Well . . . no. I mean . . . I don’t really do that. But neither do you.”

I bite my bottom lip so hard my eyes water. Actually, no. My eyes are watering for another reason entirely. This hurts.

“Sabrina.” His tone is sharp. “You don’t love me. Do you?”

I take a deep breath as I realize I owe it to him—and to myself—to be completely honest.

Forcing a smile, I lift my shoulders and let them fall. “Apparently, I do. And knowing what that feels like now, I don’t think I can do marriage the companionship-only way I always imagined. I want . . . more. I want a real marriage. And I don’t think I can settle for less.”





29

MATT

Sunday Night, October 8

Sabrina’s statement lingers in the air like the aftermath of an explosion, my shock rendering me speechless.